Why I Am The Nameless Dreamer.

I tend not to think too much about my life, especially my childhood. I had a fine childhood, all things considered; we were poor, but there was a lot of love, I had good friends, access to (some of) the things I wanted or needed, a decent academic career (high grades, but not too high), and a bunch of very understanding adults.

Despite all of that, I feel now that I have been set up for failure. Please allow me to explain.

I live now, as I have since I was born, in a tiny, rural part of the states, far from everywhere else. My parents moved to here from where they were because the land was cheap. I'm proud of them for making as much out of our home that they have, but they could not have forseen the ramifications of their choices. See, we lived up on the side of a mountain, where no one wanted to lay cable. As such, we had no access to any sort of TV or entertainment that wasn't on one of the 3 channels we had access via the huge tv antenna we needed to get anything at all.

"TV isn't that important," you say, "lots of people grow up without TV."

But we live in a connected world, now more than ever, and even back then we were connected through television and radio. I had so little access to things that piqued my interest that I clung for dear life to anything that was even remotely interesting. I wanted something different, something that was there but so distant it might as well not have been real in the first place. I craved sci fi, fantasy, mystery, things that take you to another world. So starved for that stimulation I was, I read and reread my favorite books, watched and rewatched my favorite movies and shows. My family grew sick of reruns, but I didn't even care that I had seen it a hundred times before, I liked it and there was not enough of it for me. I eventually found video games, and that was a balm. No more did I have to engage passively with my media, it engaged me right back, a conversation of button presses and visual stimuli. But they were still not scratching that itch, not yet anyway. I began to tell myself stories, ones that I liked way more than the stuff on TV or in other books. I loved these little head plays, and often acted out scenes in my room alone, worlds of pretend in a 10' by 8' stage, player, director, and audience all in one.

In school, I was ridiculed for being different. Because even I didn't know where I belonged, I was alone most of the time. I think I made about 4 friends in my time from kindergarten to grade 12. In this place, this cold and isolated part of the world, you either liked what everyone else liked, trucks and dirt bikes and sports, or you were wrong. Not just different, wrong. It wasn't, "oh, you like Nintendo and not Sega? Then you suck." It was more, "You like anything other than what we do? Then you don't exist." That's not to say there weren't other nerds in my school or even my class. It turns out that they were deep into the stuff I really wished I had been subjected to as a young person, computers and nerdy shows and thought provoking books. But because I didn't know what they were ever talking about, I was refused a seat at that lunch table too. I wasn't nerdy enough to be a nerd.

I was so different no one wanted to be around me. People literally treated my like I had a disease, and back then, I thought I did. What was wrong with me that I couldn't see it and they could? I didn't have friends outside of family before school, I didn't know how to make friends with folks I have no common ground with, no social graces at all really because everyone I knew before then was obliged to like me because I was family. I was so punished for trying to make friends that eventually started to lash out at people that tried to get close, I had no trust left. I'm still working on that.

When it came time for me to decide what I wanted to do with my life, I bounced back and forth a bit before landing on creative pursuits. I wanted to write, to bring to life those stories I had in my head, to draw and make these visions real in some way. I was told it was rare to succeed as an artist, but I didn't care. I just wanted to learn how to make the things I loved, and most importantly, share them with everyone. Maybe if they saw the beautiful things I did, they wouldn't think I was so bad.

I got some pushback on that from the beginning. Neither of my parents wanted me to have this as a career. They wanted me to find something stable, something more attainable. All they wanted was for me to be happy, but they thought I would never be happy as an artist. They asked me, time and time again, "Do you really think you can do this?"

I had talent, mind you. I had been writing for a very long time even then, as far back as 1st grade. I took art classes even when I ran out of classes offered at my school, doing independent studies in place of teacher-directed learing. This was something I had been trying to make my life from a very young age, even though I had no idea I was doing it. I went to a school that gave me a degree I am still very proud of, a bachelor of interdisciplinary fine art. I could mix and match my different artistic endeavors, and had the paper to prove that I could. 

But I was chased by doubt. My teachers told me that I was good, and would be even better if I just commited myself to what I wanted. But those words from before tingled in the back of my mind. "Do you really think you can do this?" I doubted every project I made, and never put my whole heart into it. "It's good enough," I always said. "I won't waste time if I don't have to. After all, I can't really do it."

I have not been able to commit anything. I start reading a book, and stop halfway through because reading is a waste of time. I find a show I really like, and have to quit because it's not productive. Playing games, it's rare I take the time to complete even ones I truly love because I'm not playing them right and never will. I gave up on drawing because there was no way I'll draw as well as I need to succeed. I have yet to finish one of my many stories, even ones that I've had plenty of time to work on. It burns inside, ready and willing to be let out, but it's never gotten a chance, because I never think I'm ready because I Don't Really Think I Can Do This. 

I can, of course. But I don't know how to convince myself of this now, because it's been so long since I was proud of my work. But why write when I could read? Why read when I could watch? Why watch when I could play? Why play when I'm not good enough? Why try? It was only going to be a waste because I D O N ' T T H I N K I C A N D O T H I S.

I'll tell you what though. I've fought with myself for years, because I didn't want to see what was in front of me, because believing I couldn't was far too easy. But now I see, with just a simple look into my past from a moment of clarity, I've always been able to do what I need to do to succeed. I've had the passion, the inspiration, the drive, the skill, the urge to create all my life. I grew to love the language I work with, I pound the raw metal of my ideas with the hammer of grammar. I still love to draw, and even more so now since I recently rediscovered how much it helps me visualize the shapes of things that are only in my head. I am the only thing holding me back, because despite their doubts, my family believed in me more than I knew. My friends don't look down on me for not doing what they did, they just want to understand me so they too can help me succeed. 

I was too young to understand what my name meant when I discovered it. Not my birth name, the one I found that made sense to me when I heard it. Nameless Dreamer.

My identity is so out there, so wildly out of the scope of my world, that I cannot describe it properly. I lack the lexicon to express what it is that makes me me. I cannot name myself, therefore I am nameless.

But the world I see beyond this one is clear to me, when I can see it. I get fits and bursts that splash through into my waking days, and seep quietly into my mind's eye when I am not actively thinking of it. I walk there without form, without malice or intent, finding something new with every turn. The world of dreams has never come to me in sleep, but in those times I am ready for it.

I convinced myself long ago that people would not want to hear my stories, they were not ready for them. How could they be if I wasn't ready for them myself? But I can only make what I want to put into the world, to share a deep love of the mystery and excitement of the dream world we all call fantasy. No one is above a well told tale, and I can tell one as well as anyone can. Only I can tell you the stories I have always loved, the ones in my little thought plays from so long ago, stories that have grown and changed and matured in the same way I grew, changed, and matured. They are me, I am them.

I am the Nameless Dreamer, and I want to tell you a story.

Twinsoul, Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Answers

                 

Varcor’s rest had been punctuated by visions of a being of glaring light, who simply glared at him with eyes of truth.  He begged and pleaded with it to stop, claiming he would apologize if he only knew his crime.  He turned away, only to see a silver crystal mirror, reflecting the being in the background as the half-elf he had nearly destroyed.

Awareness returned to him in a flash, and he sat up quickly, hardly aware of his surroundings.  His heart pounded, but more than anything he felt a stinging pain deep within.  He had done wrong, and he knew it.

“I need to know more,” he said to himself, placing a hand to his forehead.  “Something is not right.”

“Indeed, Excellency,” whispered a voice directly into his mind.  Its tone was sardonic and tainted, but there was no malice to it.  The half-orc prince whipped his head back and forth, looking for the source, and found only shadows.  He could see now that it was late at night, perhaps long past midnight.  He was sitting in a bed in an inn of some kind, but he did not recognize it.  A single open window above the bed let in moonlight from outside, but from it he also smelled sulfur and ash, as though a fire was burning nearby.  He leaned on the sill to look better outside, but nearly fell out of bed drawing away from the black horse that stood not ten feet from the window.  Its fiery mane wavered in the night air, and Varcor realized that there was no ground beneath it; he was on the second floor.

“Back, demon!” he hissed, holding forth his right hand, bringing fire to his palm.  He regretted that his sword was across the room at the time, he would have felt better to have it close.  However, his dismay was greater when he realized his glove from Reylyn was missing.  “What do you want with me?”

