Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

Mirza sighed. “Well, while you’ve been up here I found out more about the fighting in Ostania. Something to do with one of the old clans. Rumors are spreading that the Tribunal won’t involve themselves, but I’m not so sure. The Herald who sent the message received word from an Envoy in some city named Castere.”

Ancel whistled. “That’s in Astoca, it’s the largest Ostanian city. We trade more with them than any other place.”

“The warning came from the King himself. People are starting to grumble that if the Tribunal chooses to do nothing, there could be trouble.”

“The Tribunal can’t afford to let this affect trade. They’ll act. The question is when,” Ancel said.

“Normally, I’d agree.” Mirza gave a pensive frown before continuing, “But the issues between Sendeth and Doster have taken a turn for the worse.”

“What’re you talking about?” Ancel asked.

Lines creased Mirza’s forehead. “I know you’ve heard the stories in the drinking room about the recent killings?”

“To be honest, I haven’t paid much attention. I figured it was just the usual brawls, or some footpads robbing merchants.”

Mirza shook his head. “Dan did say you haven’t been listening to much anyone says. Especially when Kachien is around-”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not,” Mirza said, “but the killings have not been brawls or footpads. You’re right about one thing. The victims have all been merchants. Almost every one of them came up from Ishtar after bringing their goods over from Ostania. Every one was Sendethi.”

Ancel’s eyebrows knitted. “They think it’s a Dosteri doing the killing?”

“Yes, that’s the word on the street. And the regiment’s been on the watch for a golden-haired Dosteri man.”

“Why?”

“The last any of these merchants’ bodyguards remember were their masters meeting with this golden-haired Dosteri,” Mirza said.

“Well then the guards can identify him, no?”

“That’s the strange part. None can remember exactly what he looked like. They just know he had golden hair.”

Ancel’s frown grew deeper. “What would make them so sure this man’s Dosteri then?”

“The message he leaves next to each body written in ancient Dosteri…” Mirza hesitated, a reluctant expression crossing his face.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

Mirza’s normally light voice shifted to a somber tone, and he began to recite.

“From Ostania’s ashes and Erastonian blood, the Dosteri rise,

Granadia will fall,

Devout and all,

As it was before

So shall it be again

World without end

War without end

When comes the appointed hour,

Under the rule of the one with Etchings of Power,

Stone will crumble,

The void shall rumble,

Clouds will grow,

Water shall flow,

Light and shade as one,

Fire and ice as one,

Denestia shall bend to its knee,

Until the elements exist in harmony.”

Ancel gasped. The words were said to be an ancient Dosteri mantra their soldiers chanted during battle long before the Shadowbearer War when Doster warred with much of Granadia. The first time he and Mirza learned those words were when they read their father’s old Chronicle-the Chronicle of Undeath-they found hidden in the attic. The tome spoke of a day when the dead would not remain dead, but walk Denestia in service of the shade. He never forgot the beating they received that day for going into his father’s things. The glint in Mirza’s eyes said he remembered also.

“We’ve been through this before,” Ancel said. “None of it makes sense. The Erastonians are dead, wiped out by Nerian himself before he turned to the shade. Not even the last bit that refers to the first Principle is any more sound. The elements already exist in harmony.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Mirza bit his lip as he spoke. “What if the elements don’t? What if it means even within each element?”

Ancel’s brows rose. “What?”

“Think on it. Mater is made up of the three elements, right? Streams, Flows, and Forms.”

Ancel nodded as he paced to the window. The rain fell in sheets as if a god released a waterfall from the heavens.

“And,” Mirza continued, “In each element are their essences. What if this refers to the essences within each element? Shade and light fight, they’re opposites. So does heat and cold. All within the element of Streams.”

Ancel stopped his pacing. “Yes, but if you remember from class, Streamean worship encourages the acceptance of all religions as one harmony and the essences as such. Look at those from the Forms and the Flows. They work in concert.”

“Exactly my point,” Mirza said, his eyes lighting up. “What if it’s just the Streams that need to find the same peace to exist in harmony?”

“Maybe you’re right. We can ask Teacher Galiana-”

“We can’t ask anyone, Ancel. Remember, we’re not supposed to know about the Chronicle of Undeath.”

Ancel smiled. “We don’t need to refer to the tome. We have the note left by this killer to use. It’s more than enough to start with and-”

Charra snarled. From outside, a blood freezing scream pierced the air.

“What in Amuni’s name…” Mirza swore as he rose to his feet and rushed to the door.

The scream changed to incessant shrieks.

Driven by the urgency of the wails, Ancel ignored his boots, snatched up his sword, and followed Mirza. He took the stairs by twos and threes, his bare feet slapping on the wood whenever he landed.

Mirza crashed out the back door to the Dancing Lady a few steps ahead of him. Ancel skidded to a stop in water, mud, and filth in the alley with Charra splashing at his heels. The daggerpaw focused down the lane, a warning rumble deep in his throat. Glass lamps at the front and rear of the inn and the adjoining buildings provided dim light that did little to dispel the alley’s deeper shadows. Wiping rain from his eyes, Ancel followed what drew Charra’s attention.

A person in what appeared to be wet, red silks lay on the ground. Someone wearing a dark cloak crouched over the body. Blood streamed away from the prone form.

The squatting person in the cloak glanced up. Their eyes widened.

Ancel caught a glimpse of honey colored hair and a smooth face more like a young boy’s than a man’s. In his hands, the youth held two weapons, no longer than short swords, but they reflected no light. It was as if the weapons drank the illumination from the lamps along the walls in the alley.

A yell echoed behind them from the alley’s entrance.

Ancel snatched a look over his shoulder. Several dark liveried men with swords brandished were running down the alley pointing toward them. He turned to see gold hair fleeing into the dark. Charra bounded after the youth.

“Wait,” Mirza shouted when Ancel made to follow his daggerpaw. “We shouldn’t follow him, not in the dark. Let’s not add ourselves to his list. Charra can handle himself. Besides,” he gestured toward the body on the ground, “his bodyguards are already here and the regiment should be here soon too.”

Ancel shivered as he peered down the alley, his clothes so soaked they stuck to his body. Charra’s gray-white form, obscured by the deluge, disappeared among the shadows. He knew his friend was right. To follow would be folly if not fatal.

Within moments, booted feet were thumping and splashing toward them. Six merchant’s guards in chain mail with boiled leather peeking from under the metal sleeves, the Charging Boar of their blue and green surcoats wetly plastered to their armor, surrounded the young men. Eyes glared from inside hooded cloaks. An old guard with a potato for a nose and a pitted face pulled his hood back and stepped forward with his sword raised.