David Dalglish - The Cost of Betrayal

“We must see Aurelia,” Qurrah said. “Now.”

“Who’s the girl?” Haern asked, rising from the table. “I will let no stranger near Delysia or Aurelia in their states.”

“I’m Tessanna,” she said, her voice so quiet that both struggled to hear. “I want to help.”

Harruq stood, raising an eyebrow. Qurrah nodded back, and his look was all the convincing Harruq needed.

“Let them go. We’ll follow. If she’s dying, we have nothing to lose.”

Haern let his cloaks fall forward, and his hands rest on the hilts of his blades. “Very well. Tessanna, follow me.”

He led them up the stairs and to Aurelia.

T arlak was kneeling by his sister’s bed when they arrived. He glanced up, his face hiding any surprise upon seeing Tessanna.

“A visitor to our tower?” he asked, standing. “I was not informed. I would have swept first.”

“She is here to help,” Qurrah said. He placed his hands on Tessanna’s shoulders and whispered into her ear. She glanced back, her eyes afraid. Qurrah merely nodded and gestured to Aurelia.

“Very well,” she said. She approached the bed, all eyes upon her.

“What is her name?” Tessanna asked.

“Aurelia Thyne,” Haern whispered.

Tessanna nodded. She knelt, curling her slender fingers around Aurelia’s wrist. Her head lowered, and long black hair fell across the bed. Silence filled the room as she meditated there.

“Who is she?” Harruq whispered to his brother.

“No different than us,” Qurrah whispered back. “Her life, her childhood, rivals that of our own. But her power…”

He stopped, for light had begun to fill the dimly lit room. Tessanna’s lips quivered with healing words that felt foreign to her tongue. The flesh of her hands shone white, gradually growing in power. Her hair floated in the air, as if blown by the softest of winds. She arched her head back, her face full of pain. Harruq shot a glance to Qurrah, but his brother’s look ordered him not to move. Haern drew his blades, but a hand from Tarlak kept him still.

A sound like the shattering of a boulder accompanied the great surge of healing magic into Aurelia’s body. The elf’s chest lurched upward as she cried out in pain. Tears flowed down Tessanna’s face, yet still she kept the magic flowing.

“I can’t cure it,” she cried, the light fading from her hands. “I’m not strong enough!”

“You are,” Qurrah said. “You are, now try!”

A brief flash of anger overwhelmed her shy features, then retreated just as quickly.

“Fine,” Tessanna said, her voice dead. “You want her saved. You want her to live. Then she will.”

The white light darkened to gray. Aurelia gasped for air, seeming awake although her eyes remained shut. A new spell spilled from Tessanna’s lips, whose words of power jolted Tarlak with recognition.

“No, don’t!” he shouted. It was too late. The girl arched her entire body away from Aurelia, only her iron grip keeping her from falling. A scream of pain came from those beautiful lips. The paleness of Aurelia’s skin retreated, pulled away like smoke in the wind. The death seeped into Tessanna, filling her veins. At last, the spell complete, she released her grip and collapsed.

“Tessanna!” Qurrah cried, rushing to her side. Harruq was not far behind, taking Aurelia’s hand and feeling the warmth inside.

“She took the poison into herself,” Tarlak said, staring at Tessanna with a look of both admiration and horror. “Harruq, pick her up. We must get her to the priests, immediately.”

“Why can we take her but not Aurry?” the half-orc asked.

“I have my reasons, now do as I say!” Tarlak shouted. No longer was he the kindly wizard. The leader of the Eschaton stood in that room, and he would accept nothing short of perfect obedience. Harruq knelt down and scooped the thin girl into his arms. Tarlak stepped away from the others and opened a portal into the heart of Veldaren. He stepped inside, followed by the two half-orcs and the dying girl.

T hey exited in front of an ancient stone temple, lined with pillars and carved of rare alabaster stone. Tarlak leapt up the steps, and when a young man dressed in robes moved to stop them, the wizard waved his hand, completely paralyzing him.

“Sorry, young priest, I have no time.” He shoved open the doors, the others following in his wake. Inside was grand and open. Huge columns lined the outer walls, and a painted ceiling of magically strengthened glass depicting the seven lessons loomed above them. Several priests milled about, the symbol of the golden mountain across their chests.

“I seek Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” Tarlak shouted. A few priests turned to him, recognized the yellow robes, and rushed off in obedience. The two half-orcs glanced about, the praise to Ashhur echoing from every piece of stone unnerving their souls. They could not have been more uncomfortable if they had been naked.

A door opened, and out stepped an old man dressed in white, a symbol of the golden mountain hanging from a long silver chain around his neck. Not a single sharp edge existed on his entire face. Such a round, gentle look made it so that when he smiled, it was impossible not to warm one’s heart to him.

“Tarlak Eschaton,” the high priest said, his gentle voice disarming. “I trust there is good reason to interrupt my nap with such rude shouting?” His beady green eyes stared at Tarlak, unflinching.

“This girl is dying of poison. I need her healed.”

Calan glanced behind the mage to see Tessanna curled in Harruq’s arms. The high priest nodded. “Place her on the ground, half-elf.”

Harruq glanced at the man, confused and angry.

“Do as he says,” Tarlak ordered.

“Don’t you need a bed, tonics, potions and such?” Harruq asked, gently placing her on the stone.

“The only bed she will need is back at your tower.” Calan knelt down beside Tessanna, examining her with his eyes. “What a poor soul. Such beauty, even in a body so frail.”

He bowed his head and laid his hands across Tessanna’s forehead. He whispered a prayer to Ashhur. Healing light surrounded his own hands, but unlike Tessanna’s, its glow was comforting, uplifting. Its shine was deeper, its light, purer. Gently, it flowed into the young woman, banishing the poison in her blood. Mere seconds later, Calan stood, the magic fading from his hands.

“She will be fine,” Calan said, sighing. “Her wounds are many, and the worst are in her mind. I know this girl, Tarlak. Be careful with her.”

Qurrah knelt beside Tessanna and held her. He stared at the high priest with his steeled gaze.

“How do you know of her?” he asked.

“Several of my priests have died because of her,” Calan explained. “They sought to heal the chaos of her mind. A few thought a demon resided in her. Others, in their pride, felt their power sufficient to put the pieces back together.”

“She killed them?” Tarlak asked.

“The madness they tried to exorcise engulfed them, instead. The pain they caused her, though…” He shook his head. “They thought themselves wise. She was to be proof of their faith. That is why they died.”

“But can you heal her?” Qurrah asked.

Tarlak stood back, eyeing the two. Something odd was going on, but he didn’t know what.

“No, I cannot heal her,” the high priest said.

“Why not?”

“Only Ashhur can heal a mind that tortured and broken,” Calan said, clearly unwilling to be convinced otherwise. The necromancer felt his chest tighten, and knew that the priest analyzed him with his stare.

“What is it you see?” Qurrah asked him.

“Tread carefully,” the priest said, knowing that all stared at he and Qurrah. “The girl binds herself in darkness because she has never seen the light, while you cling to the dark like a babe in fear. You walk a path leading to ruinous things.”