“Oh, relax,” the demon horse said, accompanied by a strange sound that could have been laugher.  “You really think you’re in danger?  And if you were, are you blind? My head is on fire.  What are you going to do with a little spark like that?”

“Who are you?” Varcor yelled, angry more at his own foolishness than anything the visitor had said.  “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” the demon looked pensive.  “I wish for nothing more than Jarexellion to choke on his arrogant god-complex and be cooked and prepared by his own generals to be served at a banquet in my honor.”

Varcor started to respond, but his confusion mounted in such a way that he was only able to stare absurdly. “Excuse me?”

“This, of course, has no bearing on why I’m here,” the demon admitted.  He bowed graciously to the prince.  “Your pardon, my lord.  My name is Lyxas.  I am here to take you somewhere you need to go.”

“I’m afraid I cannot comply, Lyxas,” Varcor said, “but I have somewhere else I have to go, so unless you mean to take me to Cagar-Tugan, I will decline.”

Lyxas narrowed his eyes.  “I’m afraid this order does not come from me, dear boy, but someone whose flame could singe even my fur.  I fear for the safety of my pelt if I do not return with you in tow.”

“Be that as it may, I do not even know where I am, much less why I would leave here with a demon to go anywhere.”

“You are in Westway, prince,” Lyxas said shortly.  “Your entourage carried you here from the Crystal Caves, being the nearest place on the way back to Cagar-Tugan.”  He seemed to smile dryly.  “Tell me, what will you do once you’re there?  Your father will send you back out to finish the job, and will keep doing so until you have killed the lucky twit you almost murdered.”

“I have no choice,” Varcor said firmly, regretting every word.  “He must die, for the sake of my people.”

“For the sake of our world, you had better listen to me!” Lyxas growled in his mind, mane and hooves flaring.  “You are right to suspect your knowledge, because you don’t have the whole story.  You do need to know more.  I know you do not want to kill this sorcerer, and not for any reason you have given yourself.  No, something deep within is crying out that this is terribly awry, and you will be wise to listen to your own wisdom.”

“How do you even know all this?” Varcor asked, concerned.  “I do not recall ever telling anyone.”

“I don’t know, I guess,” He said simply.  “I happen to know something about you that you don’t, Chosen of Faarthus.”

Varcor glared at the taunting demon.            

“Want to know more?”  Lyxas said invitingly.  “Go back to Faarthusia, but stay clear of Cagar-Tugan.  The silly little girl who taught you should have one more lesson lined up.”

“Silly little girl?” Varcor pondered.  “You don’t mean Reylyn?”

“She’s the youngest of us, even though that bronze liar says he is.”

“Who are you?” Varcor demanded.

“Just a disgruntled demon,” Lyxas said, starting to drift away on the wind.  “And you are not even . . .”

“. . .awake?  M’lord, are ye awake?”

Varcor opened his eyes, bright light shining in on him from the window he was just looking out of.  Standing over him was Kronta, the very image of concern. 

“Ye were yellin’ like ye’d been stuck in the eye,” Kronta explained.  “I came to see if ye were alright.”

Varcor sat up, his eyes wide despite the brightness.  He looked outside to see morning sunshine spread over the small trade town, a bustling marketplace below his window.

“We need to go,” Varcor said, drawing himself out of bed and moving to his sword, which leaned against the opposite wall.

“Are ye sure?  Ye’ve been asleep for two days, I don’t think ye can take the travel,” Kronta said, though he moved out of his prince’s way.

“I can do it.  I have to go now,” Varcor said as he put his sword belt back on, noticing that his glove had remained on his had, even though it hadn’t been there in his dream.

“Very well, I’ll mobilize me boys, tell ‘em we’re headed home.” Kronta started to leave, but Varcor stopped him.

“We aren’t going back to the city,” Varcor said, adamant in his voice and expression.  “As soon as we’re in Faarthusia, I’m heading north to Reylyn’s Lair.  It’s up to you whether or not you come with me.”

Kronta looked at his prince curiously, and Varcor looked back out the window, almost able to glimpse the glowing, blank white eyes of the demon horse from his dreams.  “I need answers, and my father refuses to cooperate.”

Kronta nodded then, as though he grasped the situation.  “I unnerstand.  We’ll follow ya where’er ya go, m’boy.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Varcor said.  “At least there are some who are honest with me.”

There was not an ounce of protest from the four other soldiers when Kronta gave them orders to escort them to the lair of the Red Lady.  After they reached the section of the road that led into the hills north of the Tharkas Mountains, they broke off from the main path that led to the orcs’ city and into the countryside.  With all haste, the escort made its way through the eastern hills and at the end of the day they found themselves in the village just south of Reylyn’s Lair.

“Me boys will be wantin’ rest,” Kronta said as they entered the town.  “Do ye intend ta go on?”

“Yes, uncle,” Varcor said.  “I have waited long enough for the truth, and I believe that is what Reylyn aims to tell me.”

Kronta nodded, understanding.  “I’ll stand with ye, m’boy.  I’d be a sore uncle indeed if I didn’t do at least tha’.”

Varcor nodded gratefully, fully expecting the answer.  He turned and looked to the mountains in the north, reflecting on his dream the other night.  He hoped that whatever Lyxas sent him here to learn would justify his father’s behavior, or he did not know what he would do.

******

Reylyn woke with a start when she heard hooves clomping on the rocks in front of her home.  Grumbling sleepily, she rose from her hoard-bed and lumbered over to the cave entrance, seeing Lyxas waiting patiently for her.

“You are ready for him, are you not?” he said, sounding as though he was concerned for her.

“You’ve brought him?” she asked, looking around.  “Where is he?”

“Climbing up now, with his retainer,” Lyxas said, and she sighed disdainfully, glaring at him sharply.  The black horse seemed to shrug.  “Two is better than none.  I honestly think he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that one.”

“It doesn’t matter.  As long as he hears it, I don’t care if half the country hears what I want to tell him.” She gestured toward the Library section of the cave.  “Would you tell our other guest that it is nearly time?  And no games, nightmare, he’s not exactly comfortable here.”

“My dear, I don’t think I could make him any less comfortable than you are,” Lyxas said, trotting off toward the library.  Reylyn shook her head, and stepped out onto the cliffs to breathe the quiet night air and figure out how she was supposed to break the truth to Varcor.

*******

Varcor’s pace lessened considerably after he left the village, making his way up the mountainside with careful determination, Kronta at his heels.  However, as he grew closer to his destination, he found it hard to stay calm, and he increased his pace as time wore on.  He reached the cliffs while the veil of night still covered the sky, but it was only a matter of time before daylight broke through.

He didn’t even slow as Kronta stopped to catch his breath, marching right into the dragoness’ lair.  However he did stop short once he saw who waited for him in the outer chamber.

“It is good to see you, my lord,” Ganash said, his manner stern as always.  “The Red Lady has been expecting you.”

“What in the name of Faarthus are you doing here, Ganash?” Varcor said, taken off his guard. 

“She only said that you would be arriving, at which time she would tell us all we wanted to know.”  He looked to the entrance, where Kronta stood, gaping at him.  “Colonel Baangs, I’m glad you are here.  You’ve looked after him well.”

Kronta remember his rank, and immediately saluted.  “Thank ye, sir.  I didn’t expect ta see ya here.”

“I have a hard time believing it myself,” Reylyn said as she entered the room from the hoard chamber.  “I was certain that he would decline my offer.  It is indeed hard to pry a good soldier from his duties.”

Kronta dropped from his salute to one knee, and Ganash did the same.  Reylyn almost glared at the subservience, and stomped her front paw down, shaking the cavern and knocking loose dirt from the walls and ceiling.  Both prostrate soldiers fell over, and they both looked up to the red dragon, expecting an explanation.

“I have done nothing to warrant this kind of behavior,” she said to their confused looks.  “Unless you can give me a single laudable accomplishment that justifies this blind respect, something beyond the natural accident of me being ten times your size, never defer to me again.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Ganash said as he stood up, brushing himself off, “but you are a keeper of our kingdom, sworn to aid our people when we are in need.  That in itself is worthy of a bow every once in a while.”

