Chapter Twenty-Nine
Illa Ysari isn’t a castle in any traditional sense.
At least, not like any I’ve seen elsewhere in Eldoterra.
It’s an interconnected series of towers—open walkways and verandas and bridges peek through the thick fog like webbing, crossing over and cutting around the center space… where a garden appears to lie.
A centuries-long neglected garden, but a garden all the same.
It’s in the same wild and dilapidated state as the grounds before the citadel entry. And like the front, veilflower vines climb pillars, smother grass, and cling to walls… but there isn’t a single veilflower in sight.
My senses sit on the edge of a blade as I tread along the veranda beside Ryc in silence. He called this place a fortress… but it doesn’t feel or look like one.
It’s too open.
Too… pretty.
Even in its current state.
A quick tingle races down my spine and I shudder against it. A wash of near transparent blue-silver sweeps past on my left and I freeze. Ryc does the same.
It’s a rather ghostly apparition, comprised of thousands of old magic runes rippling across the entity’s surface, giving it its person-like shape. Skirts swirl around invisible feet and it dons a long, trailing veil, hiding away any facial features.
It whisks by Eve and, startled, she leaps to the right, into Cyran. His hands fly, catching her as he too notices the creature.
“What in the nine hells is this?” Eve asks in a fierce whisper as her wide eyes swing to us. She quickly turns back to the entity, watching it venture farther down the corridor.
I scoff a soft laugh in disbelief. “It’s an old magic construct.”
It turns as it reaches for the door at the end of the hall and pulls it open with little difficulty. While I cannot see a pair of eyes beneath the flowing veil, I feel them on my skin.
“Were these here during your last visit?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from the construct.
“No,” Ryc says in a low voice with a shake of his head.
With a breathy, incredulous laugh I rove ahead, eager to study the runes.
“Ves,” Ryc calls, following in my wake.
“They’re harmless, Ryc,” I say with a quick glance over my shoulder.
“Near sentient servants. Shaped Aether spelled to fulfill specific roles determined by the caster. Gods…” My pace slows as I draw close.
“The rune casting required for such a thing is complex… taxing… it’s far easier to create undead constructs. ”
“Undead constructs burn out with time,” Ryc says as he steps in beside me.
“Yes.” I nod. “They do. Even if a skilled necromancer preserves their work with the right rituals, they last a decade at most. This though… these constructs stand against eternity—as long as there’s Aether.”
Of which there’s no shortage here.
The construct releases its hold upon the door and dips into a flawless curtsy as I study its face.
So many tiny runes dance and flow across her, shimmering like the surface of sunlit waters.
And while there are no apparent eyes in the face of this creature, I feel them upon me as it—she—stares back.
“And you know all this how?” Eve asks, keeping her distance with a wary, roaming glare.
“Despite being a more than proficient bloodmage, I’m a less than mediocre old magic caster,” I say with a wry smile. “But I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of these constructs. I never dared attempt to create one though. Not in the hells…” I trail off.
The construct gestures with a sweeping hand through the door. Not wanting to spend the rest of the day lost in the entity’s runes, I listen.
“Seeing this, I might understand how the ghost stories of Illa Ysari started,” Cyran says and he and Eve follow.
As Ryc and I pass through the door, I lift my chin, and colored lights blaze to life.
Stories above, a stained glass dome depicting the night sky caps the round room.
Stars glitter in silver, red, and yellow and the universe swirls with various shades of deep blues and violets, cresting pink in places.
The white walls, floor, and pair of thrones in the center of the room are washed in indigo.
Movement from atop a throne catches my attention as a sharp caw cuts through the room. The white raven bobs its head, crying again as I stop in my steps.
It sits, staring at me with its blood-red eye.
As if it’s been waiting.
The raven is an elder god. There’s little to convince me otherwise.
“This your dead raven?” Eve’s bewildered laugh echoes through the chamber.
“It certainly isn’t mine,” I retort. “But, yes. I believe it’s the same.”
“At this point, I’d dare call it a familiar,” Eve counters with a shrug. She meanders up to me, folding her arms across her chest.
My brows pinch.
A familiar?
“I’m no witch, Eve,” I reply.
She scoffs. “That doesn’t matter,” she retorts, sounding rather offended. “Familiars guide anyone in need.”
First the courtyard, then the veil, now here?
If it’s truly guiding me, our intended path remains unclear.
