Martin Hengst - The Darkest Hour

“You don’t get a say in this, Tiadaria. This is an internal order matter. You have many rights and freedoms, but interfering with a member of the order carrying out his sworn duties is not one of them.”

“I don’t give a damn about your duties or the order. You’re not going to threaten Wynn with censure just because he doesn’t want to leave the city.”

“He’s right, Tia.” Wynn’s voice was soft and even, almost serene. She whirled on him, her anger finding a new home as quickly as it took to turn.

“He’s what?”

“He’s right.” Wynn shook his head, as if trying to clear away some painful memory that wouldn’t quite be banished. “I need to accept my responsibilities, or leave the order. I’m one of the oldest apprentices. I should be an acolyte or journeyman by now. I’ve just never wanted to take the tests. So he’s right. If I choose to leave the order, I know the consequences.”

Tia looked from Wynn to Faxon, her hands clenching spasmodically at her sides. “You can’t be serious,” she whispered.

“This is the way things are done in the order, Tiadaria.” Faxon’s tone tolerated no argument. “Every apprentice knows what is expected of them.”

Wynn got slowly to his feet. He reached out to touch Tia’s shoulder and she shied away from him.

“Don’t.” Her voice was cold and hard. Wynn looked pained, but dropped his hand. The three of them stood in silence, each of them carrying the heavy weight of the conflict like a lead mantle.

“I accept my responsibilities to the order,” Wynn said finally, according Faxon with a bow. “I trust that my Trial of Progression can wait until we return?”

Faxon nodded, his eyes still on Tia. She hadn’t moved and was still glaring at him, her hands balled into fists. The elder quint jerked his chin in her direction. “If you’re going to hit me, hit me. Get it over with. We have things to do.”

For a moment, Wynn was sure she was going to do just that.

“I’m not a bully,” she spat, turning on her heel. “That’s your job.” She ran from the room.

“Tia, wait,” Wynn called after her, but she was already in the hallway. She slammed the door to her room so hard that the walls in the common room rattled.

“Let it go, Wynn,” Faxon said with a sigh. “She’ll come around in time.”

The apprentice said nothing, sinking into his chair. He was being pulled in so many directions. He was glad to have chosen to follow the order’s path. He was embarrassed that Tia felt the need to protect him, but he felt good that she did and wanted to. His mind was a tangled knot of feelings, chasing each other under, over, and through.

“She’s going to be twice as mad at me when she finds out that I’m sending Nightwind back to Blackbeach with the next wagon.” Faxon sighed. He didn’t like antagonizing the young warrior, but there were times when his way was the only way. Wynn glanced at him, but said nothing.

“Well, we can’t take a horse through the gate!” Faxon cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

He stalked off and up the stairs. Wynn heard his door close. Forcefully, but not as forcefully as Tia had slammed hers. The apprentice was once again alone in the common room. Part of him wondered if censure wasn’t the only sane choice.

Putting that thought out of his head, he collected the mugs and put them in a basin behind the ruined bar. He flipped the hood of his robe up. He had been wearing it up quite a bit lately. It reduced the number of stares he got on the street. People were kind enough, but his mangled face brought curiosity or sympathy and he really didn’t care for either.

Wynn opened the inn door and stepped out into the morning sunlight. Faxon was right. There was much to be done.

“Chrin refuses to go,” Xenir said gruffly. He looked at the High Priest to try to gauge his reaction, but Zarfensis appeared to be unperturbed by the news.

“He’s within his rights, Xenir.” Zarfensis was throwing things into a travel pack as he spoke. His ritual dagger, spell book, and vials of runedust disappeared into the bag. A wooden apothecary kit followed and Zarfensis caught a whiff of the herbs and extracts contained in the little box. Those smells reminded him of his grand-sire.

Xenir was looking at him expectantly and the High Priest realized that he wasn’t likely to just let Chrin’s obstinacy go. He stopped his packing long enough to turn his full gaze on the Warleader. “He was terribly mauled at the Hallowed Vale. If he wants to remain here in the Warrens, that’s his prerogative. I don’t judge him for that.”

The Warleader snorted and Zarfensis continued. “I’d rather have him here and not have to worry about him than have him come with me, under duress, and snap under the strain. The younger warriors are still green enough to bend without breaking.”

“It’s their greenness that worries me, High Priest.”

“They are warriors of the Chosen and will behave that way,” Zarfensis said firmly, tired of Xenir’s negativity. “If we can’t trust our brothers, who can we trust?”

“Perhaps,” Xenir agreed grudgingly. “I’d still prefer it if a few of the more experienced warriors went with you.”

Zarfensis shrugged. “Send who you like, Warleader. Just don’t send so many that you’re left unprotected here. We would be foolish to think that all the vermin are racing us to the relic. They may attempt an attack on the Warrens while they think we are vulnerable.”

“Let them try,” Xenir replied with a snarl. “They might fight well on the surface, under their open sky, but get them in the tunnels and we’ll see who the truly superior warriors are.”

“There’s no contest, brother.”

Placating Xenir took much longer than Zarfensis would have liked. After much argument, the Warleader finally accepted the warriors that the High Priest chose to accompany him on his mission. Zarfensis also brought a shaman and a cleric, bringing the number of the entire party to seven.

By the time they left the Warrens, it was well after sunset. Although Zarfensis could have done without Xenir’s mothering, nightfall was the preferred time of day for travel. The Xarundi’s enhanced senses gave them a distinct advantage over the other races while traveling in darkness. Not that they had a very long journey to make. The ancient gate stones stood in a grove not too far distant from the western entrance to the Chosen’s territory.

Checking to ensure the map was safe and secure under the flap of his travel pack, Zarfensis dropped to all fours and loped out into the dark night.

* * *

“Do what you’re told, when you’re told, especially after we arrive in Overwatch. Now take my hands.”

Faxon was relieved when both the young people took his hands without bickering, quarreling, or challenging his authority. The rest of the morning in Ethergate had been long and difficult to tolerate. After afternoon had progressed into evening, their accord had begun to reassert itself. Now that they were finally in the gate room and ready to embark, Faxon sincerely hoped that the worst of their foolishness was behind them.

As the quintessentialist began speaking the words to activate the gate, Tiadaria understood why it was taught to masters of the order and no one else. It was an incredibly complicated and elaborate ritual, with several iterations of invocation that got progressively more complex. Faxon completed the ritual and Tiadaria had half a second to wonder if he hadn’t performed it correctly when there was a brilliant flash of blue-white light and she had passed into the Quintessential Sphere.

This was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Slipping into the sphere while she was fighting was a transition of consciousness. Her soul, her essence, was split between the physical realm and the sphere. The gate had pulled her entire body into the sphere and she felt a terrifying disassociation from the Solendrea she knew. Shadowy mountains and rivers flashed by them incredibly fast. Some were nearly tangible. Others were faint and shimmering, ancient memories of things that had long passed from the surface of the world. Tia closed her eyes, but it didn’t help the sensation. Her mind, her body, and the sphere were inexorably linked.