She looked away, turning her nose up at the thought.  Something about the way she did it made Varcor wonder what it was that brought on this unprovoked fit of disgust.

“Reylyn,” Varcor said sternly, drawing startled looks from the two soldiers still dusting off their chain mail.  “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The demon you showed me.” Varcor said seriously.  “The one who told me in a dream to come here.”

“Demon?” Kronta said in surprise.  “A demon in yer dream told ye to come see th’ Red Lady?”

“Aye, in mine too,” Ganash said.  “He called himself Lyxas.”

“Yes, him!” Varcor said.  “Where is he?”

“He is off to give news to some of our mutual friends,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me you worked with demons?” Varcor asked sternly.

“The way your father told you he was working with them?” She shot back.  Varcor scowled and she nodded.  “Yes, I’ve been watching him.  I put a scrying beacon on your glove before I gave it to you.  I heard what all of you had to say about your beloved sovereign.”

“Many rulers sought to learn more about demons, after the Horde . . .” Varcor started to argue, but Reylyn cut him off.

“None of them ever summoned a demon!” she burst out.  “It is forbidden by laws, by religious teachings, and by arcane science to even attempt a demonic summon, and he knew it!”  She calmed, trying to restrain herself from yelling.  “You are here now because I wanted to tell you all that your king is, as you have suspected, no longer to be trusted.”

“What?” Ganash said in astonishment.  “Why?”

“If he summoned a demon and lived, it is only because Jarexellion has allowed it,” she answered evenly, though her eyes burned with pain at every syllable.  “It means Toras Voldur is under the influence of Jarexellion.”

Varcor wanted to scream, wanted to blast the cavern and everything in it to oblivion, just to deny her words.  His fists clenched tightly and his teeth ground together in seething, furious rage.  “How can you even make such a claim?  What proof do you have that he is so afflicted?”

“The last time we met, you had given me something to think about.  I pondered the person who was responsible for the demon horde, and how it had been possible for Jarexellion to attempt the escape of his prison plane.  He corrupts first those who are more susceptible to his wiles, and uses their influence to poison the mind of his real target.”

“Who could it possibly be?” Ganash said.  “I have been with my king for longer than any who have been under him.  I would have noticed.”

“You did,” She said, leaning close.  Ganash twisted his face in confusion.  “You hated him ever since you met him, and resent him still for being trusted more by the king in these of all times.”

Realization swept over the general’s face as his mind grasped firmly on the truth.  “Iksol?  The High Priest of Faarthus?  He’s the corrupt one?”

“How do you think he was able to attain a pardon from the temple for his summon? Why do you think he spends every bit of spare time with that boot-licking, sorry excuse for an orc?  That someone of his meager fire aura attained such a respectable position in the hierarchy?”  Reylyn shook her head.  “I was blind to his poison.  I was the only one who could have spotted him for what he was, so it was thanks to him that I was barred from seeing you for thirteen years.”

“Tha’ slimy, filth-ridden, underfed, scum-suckin’ rat-bag!” Kronta growled, grinding his fist into his palm.  “I knew he was no good!  Next time I sees ‘em, I’ll rip out his windpipe and beat him to death with the tonsil end!”

“Enough, Colonel,” Ganash said, the coldest of airs carrying his voice.  “We will deal with his depravity later.  Of more concern to us now is what to do about the king.”

“I want proof!” Varcor yelled, boiling over.  “Enough circumstance, enough conjecture, I want to see material proof!”

Reylyn seemed ready for this response.  “You carry a new sword, do you not?”

“This?” Varcor said, drawing the ruby pummeled blade.  “What of it?”

“That sword belonged to your great-great-grandfather,” she explained.  “It was the sword that was passed down from the first of the Voldur lineage, said to be a gift from Faarthus, and has some pretty interesting history.”

“I fail to see . . .” Varcor started to say, but Reylyn pressed on.

“Like the time it was used in sealing the six demonic gates that opened in the sky one hundred years ago.”

This gave Varcor pause.  He regarded the sword once more, and gazed tentatively back to her.  “Go on.”

She nodded.  “The one thing most people don’t know about Crovas Voldur is that he was at the place of summoning when Jarexellion stood upon the brink of this world.”  She looked downward, as one who recalls a grave injury.  “It was fortunate that he came when he did.  I can’t think of what I would have done if he hadn’t saved me.”

Varcor’s whole body went numb.  Somewhere in the distance he heard his sword clatter to the stone, and for a long time he saw only sad, orange eyes.

“You?” he said pitifully after a long quiet.  “This whole time it was you?  After everything you said, all you’ve taught me, it was you who . . . nearly destroyed the world?”

The dragoness was shamed beyond words, and could only nod her head.

“I won’t believe it, my lady!” Ganash said.  “You must be joking!  Surely, you must!”

She smiled weakly.  “I thank you for your confidence,” she said, her voice broken.  “But it is true.”

Kronta scratched his bald head, looking sad, confused, and upset all at once.  If there was anything he was going to say, he would have said it by now.

“I was helpless to resist his machinations,” she said softly.  “He somehow touched this plane, and gave the one dearest to me a grave illness.”  She looked down at her large red paws, as though she still cradled her lover’s body.  “I am a dragon, mightiest of creatures on Kayledon, blessed with a strong aura, with a fortune at my command.  Yet for all my majesty and power, even the ability to heal could not even slow his poisonous work.  I just woke up one day . . . and my dear Votharas . . .”

She stopped, choking on the raw emotion caught in her voice.  Several deep sobs escaped from deep within her, as she struggled to swallow her sorrow.  Tears rolled down, unabated by pride. 

Varcor felt tears on his own face, without even realizing he was crying.  He had felt this darkness in her before, and could feel her burden more now than ever. 

When she was ready again, she wiped underneath her eyes.  “In my weakness I began to dream of the lost power, gone since the destruction of the Prosperi Crystal, the power to return life to the dead . . . It was all lies fed from the Demonfather.  His corruption somehow leaked into my mind from my beloved.  Every lead I followed turned to dust in my hands.  I became convinced that the disease had taken him to another plane, that I could call him back from the abyss. 

“Crovas had been a friend of mine, almost like an older brother.  He had aided however he could to save my love, and was also grieved of the loss.  I shared with him my dreams of resurrection, my plans to bring Vodalian back, and he warned me that my path would only bring sorrow.  He somehow found out when I was going to open the gate, and came to me just as the final incantations were spoken.  If only I had listened to him . . .”

She gestured toward the sword now on the ground.  “He struck the very magic of the portal with that blade, literally severing the tie between our world and Jarexellion’s.  He told me later that his blade was now tied to the auras of the royal family, and if the ruler of the orcs ever lost, destroyed, or gave away that sword that the Dark King would come again.”

“Then it is hopeless,” Ganash said, despair etched in his stern face.  “My liege has doomed us all.”

“No,” Varcor said.  “That is not true now.”  He picked his father’s forsaken sword from the stony floor.  “Jarexellion may be coming, but there is still the Prophecy.  If I can find the Chosen of Taelri, we may be able to combat him.”

Kronta looked at him suddenly, as though remembering something.  “Aye, there be more hope than ye think, General.  Varcor’ll be the one to drag our sorry arses outta this mess.”

“But where do we even begin looking for the other Chosen?” Ganash said, stroking his chin with one mailed hand.  “I would assume we should start at Solreth, but if news of our activity reached Shae’Ildarae, we would hardly be welcome.”

Flashes of memory came to Varcor the moment Ganash mentioned his clandestine deeds in the Gnoll’s hills.  He turned to Reylyn urgently, his eyes excited.  “My father demanded that I capture or kill a half-elf named Evandel.”

Reylyn’s ears perked up at the mention of the half-elf’s name.  “Do you know why he did this?” Varcor pressed.

Reylyn looked shocked.  “Kill him?”

“He believed that left unchecked he would become a threat to our people, but with his help we could find the other Chosen.”

Reylyn looked angry for a moment, and the temperature in the room began to rise steadily.  “How far has he gone, how deep is his treachery?  Is he so deep in Jaredon’s council that he is blind to the truth?  How did Jaredon learn about the Twinsoul?”

“Jaredon?” Ganash said, confused.

“Twinsoul?” Varcor asked.

