Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

Sweeping away the layer of dust, he opened the unmarked cover. He noted that the text was indeed written in Nyrethine, but different from what he expected. The first page spoke of a family, gave names of people and places, and detailed relatively minor events. He flipped forward and soon realized the nature of the book. A journal. Ismerelda’s personal journal.

He flipped to the last few pages and read:

My new pupil has arrived today, a mortal boy by the name of Laedron Telpist. I can see promise in his eyes, but he doubts his abilities, likely a trait picked up from his mother. If he’s anything like Filadrena Telpist, I shall have my hands full. I detect a certain tension already, one that I can easily avoid with female students, but the boy seems more nervous than any I’ve taught. ‘What do you think training is for?’ I want to ask him, but such a statement could worsen things and inhibit the bond that we must form. This one, I shall have to handle with great care. I think that he has a bounty of potential that he doesn’t realize exists.

He closed the diary, stuck it under his arm, and joined Valyrie in the common room. “Ready?”

“What have you there?”

“A little reading material. My teacher’s journal.”

“She kept a journal? What need would an immortal have for one?”

“The Uxidin are powerful, immortal, and youthful, but with all of those benefits comes a fatal flaw: their memory only keeps details for around half a century or so, unless a particular memory is quite profound.”

“They lose their memories?”

“Likely a cause of the rejuvenation, if I had to guess. A spell that constantly refreshes one’s body would probably refresh the mind, and in that, I think, lies the problem. The spell could eliminate anything to which the mind doesn’t have strong attachment.”

“You mean to say that the spell wipes their minds of their experiences?”

“Somewhat, yes, and that is likely the reason why she kept a journal, to have a record of her memories for when they departed.” He frowned and stared at the floor. “Can you imagine it? If she had lived to complete my training, it would have been just a matter of time before I was forgotten, remembered only in the pages of some book.”

“Some aren’t remembered at all, Lae.” She looped her arm through his. “I think it’s rather charming and thoughtful.”

“Charming and thoughtful? What in the world would make you think that?”

“She wrote those things in her journal because she wanted to remember you. Don’t you see? Your teacher didn’t have to record anything, but she did.”

“I suppose you’re right. Let’s return to the keep. In the morning, we’ll head for Morcaine, a city that I could have happily avoided for the rest of my days.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all. It’s a beautiful city filled with tall buildings, markets, palaces, and churches.”

“Then, why wouldn’t you want to go there?”

“In Morcaine, I witnessed the attack on the academy, the deaths of my teacher and many of my peers, and the depths of depression to which I plunged. The only good thing I can recall is the moment when Count Millaird sent me to Westmarch to join the Knights of the Shimmering Dawn.”

“In that case, we’ll have to make a few pleasant memories there.”

She kissed him, creating a new memory right then.

Laedron and his companions, along with Victor Altruis and Meklan Draive, rose and dressed at the dawn’s light in their finest garments. They left the safety of Westmarch by stagecoach, bound for Morcaine. Laedron knew the halfway point when he glimpsed the roadside inn where he and Ismerelda had stayed for a night. He and his party slept in the coach, while the drivers endeavored to keep the best pace with respect to the horses’ stamina.

High towers and thick walls greeted them when the coach slowed outside the gates of the capital. Everyone stretched and yawned. I almost feel relieved at seeing the city, for the mere sight of it means that I must wait less time to be reunited with my family. They passed through the gatehouse after a brief inspection, the guards seemingly unwilling to delay a coach laden with persons of such high regard.

Laedron pointed out places of interest to Valyrie along the way. “We’re entering the market now.”

“So many people,” she said, gawking through the window. “Al’Qarans?”

“Almarians, too, and Gotlanders. You won’t be able to tell the Sibelians from the Sorbians, though.”

“Why not?”

“Same people, really,” Brice said. “People have mistaken me for a Sibelian from time to time because of the way I talk.”

“It’s not that, Thimble.” Marac grinned. “They merely find you alien to the concepts of common sense and tact, traits that can be witnessed in any foreigner who possesses such qualities.”

Brice fell back in his seat, his face flushed red.

“Are you always so cruel to your companions?” Meklan asked Marac.

“No… um… I… he knows not to take such things to heart.” Marac swatted Brice’s knee. “Right? Brice?”

When Brice didn’t respond, Meklan said, “It seems that he did take it rather hard. Apologize.”

“But, Master Dra-”

“Apologize.”

“I’m sorry, Thi-Brice.” Marac glanced at Meklan, as if trying to see if his mentor had noticed his slip. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Brice’s lips curled into a grin. “Looks like somebody got in trouble.”

Marac rolled his eyes and turned toward the window.

Laedron pointed and said, “The Wardhouse of Morcaine.”

“You have Heraldan churches here?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have thought Sorbia would allow them.”

Victor cleared his throat. “It was closed during the war, for the king was enraged by the actions of the church. He wanted it burned to the ground.”

“Someone convinced him not to?”

Victor nodded. “Yes, the engineers. If not for the risk of the fire spreading, the king would have likely set it ablaze himself.”

“Not quite what I meant. I thought most of the people here were Heraldan.”

“They are, but when the church attacked and killed so many of our people, faith became second to loyalty. The king’s own son was murdered.”

“He was a sorcerer?”

Victor nodded.

The coach stopped in front of the palace. When the driver opened the door, Laedron stepped out and peered upward at the spires ascending into the heavens. His feeling of homesickness was immediately replaced by intimidation, for no house in Sorbia exhibited such grandeur. Guardsmen with halberds stood at intervals on the steps leading to the palace, their orange and black sashes draped over steel breastplates that sparkled in the sunlight. Climbing the steps, he clutched his stomach, for it churned at the thought of being in the presence of the king. Calm yourself. He’s only a man. Then, the fear took hold again. Yes, a man who can order your death with the snap of a finger. He could tell that his friends were nervous, too, and that made him feel a little better. At least I’m not alone.

At the top, Meklan and Victor opened the thick oaken doors, and from the entry onward lay a fine orange and black carpet. Matching Sorbian flags hung from the ceiling some thirty feet above, their ends nearly touching the floor. The line of guards continued along the walls on either side. Seemingly undaunted, Meklan and Victor led them down the hall, then stopped when a steward neared.

“Greetings, Master Draive and Master Altruis,” the steward said with a slight bow, his hand over his heart. “Have you come to see His Majesty?”