Chapter Twenty-Seven. Eban
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EBAN
“Let us begin,” Luwalhati says.
With a snap of her fingers, the three of us are now inside a large temple.
The building is gleaming white like the others, but with twelve massive columns lining the front, and a lofty arched entrance.
Now the archivist is wearing a gauzy, shimmering gown in pale gold, with a simple gold and pearl diadem over pinned-up black-and-silver hair.
“Eban. Gineth. There is no obligation to undergo the bonded trial. The challenge is undertaken voluntarily, never under duress, with the intention of harnessing the ancient power of the ancestors for the good of all the Ophir, not personal glory. Do you accept?”
We both affirm our commitment.
I wish I’d asked more questions. Namely: How many times has a bonding ritual been attempted, and of those, how many have succeeded? And does failure mean death? But I’ve been dodging Blackcoats my entire life, cheating death from every corner. If I die today, at least I die for a noble cause.
It’s quiet in the temple, the silence practically echoing off the walls. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a faint plink of dripping water, barely perceptible. The space is empty aside from twelve massive statues, taller than most buildings I’ve ever seen.
Luwalhati spins around to face us and holds her arms out to each side, gesturing to the statues. “Each statue represents one of the twelve gods of Ophir.” She lowers her arms. “Once we were a strong nation, with the full might of twelve bonded spirits. Now there is only one.”
“You mean Gin?”
Luwalhati shakes her head. “Gin is not yet bonded. There is an Ophir above the waves who is bonded to the trickster god.”
“Who?”
“I do not know. I cannot see them as they do not heed the call of the Drowned City. It is strange. I have sent Bastian, but we have been unsuccessful in reaching them.”
“Maybe they don’t hear your call because they serve another master,” I surmise. “Perhaps Lacon has already figured out how to use their Ophir servants to wield the relics?”
Luwalhati looks stern. “If that is the case, then we need to work faster than ever. The power of the bond and the power of the gods belong to our people, not theirs.”
I nod. The idea of a bonded trickster god floating around out there gives me a sense of impending dread in the pit of my stomach.
In the middle of the altar are the two relics Gin and I stole from the barrel.
One with the sapphire stopper, the other with the ruby.
Luwalhati walks over to them. “The spirits residing within the jeweled relics are living beings.
Perhaps not in the way you and I are living, but as conscious beings capable of individual thought and action, and, yes, capable of being destroyed.
They are ancestors of the Ophir, transformed into a different life form.
As such, they deserve our respect, the same or more than you would afford to one another.
In addition: We cannot break or tame the spirits.
Many have tried, to disastrous results. Should you decide to take your chances, you, likewise, will be swiftly corrected.
“The seeker does not dictate the spirit’s behavior.
The spirits themselves must seek the bond.
It is their purpose to establish it. In this way they are a familiar, a companion who will remain alongside the one to whom they are bonded.
Access their thoughts when called upon. Once bonded, the spirit’s power is available at will. ”
She stops walking, clasps her hands behind her back.
“There is one catch. Like I mentioned earlier, the bonding itself is dangerous. In the process the Ophir is exposed to the limitless power of the god or goddess who responds. Some minds are unable to handle this. For them, the trial is traumatic at best and fatal at worst. While those who can, who survive, are often changed irrevocably, altered by the physical and mental stresses of the trial. After all, once completed, the ancestor will remain with them in their thoughts forever.”
Luwalhati directs us to stand in front of our relics. We step forward in unison. My eyes are locked on the vials, yet I’m not fully seeing them. Everything fades in and out of focus, including my hearing.
When Luwalhati speaks again, it’s as if she’s standing far away, or from another room, behind a thick wall.
“It is time to meet your spirits.” She walks behind the display, her hand out, hovering over the two vials.
She halts, jerking her hand back. Then she gazes at the vials beneath her hand and, seemingly pleased with them, removes the lid from mine.
I flinch involuntarily, expecting an explosion, like before, but nothing happens.
The room is dark. Only the relics are visible, glowing pale blue.
I brace myself, though for what, I’m not sure. There’s no immediate blast, or dramatic display of color and sound. It’s almost as if nothing happened at all—and I worry that I’ve already failed my trial. There must be no spirit for me. My deepest fear realized: a failure before I even began.