Reylyn considered them both for a moment, then sighed.  “Jaredon is the name of the hero Jarexellion once was, if you can believe it.  I have only the stories of an old bronze fool, but Jaredon was a man blessed by dragons, and was a hero among heroes.  The Twinsoul is an entity that came to Kayledon sixteen years ago to thwart the danger that Jaredon had become.  Half the entity, endorsed by Taelri, emerged from a pool west of Tyhal.  The other half, blessed by the Firelord, fell from the sky right above a certain unsuspecting patrol of orcan soldiers.”

Ganash and Kronta looked at each other, then to Reylyn, then to their prince, who stared wide eyed. 

“Then that Bargo bloke,” Kronta said, “he be tellin’ the truth when he says that the feller we just tried to kill be the other Chosen?  The other half of Twinsoul?”  Reylyn nodded gravely.

“Something just isn’t right,” Ganash said, then he looked to his prince, who stood stiffly, staring into space.  “My lord?  What is the matter?” 

“I’m . . . what are you saying?” the half-orc prince said to the red dragoness, trying to wrap his mind around what he just learned.  “I’m not an orc?  Some otherworldly being that fell from the sky?  And I was just meant to kill . . . my twin? ”

“You were raised as an orc,” Reylyn said calmingly.  “Whatever your origins, you are no less the prince of Faarthusia than you were ten minutes ago, that sword is proof enough.  You know now what you are, but you still remain to be the son of Toras Voldur.”

A door flung itself open in Varcor’s mind.  Everything that never made sense before now seemed to fit, and his expression changed from surprise to the blackest rancor.

“Yes.” He said simply.  The Prince lifted his sword to his shoulder and turned from his teacher, his uncle, and his guardian.  “Reylyn, I thank you for this last lesson.  Kronta, Ganash, let us be gone.  We must return to Cagar-Tugan.”

“Why?”  Kronta asked.  “Ye need to go and find yer . . . brother, I guess.”

The prince smiled darkly.  “Before we can see him, I need to have a heart to heart with my . . . dear father.”

********

Cagar-Tugan was startled for the first time in a century when the gate was blown open by a half-orc clad in red, with the General of the Faarthusian army and the head of the Silver Guards as his escort.  No word was sent to the gate’s towers, but neither would any of the guards go to stop such figures of authority, even if they were causing rampant destruction. 

Crowds gathered to watch the march of the Silver Guards as they tromped through the city toward the castle, spearheaded by a half-orc with red robes and eyes of damnation and Darkfire.  Those who were close enough to see whispered that they saw the mark of the king on his forehead, and those who got too close were scared off by the flames that leapt up from the ground where he pointed. 

As the march continued, the members of the Silver Guard who had been on leave or were otherwise occupied when the original five had left stepped out of the crowd to join ranks with their compatriots.  By the time they reached the castle, the entirety of the Silver Guards, twenty fully armed soldiers, now trailed behind the mysterious leader.

Varcor took note of this fact and was glad.  He had noticed that the number of city guards and soldiers in the crowd increased as his march continued. If things went the way he planned, he would need all the extra sword arms available.

The guards at the front gates needed no convincing to open the gates for their prince.  Without pause, save to motion that Kronta and his battalion hold at the gates, he started in, Ganash hurrying forward to take the lead, just as they had planned.

They stopped just before the door to the throne room.  Ganash looked back and nodded solemnly to Varcor, sharing his driving purpose.  The General pushed the doors wide open, revealing a mostly empty room, save for a handful of guards, a surprised and irritated Iksol, and a curiously expectant Toras Voldur.

“My liege,” Ganash said as he bowed, with all the circumstance and gravity he could lend to his voice.  “Your son has returned.”  He then marched up to his own seat, and took his place on his lords left side.

“You went out early just to escort him?” the king said dryly, as though he knew the truth.  “How considerate of you, my good Ganash.  You might have told me he was on his way back, we could have thrown a party.”  One swift motion from the king, and the guards in the room filed out, leaving the four alone.

“I see that you do not bring the half-elf, as you were commanded,” Iksol said, drolly watching as the prince approached.  “Tell us, why this insubordination?”

“You speak to me of insubordination?” Varcor growled.  “Stay out of this, wretch.”

Iksol’s outburst of indignation was prematurely halted by the king’s raised hand and silencing glare.  The monarch then looked to his son, his eyes solemn and darker than before.  “Do you have something to say, Varcor?  Why do you speak to my councilor with such hostility?”

“I have learned much these past few days, father,” Varcor said.  “Without his influence, you would never have ordered me to kill that sorcerer, knowing full well who he is.”

“And who exactly is he?” Toras said, as though quizzing his adopted son.

“My brother.”

Toras narrowed his eyes, and Iksol began to laugh.  “Brother?  How can you even think such foolishness?”

“I’ve told you once to keep your peace,” Varcor hissed, raising his gloved hand and wreathing it in flame.  “Do not make me say it again.”

The raven haired advisor quieted immediately, looking rather shocked that he had just been threatened by the prince.

“My dear boy,” the king said, rising from his seat, “you still have not answered him, and I wish to know why as well.”

Varcor looked at his father in surprise.  “You knew?”

“What makes you think it was his idea?” Toras said, stepping down from the dais.  “Although his position in the temple hierarchy was useful in achieving my goals, he knew as little of the truth as you did, Varcor.”

Varcor backed off, and glanced at the thrice shocked and baffled Iksol.  “But, it was him!  He was corrupted by . . .”

“There is no corruption here, my son,” Toras said.  “My planning has been perfect up until now, and you will not fail me.”

“But he was the Chosen of Taelri!” Varcor bellowed.  “How could you even think of such depravity?”

“The Chosen?” Iksol blurted.  “You never told me that!”

“You did not need to know,” the king said calmly to his advisor.  “The plan would have been the same, even if he wasn’t.  That sorcerer is indeed powerful.  Now I’ll just have to find someone else to do it.”

“Why?” Varcor begged.  “Why did you order me to kill the other Chosen?”

“It is simple,” Toras began.  “For too long have I watched my people, our people be dismayed by those we showed nothing but honor.  We must prove to them that the orcs are strong, worthy of praises of men and elves.  You are among the greatest of our kind, Varcor.  As the chosen, you are destined to destroy the demon lord, Jarexellion.  If there is no other Chosen to claim the victory . . .”

Varcor stared, horrified and repulsed.  “You cannot mean that.”

“I had seen that he was indeed powerful, but I wasn’t sure if he was indeed the second Chosen,” Toras continued.  “If I found out he wasn’t, then his arcane power would have been useful in bringing the Darkfather forth.  If he was, then he would only be insurance of Jarexellion’s demise, to be dispensed with afterward.”  He raised his fist.  “Our glory cannot be shared, or all that we seek to become will be diminished.”

Feelings of disgust and betrayal broiled within Varcor.  He had believed that his father was a great man, a strong ruler, and a beacon of hope to all orcs.  All those hopes were now crushed beneath the heel of the same man.

“Now, my son,” the king said, holding his hand out, offering to share his dream.  “Fulfill my request, and destroy your brother.”

Varcor looked into his fathers eyes, seeing only the deepest of despair behind them.  His face twisted in anger, and he glared back in determination.  “The Twinsoul is all that stands between this world and destruction.  You have no right to condemn the world for your twisted view of glory.”

“You will do as I say or be pronounced a traitor to all orcan peoples,” Toras demanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“So be it,” Varcor said quietly, bringing flame to his hand once more.  Toras barely had time to widen his eyes before his son thrust a column of flame into his chest, blasting him backward into the wall, crashing through the throne as he went.  Iksol stumbled over, tripping over the dais and landing prone on the ground.

“You are both traitors to the wellbeing of Kayledon,” Varcor announced ardently.  “May Faarthus have mercy on your souls.”  With one final glance to Ganash, who nodded his approval, Varcor turned and stomped out of the room, blasting the door down with another fireball.

The orc king stood up moments after Varcor left, roaring at his son’s defiance.  He charged out of the room, just in time to see the prince of Faarthusia take his family sword, lined with flame, and cut through the front gate.

