10. Whatever the Cost
Chapter Ten
Whatever the Cost
Fane sat on the floor of the drawing room with his legs crossed and Duran Linold’s notes open on a stand in front of him. A pot of ink sat on his right with a journal at his side.
The Spark thrummed in his veins, threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit weaving through the ink and scribing his notes into the journal as he read.
He didn’t blame anyone for dismissing Duran Linold’s ramblings as insanity.
The man wrote of wars that had never happened and of people and places that did not exist. But that was precisely why Fane had required the original text.
He needed to ensure that nothing had been omitted by any overzealous scholar or Exucendi.
That tended to happen far more often than not with transcriptions of old works.
And, as he read through Duran’s original writings for the twenty-seventh time, he could categorically say the liberties taken with the transcriptions for this particular work had been most egregious.
Among the omissions were no fewer than forty-seven mentions of battles, thirty-eight names, and eighty-six entire pages, including whole sections that documented the first landing back around three hundred years After Doom.
Not to mention whatever Scholar took it upon themselves to transcribe the work seemed to take pleasure in obfuscating every thought that left Duran’s mind to make him seem even more insane.
Fane waved a thread of Air and turned the page, focusing on the same passage that had stood out to him on every read, a passage omitted from the transcriptions.
It was his eyes. Always the eyes. In every form he came to me, the eyes remained the same. So vivid and full of life, as though lightning had come alive within their bounds.
One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that this man is no druid that I can tell. He bears their powers, sees the paths not yet walked, but so too does he wear new skins, so too can he touch the Spark. I do not know what entity with which I deal, but I will note one thing: I am terrified.
Short of the Enkara themselves, I know of no thing wrought of flesh and blood that wields power of such magnitude.
He came to me on the peak of the last moon wearing my brother’s face, speaking as though he were my blood.
And I would have believed every moment of his ruse had he not called me by my name.
My brother never used a person’s name. A strange quirk.
He had always believed that names held a mystical energy, that speaking them aloud was a sacred thing.
I suppose that was not revealed upon the paths.
Or perhaps it was, and the man had always intended for me to uncover his ruse.
All our meetings so far would have me believe it is most likely the latter and not the former.
Each time we meet, he greets me with a new name, and each name reveals something of his soul.
Amatkai. At first this name meant nothing to me.
But as is ever the heart of scholarly endeavour, I decided to view every word from my visitor’s mouth as a puzzle.
And so I brought the name to a friend, Buithín Landisath who has spent eight centuries traversing the oceans of etymology.
And so it appears that ‘Amatkai’ is not a name of little consequence.
The word comes from the ancient Enkaran ‘Amatihane’ meaning ‘to forge’ and ‘Kaitain’ meaning destiny. The Forger of Destiny.
Rokka, the second name by which he called himself, is apparently rooted in a language lost to all but the most ancient of texts. It is a language of Terroncia, of the lost world. Builder of Worlds.
And when I met him near the Naiwell woods, he went by the name Sathar.
I did not require the aid of Buithín in determining the origin of this name as I have come across it before in my studies of the ancient elven myths.
The Sathar is a creature of shadow that transfixes elves with its voice, promising them their deepest desires and setting them to the darkest of deeds in payment.
Of course, in all tales the Sathar is a liar or weaver of deceit and trickery.
And it’s true intent? Not to consume flesh or drink blood, not to achieve anything of physical note.
But simply to find joy in the pain of others.
There are six other names that the man has given me, but of those I have uncovered no origins:
Uahtikín.
Tasten.
Marketh.
Lokail.
Adlother.
Kathikan.
I could spend years in search of the etymology of these names, but I believe from what I have uncovered so far that I have enough to be fearful of this man, this entity.
It is not mortal. And it most certainly is not benevolent, at least not in any manner concerning me.
I must take great care, for I know these words must read as the ramblings of a man who has lost the grasp on his mind. But I—
The door of the drawing room swung open with a crack and pulled Fane from his reading just as he was inking the etymology of the names in his journal.
Fane lifted his gaze to see Eltoar standing in the doorway. Judging by the way Eltoar held himself, with his shoulders back, chest out, and chin high, this would be a very interesting conversation indeed.