Then I see it. A puff of hazy, smoky light emits from one of the open vials, followed immediately by a tiny ball of bright white light.
It’s cautious initially, rising slowly from the neck of the bottle, almost like it’s peeking around.
But once freed from the glass, it moves faster, flitting around in the air, giddy with freedom.
It looks exactly like a tiny version of the book guardians from the library.
Though, like she’d said, these are something different.
They’re conscious beings, actual spirits, not spells created for a task.
I squint, attempting to make out the spirit’s image, but it doesn’t seem to have a solid form, or any physical presence outside of the formless light.
I am King Mangsana, the first monarch of Ophir.
The spirit flits over to me with a zipping flash and comes to a sudden stop right in front of my face, where it hovers. There’s more shape to the light when it’s that near, almost. I make out the vague suggestion of a man’s face from within the mist.
I was a great and famed ruler. Allow me to show you my reign.
With the sound of the voice in my ear—no, it’s deeper, as if it’s coming from inside my head, rather than speaking to me from outside it—my mind goes entirely dark.
Just as the severity of the black nothingness begins to worry me, that I may never find my way out of it, there’s a silvery flicker somewhere beyond me, followed by a vision: the kingdom of Ophir, intact, as it once floated on the sea, with majestic glittering towers jutting up into the clouds.
The vision drags me in closer, as if I’m flying through the sky like a bird.
I soar into the city, zip past people who pay me no mind, and fly around buildings, some so close I’m sure I’m about to run into them, then I’m pulled straight down a main thoroughfare that leads directly to the entrance of an imposing silver palace.
At first, I think it’s the very temple I’m standing in because I’m sure I’ve seen it before.
But it looks nothing like the temple, aside from its color, same as all the other buildings of ancient Ophir.
The gates in front of the palace swing open and allow me into the inner courtyard, and then I fly through the open doors at the entryway, through a great main hall.
The walls are covered in life-size tapestries that glitter with gold threads.
I want to stop and admire them, but another set of doors opens and I fly through those as well.
In the next room, I’m faced with a sparkling iridescent throne, thrumming with magic.
Somehow, without ever being told, I know this is the throne of my ancestors.
I reach out to touch it, but I can’t reach it. I strain forward, desperate to feel the place my people once claimed, when a figure appears out of the corner of my eye. I yank my hand back.
King Mangsana, in his youth, a tall and broad-shouldered lad wearing a ceremonial war vest similar to those worn by the warriors of the Lashing.
Should I speak to him? My mouth opens but no sound comes out.
The visions blur into static, the indistinct white shapes like tiny stars I’d sometimes see as a child when I was trying to fall asleep.
Then bits and pieces of new visions come into focus.
There are flashes of images from all over Ophir.
I see a golden era, where musicians and artisans and scribes produced works of art for the ages.
Beautiful pieces that would one day line the bottom of the ocean.
I have a pang of jealousy at their blissful unknowing.
What was that like? I see how my ancestors kept the city afloat and alive with their magic, never suspecting one day it would all come crashing down.
It was a paradise, though it didn’t last.
Indeed it did not, the king’s voice says in my head.
Now images of destruction and cataclysm play out before my eyes.
The sadder I feel, the worse it gets. People flee in terror, clutching their children as buildings shake and collapse around them.
Flames shoot out from windows. People jump from them, or into the sea, to avoid the fire.
Many attempt to escape on whatever intact boats they can find.
Those who find none try to row away on planks of broken wood.
Some make it, I know. Most will not. White turns to gray as the city becomes ash and falls deeper into the waves. Sinking, sinking.
That scene disappears. The vision fades out, leaving only the faint sound of screaming in darkness, before that also stops abruptly.
There’s pure nothing again, and then everything changes.
I’m no longer in ancient Ophir and no longer a witness to the fall.
And no longer watching from above. This time, I’m in my own memories. Back in the Sleeve.
The memory becomes real. I can no longer differentiate the self that stands in the Temple of the Gods from the little boy I once was. I hold up a hand. Yes, I recognized my own palm.
My mind skips. Now I’m running down the street, with Uncle, my mother’s brother, the closest thing I ever had to a father, by my side.