********

“I can see things went as well as can be,” Kronta said as Varcor literally burst out of the castle gate.  “We be ready for whate’er comes, boy.” The whole of the twenty five soldiers under his command saluted the prince as he came forth.  The crowd seemed to have grown, and his dramatic entrance did not help to thin it.

“This is true, but you may not want to come with me,” Varcor said.  “You will be branded traitors.”

“The Silver Guard is what protects Faarthusia’s royal family,” Kronta said, unsheathing his axes.  “I can’t be doin’ anythin’ less than followin’ ye; tha’ would be abandonin’ me post.”

Varcor nodded and managed a genuine smile.  “Thank you again uncle.  It is time to leave.  Make a path through the crowds.”

“Aye, sir,” Kronta said, and began barking orders to his men.  The well-trained soldiers set a perimeter around the prince, and began to spearhead through the crowd.

********

Toras marched past the guards to his room, flanked by his general and his advisor, both of whom followed just to keep his majesty in sight.  He stomped over to the balcony, and scanned the crowd below for his son.  He spotted the white haired, red robed young half-orc, surrounded by twenty or more soldiers.

“Soldiers, seize that boy!” he bellowed, drawing the crowds attention.  “He is a traitor to the crown, and is armed and dangerous!  Bring him to me!”  Dozens of guards began to swarm toward the prince and his escort.

But the Silver Guard did not relent in their duty.  As Varcor marched on, they fought off the soldiers of the city, scattering the crowd and causing mass panic.  Orcan citizens scrambled out of the armed escort’s path, and orcan soldiers did everything in their power to both quell the growing chaos and confusion and hinder the progress of the prince.  Even so, the Silver Guards were the finest trained soldiers in the orcan army, hand picked by the king himself and trained by the brilliant warrior Kronta Baangs.

Brimming with outrage, Toras half turned to Ganash.  “Do something!  Bring back my son!”  He turned back to watch the spectacle below, then opened his eyes wide in horror.

Ganash stood at his back, his sword sticking cleanly out through the king’s chest.

“I serve only the Sovereign Lord of Faarthusia and the Will of the Mighty Firelord,” Ganash growled.  “I do not take orders from madmen.” 

He removed his sword from the king’s back, letting him fall to the floor in a heap.  He turned and started to leave, regarding Iksol as he left, glaring in contempt.

“You will hang for this,” Iksol promised to the general’s back as he rushed to his king’s aid.  Ganash did not turn and reply, but lifted one hand in a rude gesture.

********

Varcor was glad when he heard a call for the battle to cease from a familiar stern voice as he approached the front gates.  He turned to see Ganash rushing up to meet him, roaring out orders to the confused soldiers.  Varcor told the guards at the rear to let him through as the general subdued several of his soldiers with the flat of his blade.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Varcor said. 

“I just had to give your father my resignation,” Ganash explained.  “Iksol has stayed behind to see him through.”

Varcor looked up to the castle from the gates, to the balcony.  He could just make out Iksol lifting the king up onto his shoulders, trying to get him away from the balcony.  Just before they exited, he caught his father’s eyes.  Toras Voldur glared with unnatural malice at the boy he called his son, who returned the look with anger borne of injustice and righteous damnation.

In silent agreement to disagree, the king retreated into his quarters, and the prince turned and left Cagar-Tugan, not once looking back.

Twinsoul, Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Reasons

                          

Evandel woke to a tingling, tightening feeling in his chest.  He attempted to open his eyes, but all he saw was a dim blur.  He drew great gulps of air, finding it harder to breathe than he remembered.  He sat up quickly – wherever he was, it was nice and warm – and coughed hard, trying to expel what was causing his pain.

“Don’t fight it, boy,” a voice said, firm and easy at the same time.  “Just relax and let the potion do its work.”

“I . . . I think I swallowed wrong,” he rasped.          

The speaker chuckled.  “It will still work, regardless.  Just give it a chance.”

Evandel did as he was told, easing back down and calming his breathing patterns.  He felt the tingle subside, and the potion’s grip on his lungs waned.  He took a deep breath, and sat back up. His vision slowly came into focus as the magic did its work.  The first thing he could make out was a light blue crystal suspended by a chain from a fixture on the wall, one of several such fixtures lining the room.  He was up against a wall on his left, and to the right a table and chairs in the corner.  He was sitting up on a comfortingly firm cot, still in his traveling gear, save for his boots.

Sitting in one of the chairs, drawn close to the bed, was a willowy figure, dressed in white robes trimmed in green.  Already Evandel could see the face that went with those robes he remembered so well.  Delicate, fine elven features framed by golden hair and brilliant emerald eyes. 

“Master Eltanor,” Evandel said, smiling.

“Well met, Deepseeker,” the elven master said.  “That was the fifth of those potions I’ve given you, over three days.  I am told you handled yourself well in your first real mage duel.”

“What am I doing here in Solreth?” Evandel asked, scrambling up from the bed.  “How did I . . . where are my friends?  What happened to Varcor?”

“Calm down, young fool,” Eltanor told him firmly.  “Patience is the path to knowledge, as you have been taught.”

Evandel nodded, and sat back down again.

“That’s better.  Your friends are fine.  Your female friend is already awake, not two hours before you.” 

“What about Bargo?”

Eltanor blinked.  “The knight?  There was nothing wrong with him, I assure you.”

“But he was surrounded,” Evandel pressed.

Eltanor shrugged.  “Everyone who came with you is fine now, though I was told that you had more friends when you left home.”

Evandel cringed, and felt a pang of guilt inside.  “That’s true.  I left the Cavern of Crystal with one less than I entered with.”

“You need not speak more of it.  As I have been told, there was nothing you could have done.  I would imagine that you have a clearer idea of how dangerous this mission is now, but I feel that you hardly need to be told that.”

“But how did I get here?” Evandel asked.  “Solreth is very far from the gnoll hills.  Did you bring me here?”

“Why would I have done that?” Eltanor said sharply.  “I had no reason to survey your actions, Deepseeker.  You are no longer my charge, and I have other students now.”

“Of course,” Evandel said, feeling silly for even thinking of it.

“In answer to your question, you were brought here by a mutual friend of ours.”

“Who?”

“He is waiting for you outside, why don’t you go and greet him?” Eltanor motioned toward the door, then looked back to his student.  “That is, if you are feeling better.”

Evandel’s curiosity overpowered his need to rest further, and he got to his feet, walking shakily out of the room.

“Forgetting something?”

Evandel looked back, and saw his old master holding his staff.  He almost shouted in surprise when he saw that the crystal on top of his staff was missing.

“Where’s the crystal gone?” he asked.

“According to your knight friend, it was in a thousand pieces.  Whatever magic you used to defeat your opponent must have caused it to shatter.” Eltanor’s eyes became disapproving.  “It would seem that you haven’t quite learned not to over-focus.”

Evandel sighed.  “Will you never forgive me for that incident?”

“Perhaps when the toes of my left foot are no longer numb,” Eltanor’s said, smirking wryly.  “Go, see your friends.  You’ll find them in the Great Hall.”

Evandel nodded respectfully, and took his staff from his old teacher.  Without hesitation he went from the room, intent on seeing his companions again.

Along the way, the young sorcerer found himself once again admiring the architecture of the interior of Solreth.  The outside was a castle in form, stark, stout, and imposing.  Each of the three buildings within the campus’ walls seemed identical in structure apart from size, but once you were inside one you knew where you were. 

The main building, Archtower, where the library and all classrooms were found seemed like a palace, with crystal inlaid pillars and tall pointed archways in the halls.  The rooms were lit by glowing crystals fixed to the wall and hung from the ceiling with ornate chandeliers and mountings.  The floor was dressed in fine red carpet, and the walls seemed coated in silver.  The whole of the interior seemed flowing and lightweight, as though suspended in the air.

The infirmary where he had woken up had been on the second floor of the main tower, and connected only to the outer halls of the complex, where most of the classrooms were.  The third floor held the laboratories and the fourth kept the library.  The only way into the first floor of the main tower was through the Great Hall.

The Great Hall of the Archtower was really as impressive as its name suggested.  A cathedral ceiling, stained glass windows, and a beautiful glass fountain made certain that this room would be the first thing anyone remembered about Solreth.  Its size also made it suitable for school assemblies and other such functions, and doubled as the school’s visitor’s center for those rare occasions when someone was allowed to visit.  Across from the main entrance were the double doors that led to the first floor of the main tower, the quarters of the Secondmaster.