Warbling, the raven moves toward the space between the thrones and dips its head—pointing with its beak. As I shift toward the front, making sure to keep a wide berth, a small standing stone rack rests between the two thrones.
A rack securing a line of glass vials… filled with crimson.
In a few quick steps I cross the distance. Silver-capped and sealed into place, names lie stamped in clear script. One vial per country—per Sovereign King. Aeros, Battalia, Corvallis… yet… the fourth is missing.
Erus.
“Your oath,” my eyes swing to Ryc’s, “is a blood oath?”
He nods.
“Where is yours?” I demand, stepping aside to reveal the gap between vials. “Would the other kings have returned here? Would they have seen your silver blood? Would they have taken it?”
Would they use it against him?
Whether as proof of his lineage or in a blood magic ritual—one is as damning as the other.
Ryc, the concern heavy on his features, sweeps toward me. “Not possible. The vial was glamoured and sealed into place.”
“Considering the ease with which we gained access to the island, it would be shortsighted to assume other kings aren’t capable of the same,” Eve says, her voice low.
“They’ve no reason to return,” Cyran counters, his brows creased. “What gain would any of the council attain in doing so?”
Reaching, I pull at one of the vials.
It doesn’t budge.
With a quick swing, the side of my fist strikes the glass.
It doesn’t shatter.
Nor is there evidence on the floor below of broken glass or spilled blood. Whoever was here knew how to unweave this ward or spent a great deal of time figuring out how.
They certainly didn’t lack time. It’s been centuries since Ryc made his pledge. Without subsequent kings due for ascension and a lack of High Rulers, Cyran’s point stands. But I cannot and will not disregard the possibility of a thieving king completely.
“There’s little to be done now,” Ryc says and the raven warbles. “Nor should we mention our findings.”
No, of course not.
We’d be incriminating ourselves.
“This will have to wait until we ascend,” Ryc says, sighing.
Eve, standing beside the throne to my right, points to the armrest. “There are runes here,” she says. “Ones I don’t recognize.”
“What?” I swing in her direction.
She taps a finger to the stone. “Eleven of them. And I don’t know a single one.” She pauses, trailing her finger toward the end of the armrest. “Wait… I lied. I know this one.”
I stare at the rune carved into the moonstone beneath her finger and the air evaporates from my lungs. It’s the same rune I’ve spent hours scouring pages for—the same rune inked on my mother’s wrist.
“How is Celesta involved with the High Rulers?” Eve asks as I struggle to grasp at racing thoughts.
I lack a feasible answer.
“I know this one,” Ryc says, pointing to another farther up the line. “Life,” he says softly.
“You… you can read it?” I ask, sounding incredulous.
“Yes?” he sounds as confused as I am. “Though the others remain foreign. But that one… that one resonates in my blood.”
Could that be Gaia’s influence?
If so, could one denote death and would I be able to read it?
I scan the line and pause. Near the center of the string one rune does stand out. And as Ryc mentioned, its meaning sears from the depths of my being. I know it, with everything I am. Somehow.
“Aether,” I whisper, leaving a lingering finger upon the rune.
Eve’s ice blue eyes volley between Ryc and me. “What do you mean, Aether?” she asks, her tone sharp.
“This one is Aether,” I say, working my lips into a flat line.
Aether and not death.
“The names of the primordials then?” Cyran asks as he studies the same sequence of runes carved into the other armrest.
I shake my head. “There are too many.”
“Should only be eight,” Eve adds in agreement.
The first few lines on the first page of The Elder Mythos ring in my head. It’s an easy way to remember each of the entities.
Life yearns for the touch of Aether,
Death draws the comfort of Darkness,
Order stands tall beside Light,
Chaos screams in the void of Nether.
With an ear piercing cry the raven takes flight. In a low swoop, it glides across the room, vanishing through the open doors in the rear of the tower. Another cry sounds, and the undeniable urge to follow takes hold in my chest.
My gaze lingers on the open doors.
If it truly is a familiar… I’d like to know where it’s guiding me before I find myself amid chaos.
?????????????
Deciding to follow the raven might prove damning.
After crossing through two more towers trailing behind the raven, my feet slow as I enter a smaller, windowless room. The persistent buzzing in my chest grows more intense.
A dozen massive arches line the walls, creating a strange, empty expanse in the center of the room. Each arch stands roughly forty feet tall—larger iterations of those seen along the docks. They dominate the space, reaching for the dark, smoky glass of the ceiling above.