I’m shorter. It’s disorienting, seeing from that vantage point again.
That last thought of my current self vanishes, and then I’m fully my child self again, with only a child’s thoughts.
Uncle and I are fleeing Blackcoats who are out to kill us and I’m small, so I can barely keep up.
Uncle has me by the hand, pulling me, so that at times it feels like my feet are hardly meeting the ground, like I’m gliding in air, but even the slightest misstep could drag us both down.
If that happens, the Blackcoats will slit our throats.
I’ve seen them do it to others, right there in the street, in front of me.
I know exactly what it means when they chase someone.
What they’re capable of. And I’ll do anything to avoid it happening to me.
We take a sharp right turn.
I recognize the alleyway. It’s the night that has haunted me for years. The night we were captured. The Blackcoats are right on our heels. There’s no escape. Any second, we’ll meet the same fate as the other captured thieves.
We’ll be arrested for thieving outside of the Guild, and the penalty for that is death. Being a mere boy of nine will not save me from this fate—I’ve witnessed others even younger at the gallows. No matter that they had no autonomy, no alternative.
I can’t allow this to happen. I have to do something to save myself. If I’m going to face the consequences of a man, of a criminal, then let me act like one.
I’m aware that I’m slowing Uncle down, my short legs unable to keep up, but the man never abandons me, though he could. It’s almost expected. Kindness is weakness, and no one will watch out for you but yourself, he taught me. If you hesitate, you’ve made a decision.
This is my only chance. Any moment, the Blackcoats will come around that corner and catch up to me. I do not want to die in this alleyway, or worse, much worse, go to the gallows like those other boys, some crying, others numb and silent.
I slow down and draw my blade and hold it up. I am crying, I forgot that.
Uncle shakes his head. “No time to fight,” he says, yanking on my arm, pulling me forward.
But I’m not going to fight the Blackcoats.
There’s only one way to survive. I dig in my heels, pulling him to a stop.
Uncle stops and turns to me, suddenly understanding. He glances behind us and back to me. “Do it,” he says, lifting his chin, almost defiantly. “Save yourself.”
I hesitate.
“Do it!” he shouts. “Now!”
I hear the guards coming. There’s no more thought, only fear, and the overwhelming desire to survive. To keep my enemies at bay. To live.
I can’t look at this, I can’t … It’s a memory I’ve tried to suppress, I can’t face it … I don’t want to …
I’m sorry, Uncle, I think, though to my lifelong regret, I don’t actually speak the words aloud. My blade slices through the air. Except instead of meeting his throat, I swing down, and slash his Achilles tendon instead. It might appear to be a mistake, though both of us know it is not.
Uncle cries out in pain and drops to the ground, unable to run, or even walk. He starts to crawl, in vain. Blood seeps down his foot onto the ground.
Pounding boots approach.
I run. Behind me, Uncle gives up, lying face down on the ground.
I hear the Blackcoats rush up to him. They stop running, but I never do.
Later, as penance, as tribute, I adopt Uncle’s name as my own. Eban Sadreal.
-No!
-No!
-I’m not this cruel, this selfish. No. I refuse to believe I did this.
You must accept your past, the voice of the king says in my head. You must accept who you are, and only then can you become who you are meant to be.
-No!
But the vision returns, and there I am again, nine years old, running with Uncle, the Blackcoats at our heels.
I pull away from the memory. I don’t want to see it again, nor do I want to face the Blackcoats, so much larger than me, their hideous faces full of gleeful hate.
I need to get out. I try to speak, but like in my nightmares, my voice is empty. I can’t scream. I strain against it, until my throat burns from the effort.
Finally, I manage to make a sound, and then all at once, I break through the silent barrier.
“Stop!” I cry out. “Please! I want to end the trial!”
There’s a sickening lurch through time and space, where I’m thrown back through everything I’ve seen, from the alley to the throne room to the glory of ancient Ophir, all in a single instant, a screeching blur.
When my vision comes back into focus, I’m lying face down on the slick marble floor of the temple.
I’ve failed. I didn’t bond with King Mangsana. I’m no one and nothing. Eban isn’t even my real name.