Evandel scanned the vast, round room for his friends, and found them seated at the benches surrounding the glass fountain, joined by a great white horse with a long, windswept mane.

“Good of you to join us, Deepseeker,” Poerna said, his eyes smiling.

“Poerna!” Evandel said, delighted.  He rushed over to his friends, surveying their conditions as he did.  Bargo seemed fine save for rips and cuts on his tunic, but Deida had one arm in a sling and bandages on her knee and head.

“Finally awake!  I was getting worried!” Bargo said, standing up and clapping his friend on the shoulder.  Evandel nearly buckled, his legs not quite fully recovered, but smiled the entire time. 

Deida stood up and hugged her half-elf friend with her good arm, peering out from beneath a white linen crown.  “You must have really worn yourself out with that last spell.  It’s been three days since Poerna brought us here.”

“You three are lucky I came when I did,” Poerna told them.  “There were no less than two gnoll camps nearby where I found you.  If they had patrols, you would have been found very easily.”

“But how did we get away?” Evandel asked.  “I barely remember the spell I cast, so I could not say whether it even hit Varcor or not.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Bargo said in disbelief.  “You cleared the entire camp with that light!”

“Light?” Evandel said, half remembering the golden energy pouring out of his hands.  “It must have been the Sun Symbol,” he said after a moment’s thought.

“What do you mean?” Deida asked.

“People only have one principle, right?” Evandel explained.  “It’s nearly impossible for them to use any other kind of magic.  I couldn’t use air magic and you couldn’t use earth magic, for example.” 

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you cast a spell like that,” Deida said, rubbing her bandaged shoulder.  “You think the Sun Symbol gave you power over light magic?”

Evandel nodded.  “It would take something as powerful as an artifact to give someone power over another principle.  Something like that is unheard of.”

“Not unheard of,” Poerna stated.  The three friends turned to look at the wind horse questioningly.  “Long ago, there was a human sorceress named Illintra the Severed Soul.  She was afflicted shortly after birth with an illness that caused her mind to split into two personas.  She was an exception to others with this affliction in that when one personality was manifest she was a water principle, and when the other was active she was a fire principle.”

“What?” Evandel said.  His brow furrowed as he processed this information, shaking his head.  “That’s supposed to be impossible.”

“Yeah,” Bargo put in, his arms crossed.  “Even I know that someone can only resonate spiritually to one element.  That’s why it’s called a principle.”

Poerna chuckled.  “I know; that is what made Illintra so special.  Most say it was because of her split personality that she was able to become what she was, but others have theorized that her soul must have had the potential to wield fire and water before the disease broke her mind.”

“What are you saying, Po?” Bargo said.  “Is Ev like this Severed Soul lady?”

Poerna didn’t answer, but looked intently at the far side of the hall, beyond the fountain to the double doors.

“Where does that go, Ev?” Deida asked.

“The Secondmaster’s quarters,” Evandel answered.  “I only visited there once, after I froze Master Eltanor’s foot.”

“You actually did that?” Poerna said, distracted.  “I thought he was joking.”

“What about the Headmaster?” Deida said.

“I didn’t get to look around, but it looked to be just him in there.”  Evandel looked to Poerna.  “You’re saying Secondmaster Arcael has this knowledge?”

“Go in and see him, he’s waiting for you,” Poerna told him.  He then looked to Deida and Bargo.  “Why don’t you go and fetch some food from the mess hall for Deepseeker?  I would assume he’s hungry by now.”

Deida nodded, putting a reassuring hand on Bargo’s shoulder.  The tall man shrugged and started toward the main door with her, giving Evandel one final look as they left.

Evandel came up to the doors of the first floor, and peered over his shoulder at the wind horse behind him.  Poerna’s eyes urged him to go forward, and Evandel steeled himself for whatever might lie ahead.

Inside the Secondmaster’s quarters was just how Evandel remembered it.  Shelves kept in perfect meticulous order lined the walls, stocked with books, potions, wands, staves, herbs, scrolls, and many more devices that Evandel couldn’t even identify.  The carpeted floor bore a simple, elegant design, and the room felt mostly empty, save for the far side.  Three chairs, evenly spaced, stood in front of a monumental desk, organized by the nature of the objects that sat on top, with alchemical apparatus on the far left and mechanical devices on the right. 

Sitting on the far side of the desk, hardly able to rest his hands in front of him on the table-like desk, was a hawk faced, eagle eyed gnome, with stark white hair and sideburns, and brown eyes that bore all the knowledge of the ancient stone.

“Evandel of Tyhal,” Secondmaster Arcael addressed in his stern, squeaky voice.  “You’re late.”

“My apologies, Secondmaster,” Evandel said quickly, giving a short bow.  “I was unaware of your request.”

The Secondmaster stood up in his chair, and walked down the center of the table, kept clear for this very reason.  He took a pensive stance, stroking the tuft of white beard on his chin.  “However, you were also unconscious when I requested your presence. I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any. Well, that’s not what’s important.”

“Thank you, Secondmaster,” Evandel said.  “Why have you requested my presence?”

“I asked for your presence only on behalf of the Headmaster,” Arcael said.  “He wants to see you as soon as humanly or elvenly possible.”

Evandel felt his throat tighten and his face drain.  In all his years at Solreth, no one had been accorded the honor – or horror – of meeting the Headmaster.  No student had ever seen him, as his only presence in the school was through the Secondmaster.  The teachers did not speak of him, to the students or to each other, as though he could be listening in on what they might say.  Evandel was fairly sure he never even heard his name or what his race was.

“Is something the matter, Evandel?” Arcael said, looking at him curiously, one furry eyebrow arched high.

“No sir,” Evandel said, trying to steady his breathing.  “I am honored to be able to meet the Headmaster.”

Arcael nodded.  “Very well, you’ll find his quarters below.”

Evandel blinked.  “Below?”

Arcael said nothing, but climbed off his desk over to the shelves, where he grabbed a blue and silver scepter off of its mounting.  The moment he did, the desk in front of Evandel shuddered, knocking over several empty potion bottles.  The massive table-desk levitated on its own, until its contents brushed against the ceiling.  In its shadow, a large hatch was visible, just small enough to be concealed by the massive desk.  The Secondmaster waved the scepter and the hatch opened revealing a spiraling staircase that sank forever into the darkness. 

Arcael handed the scepter to Evandel, and waved his hand over the top.  A bright light sprang forth from the empty sconce on top, and the white haired gnome motioned briskly to the stairs.

“Do not tarry, for until you return all the equipment I need to do my work will be on the ceiling.”

Evandel nodded, unable to make his words work for him.  Tentatively, he began to descend the staircase, and soon enough he could barely see the light from the crystals in the Secondmaster’s chambers.

The air grew damp as he continued downward, as though a great source of water was nearby.  Given that the grounds of Solreth were practically on top of a lake, this was hardly so odd. The smell of wet masonry and green life greeted his nose as he stepped onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs.  From the light of his scepter, he could see all kinds of lichen and mosses growing on the walls and floor.  A great archway opened up part of the cylindrical room to a hallway, which had long veins of luminous fungi lighting the walls.  At the end of this hall stood a door with a light coming from behind, clearly the door to the Headmaster’s chambers.  It was nothing more than a simple wooden door, but it frightened Evandel more than anything he had encountered so far.  He knew where he stood with gnolls and malfunctioning constructs, but he couldn’t even begin to expect what was beyond this simple door.

He decided to knock first, not knowing if he was meant to come right in or to follow some sort of protocol.  He rapped once on the wood hesitantly, then twice more a little more confidently.  He kept telling himself that he would soon have some of the answers he sought, that perhaps all that happened in the past few weeks would finally make sense.  But his heart still beat forcefully in his chest, and his hands seemed to quiver if he didn’t curl them into fists.

At first he heard nothing, just the drip of water from the ceiling.  Then a loud sound as though a battering ram crashed into the wall nearly shook Evandel from his feet.  This was followed quickly by what he could only assume was the growling roar of some beast.

“Headmaster?” Evandel called out, moving closer to the door.  “Are you alright?”