“By all means, Eltoar,” Fane said, gesturing outwards with his arms. “Please do make a dramatic entrance fit for Achyron himself.”
Eltoar didn’t move, the light from the candles casting shadows across his face and the lanterns in the hallway illuminating his silhouette. “Did you spread poisoned lies about Alvira?”
“Ahhh,” Fane released his hold on the Spark, allowing the ink that hovered in the air beside him to slowly drop back into the pot. “That is what this is about.”
“So it’s true?” The elf stepped into the room, slamming the door behind him. Fane could feel the rage radiating from him. The rage only a Draleid could muster, the fire of a dragon burning in their soul.
As Eltoar approached, Fane remained on the floor, drawing in a long, tired breath and letting it out in a sigh.
Eltoar stood over him like a bull threatening a mouse. “Answer me.”
Fane creaked his neck back, picking a piece of cheese from his teeth as he looked up at Eltoar. He shook his head and rose to his feet, finding himself still a half-head shorter than the elf.
“Sit,” Fane said, gesturing to the three couches set about the rumbling fire in the hearth on the other side of the room.
Fane made to turn towards the desk behind him, but Eltoar grabbed him by the arm
“Answer me, Fane, or I swear by the gods.”
“Swear what?” Fane asked, frowning. “You’ll gut me here in the drawing room?
You’d never get the blood out of the rug.
Dispense with the theatrics, Eltoar.” Fane pulled his arm away and moved to the table where he unstopped a crystal bottle and poured its contents into two matching, delicate glasses.
He handed one to Eltoar, then walked past the elf and sat himself on the couch closest to the fire. “Come, speak with me.”
Eltoar stared at Fane for a long moment, then sat on the couch to Fane’s right.
That was always the way to deal with Eltoar: calmness and dismissal.
It was fascinating, really. Eltoar Daethana was a living legend, a hero of ages.
His name sung from coast to coast and beyond.
But his greatest weaknesses? Insecurity and doubt.
The elf questioned himself so relentlessly that all Fane needed to do in a situation such as this was throw another question onto the fire.
For one so sure with a blade it was an incredible thing to be so uncertain in all else. The elf was a soul adrift, searching for the right of things, searching for a compass.
“What is this?” Eltoar asked, looking down at the mellow brown liquid in the glass before him.
“Whiskey.” Fane swirled the liquid, drawing its scent into his nostrils.
“Distilled and casked in the Eversnow. If you knew how much gold was required to pry just a single bottle from the hands of the distillers in Helmund’s Basin, you would likely burn the place to the ground yourself.
I know your heart belongs to wine, but stretching your palette is only a good thing. ”
“If it is such a rich thing, how have you come by a bottle?”
Fane shrugged, sipping the whiskey. “I simply liberated some from the council’s stores. It appears King Helmund pays handsomely.”
Eltoar stared into the glass before setting it down on the arm of the couch. “Answer me plain, did you spread lies of Alvira?”
“Where does this come from?”
Eltoar met Fane’s gaze. “From her lips.”
“And from where did she hear these rumours? From whispers no doubt, passed on from the lips of another who also heard whispers.” Fane laughed as he took another mouthful of the whiskey, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.
“It appears I live eternally in the heads of my adversaries. You can see this, can you not? How clear it is that these lies have been spread of me? That it is simply others wishing to tarnish my name? I hold no ill will towards Alvira. You know this. The council on the other hand, that is a different matter. What is it she believes I have said?”
“That she is unfit to be Archon. That she is too weak to stand against the council. That she is at fault for the losses at Arathín.”
“And have I ever said such things to you, Eltoar?”
Eltoar hesitated a moment. “No.”
“Then does it not seem strange that I would then spread these words throughout The Order?”
Eltoar folded his arms and pressed his right fist to his chin, staring into the flames of the hearth fire, his eyes glowing incandescently.
“What do you feel, Eltoar? Is Alvira fit to lead the Draleid?”
The elf snapped his attention from the flames to Fane, the look on his face as though Fane had simultaneously stabbed him in the heart and caught him naked in the streets.