The growl suddenly became a more humanlike voice, albeit deeper and significantly louder.  “Yes, who’s there?”

“I am Evandel, sir,” Evandel said, stopping himself before he bowed to the door.

“Oh!  Oh my, I must have dozed off…” the voice trailed away, and Evandel heard a rumbling of what sounded like grating stone.  “Where are you, boy?”

“Outside the door,” Evandel said.

There was a pause, and the voice chuckled.  “Well, don’t just stand out there, come in here!”

Evandel had to force his hand steady to wrap it around the door handle, and had to muster all of his courage before he pushed the door open.  He did not want his first and probably last meeting with the Headmaster to begin with him shaking like an apprentice casting his first spell.

This no longer became a problem, for as soon as he opened the door no thoughts of movement could replace his terror.

The door revealed a cavernous, blue stone room, lit by a magnificent chandelier.  The room was domed and held up by six gargantuan stone pillars.  The walls were covered by carvings that seemed to shift in the light.  This was all easily more impressive than the Great Hall, but the most incredible thing he had ever seen sat in the center of the breathtaking room.

A dragon of bronze scales and ocean blue eyes sat very properly in the middle of the pillars, wings folded and a gentle smile on his face.

“What were you expecting?” he said, his deep voice full of humor.  “I’ll bet it wasn’t this!”

“Y…You’re the headmaster?” Evandel managed to stutter when he finally found his voice.

“I bet now you understand why I never show up at school assemblies,” the great bronze dragon in the middle of the room said, smirking.  “Of course, other than the logistics of actually entering the great hall, I would probably have all the first years looking just like you are right about now.”

Evandel did his best to compose himself, and managed to look the huge creature right in the eye, and with a steady voice and short bow, say, “I’ve come as you requested, Headmaster.”

The big dragon nodded.  “Yes, and much faster than I had thought you’d make it.”

Evandel blinked.  “I was told you ordered me to come as soon as I got here.”

“And here you are.”

“But I’ve been unconscious since I was brought here three days ago.”

The dragon paused, his face twisted in confusion for a moment, but then something dawned on his features.  “My, but that was a long nap.”

“Did I wake you?” Evandel asked, a picture forming in his mind of the big dragon hitting his head against a pillar when he opened the door.

“Yes, well, you were sleeping too,” the dragon said, almost defensively.

“I over focused a spell using energy not of my principle,” Evandel said slyly, “what’s your excuse?”

“Let’s see how long you stay awake at one hundred and fifty!” the dragon retorted huffily, and Evandel laughed.  The dragon smiled again.  “I guess you’ve loosened up a little, then?”

Evandel started to answer, but stopped as it dawned on him that he was conversing lightly with a reptile large enough to eat him whole.  It occurred to him how wonderfully personable this dragon seemed to be, and how very contrary that was to how he had previously understood dragons.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” he answered. 

“Good!  This will be much easier if you know I don’t intend to eat you.”  The dragon laid himself down on his side, taking a more rested position.  “I understand you have some questions for me, Deepseeker?”

Evandel started to say something, but his nickname caught him off guard.  “How do you …”

“Know that name?” the dragon grinned.  “We’ll get to that later, as it is not as pressing as your other inquiries.”

Evandel eyed him curiously.   As far as he knew, only Poerna, his mother, and Master Eltanor knew that name.  But Evandel nodded, knowing that there were indeed more urgent at hand.  “Yes, Headmaster.”

“Mychaelos,” the dragon said.  Evandel looked at him curiously, and he said, “Arcael must call me Headmaster, but you are more like Eltanor.  I would like you to use my true name.”

“Eltanor uses your true name?” Evandel asked, his eyes wide.

Mychaelos nodded.  “It’s his prerogative.  He is older than I am after all.”

The half-elf was surprised at first, but it wasn’t too farfetched to believe.  Mychaelos admitted to being one hundred and fifty, relatively young for a dragon, and not even middle age for an elf.  It was entirely possible that Eltanor was older than this dragon.  “I see.”

“While you might not be older . . . let’s just say that you outrank me in other respects for now.”

“I think I’m ready to start asking questions,” Evandel said, somewhat irritated.  “After all, you seem determined to make me ask them.”

“As you wish,” Mychaelos chuckled. 

“Let’s start with something simple,” Evandel said.  “How did you know I wanted to ask you questions?”

“You told me, didn’t you?” Mychaelos asked.  When Evandel shook his head, the big dragon sighed, and leaned his head on his front paw.  “Fair enough, you catch on well.  You have met those whose auras allow them to see things that are not before them.  I believe your mother’s aura is a derivative of this skill, no?  Well, I am blessed with a similar skill, only instead of seeing past distances, I can see through time.”

“You’re a Seer?”

“Yes.  Some find this gift to be extremely rare, but I maintain that the future and the past are already before us, and only patience will reveal what is truly to come.  What I see are the ultimate ends of the paths we choose to take.”

“So this gift is limited to what happens at the time?”

Mychaelos looked thoughtful.  “Yes and no.  I suppose that the happenings of the present are always affecting the future, but there are some things that are inevitable, that only a cataclysm of enormous proportions could alter.”

Evandel considered this.  “I believe I understand.  You see the possibilities of these inevitable events and use them to see how they affect the Winding Paths.”

“You are possessed of more cognitive skill than most,” Mychaelos beamed.  “It’s rather difficult thing to understand.  Though that is not the entirety of the process – and I don’t think even I could give you that – you seem to have the gist of it.”

“Thank you,” Evandel said.  “Now for a tougher one.  What exactly is the Prophecy of Unity?  I was informed of the bare bones of it, but I wish to know more about it.”

Mychaelos appeared concerned for a moment.  “You do not know?  No one has ever told you?”  He stopped himself, then calmly nodded.  “Yes, I see.  No one else knew for certain.  Indeed, how many truly know?” 

“Headmaster?”  Evandel asked, not understanding his distress.

“Never mind that now, my boy,” Mychaelos said, sitting up once again and clearing his throat.  “I had hoped that someone would have explained it better before you met me, but I see now that things were never clear to anyone about who you really are.  You are in luck, however, for you will now learn of the Prophecy from its source.”  He waved a claw toward the walls of the chamber, indicating the pictographs and runes upon it. 

“This is the Prophecy?” Evandel walked up to the wall, placing his hand to the carvings, feeling the time worn edges.  One look at the runes told him that it was written in none of the mortal languages.  “I cannot read this, these runes are unfamiliar.”

“Well you’ll just have to follow along with the pictures,” Mychaelos said, and waved his claw once more.  The runes and carvings began to glow with a soft white light.  “In order to understand any story, you need to start from the beginning.  The tale begins with the Betrayer, four thousand years ago:

"Among the utmost of heroes was Jaredon, born of Vainemar.  He was granted the powers of a dragon when he was very young to give them a voice among the other peoples of the world.  Due to his great strength, he became the first of the Knight Errants early in life, serving under the first of the Valora kings.  He and his company won many battles, and no foe went undefeated.

In his travels, he discovered that the dragons he represented were hoarding the power of magic from the rest of the world, keeping it in the Prosperi Crystal, only sharing it with the ones they deemed worthy.  He petitioned his lords, saying that the gods had meant for this power to belong to everyone.  The dragons refused, claiming that the younger races did not have the discipline required to wield magic properly.  In his outrage, he destroyed the crystal, declaring that no one would defy the plans of the gods.  With no place for the released magic to go, the energies were absorbed into the air, the earth, and the water, spreading far and wide.  Soon all life became infused with this power, becoming what is now known as aura magic.

However, not all of the gods were happy with Jaredon’s decision.  Because magic was no longer as powerful as it once was, Ordanos, the god of darkness and keeper of magic, had his power considerably weakened by this man’s rash behavior.  The oldest of the gods released a terrible monster upon the world, solely to destroy the one called a hero.  Jaredon, now infused with both dragon magic and aura magic, destroyed the creature with but one word, unmaking it completely. 

Enraged, Ordanos descended upon Kayledon, intent on destroying the World Hero.  But even the might of a god could not stop Jaredon, and after a terrible battle that left the land in ruins, he declared that the greed of the god of darkness made him unfit for godhood, and struck him a mortal blow.  Before his end, Ordanos told Jaredon that he was now a betrayer of the gods, and that his betrayal was worse a crime than anything perpetrated by the dragons.  The god of magic banished the World Hero to a shadowy prison plane, to serve as a punishment and to save the world from the terror that Jaredon had become. 

From his blackened cell, the hero besought the other gods for their intervention, claiming he strove only to do their work.  But out of fear, anger, or in the name of balance, the gods and goddesses denied his plea.  Anger consumed Jaredon, twisting his form with the darkness around him.  All he fought to protect had betrayed him.  His powers grew with time, and soon he created new beings, and called them demonica, from the ancient term for chaos.  He who had once done the gods work now sought to destroy that which they had created, to corrupt the world to his own vision of perfection.  He named himself Jarexellion, from the ancient word for absolute, and his home the Darkplane, the home of demons."

“What?” Evandel exclaimed.  “This Jaredon made the Darkplane?”

“And everything in it,” Mychaelos said frowning.  “He is far more powerful than anyone knows; even the demons he created do not know exactly what he is.  The balance he disrupted has never been repaired.”

“What does this being have to do with the Prophecy of Unity?” Evandel asked, fearful of the answer.

“I’m getting to that,” Mychaelos reassured him.  “The next part of this tale comes almost four millennia later, with the Deceived. 

"Jarexellion and his brood were trapped in the prison plane, but that could not stop a being such as he from watching and affecting the mortal world.  The Master of the Chaos Children needed only for someone to open a way to his home, then he could return to implement his dark plans.  However, the power of magic had waned with the shattering of the Prosperi Crystal, and no one had the magical might to open such a doorway.  So in the dark he waited, biding his time and marshalling his forces.  Demons grew in power and numbers, some even claiming lordship over parts of Jarexellion’s prison.  The fallen hero made no attempt to stop them, knowing that the best minions were the ones that thought they had power.

Ages passed, and the world – and the magic that now bound it – was healing once again.  Jarexellion knew his time was coming, and searched for a powerful wielder of magic.  The dark king found what he was looking for, a sorceress with incredible magical potential.  This was to be the bringer of the Demon Horde.

Through observation, the wicked Jarexellion found the one the sorceress most loved, and poisoned him with darkness.  He watched as they fought desperately to stop the curse magic over many long, torturous months, but the power of the Demonfather could not be undone, and the sorceress’ lover died.  In trying to defeat the curse, her magic – her mind – came into contact with the Fallen Hero’s influence.  Evil Jarexellion then leaned down and whispered to the sorceress’ id, implanting dreams of resurrection, filling her subconscious with lies.  In her grief wracked state, she was more than susceptible to the dark little voice in her mind. 

The more she searched for the power to bring back her beloved, the more she was blind to the plans of the corrupted hero.  He made her believe that the strange darkness which took her lover held him still, that he could be reached on the Darkplane.  But when she tried to open the portal, Jarexellion seized her spell, forcing open several gates on the plane and sending forth his children, and the sorceress could only watch in horror.  But before Jarexellion himself could come through the gate, another hero, Crovas of Faarthusia, managed to close the gate.  The damage was done, but Jarexellion would have to wait for his return."

“I get it,” Evandel said.  “That’s how the Horde appeared in many places at once from just one portal.”

Mychaelos nodded again.  “As you probably know, it was also Crovas Voldur who started the first mass counter attack against the demons, and he knew where to go from being with the sorceress when she tried to open the gate.”

“But how does Unity fit into this?” Evandel asked.

“Unity was the name of a band of twelve individuals, six heroes and six guardians, some of which you have had contact with.  They were the leaders of the battle against the Horde, each powerful in their own right.  They are described in the Valiant."

"With the surge of evil into the world the powers of good rose to the challenge.  The paladin Warrane sought out others of great stature to stand with him against the Demon Horde.  Crovas Voldur, king of the orcs was the first to join him on his mission, an outstanding warrior as well as a fire master.  The archer, Kathil, came to him from Shae’Ildarae, carrying the hopes of the elves with him. Harog, the humble dwarven smith, traveled to him from the Underkingdom of Urdor.  In Vainemar he found the Master Burglar Quinn, founder of the Glory Seekers, willing to lend his talents to the fight.  Illintra the Severed Soul, a sorceress of unique power, was also willing to aid his endeavors. 

Not just the civilized peoples of the world were prepared to help stop the demons.  The Red Lady and the Farseer, two true dragons, offered their assistance to the paladin, as well as Borody, the stone giant.  Of the noble asperi came Poerna, who served for the time as Warrane’s sacred companion.  Azastica the rainbow serpent came to them from distant lands, wishing to quell the demonic threat before it could spread.   Even a demon, Lyxas the nightmare, joined their cause out of revenge.

Together, they made their way to the stronghold of the one demon lord who made it through the gate, ironically one of the only ones that knew of Jarexellion’s true powers and intentions.  Azastica was able to read the demon’s mind before he was vanquished and warn them of the true threat.  The Farseer looked forward in time and discovered what became known as the Prophecy of Unity.

One day, another would indeed open the gates to the Darkplane once more, but the Twinsouls, two beings of balance, would come to the world of Kayledon to counteract the darkness.  They would assume the forms of mortal children, to be granted and inspired by the gods who sponsored their stay in this realm.  One would be chosen of Taelri, the Deepseeker, and the other of Faarthus, the Flamesoul, and both would bear the mark of their sponsored gods.  Once together again, they, and those who stood with them, would be all that stood in the path of Jarexellion.

The rest of Unity decided that they would aid the Twinsouls and their allies, who would save their world as they had.  Knowing that time would take most of them, they put a portion of their power in to artifacts crafted by Harog.  These precious items were entrusted to the guardians, the six immortal beast heroes of Kayledon.  Only the chosen ones would be granted these relics during the approach of darkness."

Evandel fought hard to remember to draw breath.  His mind worked furiously, putting pieces together that finally fit.  He tried to focus his vision, but his eyes would not relax.  He clenched his staff tightly, feeling more alone in the world than he ever had.

“This is . . . who I am?” Evandel said after a long silence. 

“Yes, Deepseeker,” Mychaelos smiled softly.  “I cannot tell you how happy I am to finally speak with you, Favored of Taelri.  From the moment I first found you, I knew that you were above and beyond what I had expected.”

“You are the Farseer, then?” he asked.  “You’re a guardian?”  The big dragon nodded.  “I see.  You wrote the Prophecy of Unity, and took a position that would best allow you to find the Twinsouls.”

“And people say I have insight,” Mychaelos chuckled.  “Not difficult to expect from one blessed by the goddess of knowledge.”

Evandel took a deep breath, and touched the back of his right hand, tracing the eye in the crystal with his middle finger.  “I knew I was different, but . . .”

“What is it?” the dragon asked.

“What does it mean, a ‘being of balance’?  I wasn’t orphaned as a child?  Did I simply appear out of nowhere?” Evandel said, his clarity driving his frustration.  “What am I?”

“Does it matter?”  The beast before him asked bluntly.  Evandel leveled a questioning glare at him.  “If I was able to explain what the Twinsouls are, what would you do differently?”

Evandel paused, unsure of what to say.  In his heart, he knew that nothing would change, but he wanted to know the truth.  In the end, he lowered his head and said nothing.

Mychaelos sighed, putting his other paw up to cradle his head and furrowing his brow.  “In all fairness, no one knows exactly what the Twinsouls are, just that they came from a distant realm to maintain an indescribable cosmic balance.  When you are reunited with your brother, you will become more powerful than anything else, rivaling the might of even Jarexellion.  That is all I know about Twinsoul.

“But it is not all I know about you.”  Mychaelos said, fixing him with a knowing look.  Evandel raised his head again, curious.   “I could tell you who you really are, but you should already know.”

“I don’t understand,” Evandel said.

“You have done the work of good ever since you arrived here,” the dragon explained.  “When you came to Siali of Tyhal, you filled an empty part of her life she thought she would never fill.  You were a friend to those who were outcast as you were.  You became a sorcerer of Solreth, accomplished through your own power.  And lastly, because of your unique existence, you saved many people in your village from the corrupt energy at the Festival of Dawn’s Blessing.  You truly are something incredible, above and beyond what you must be, a real hero.”

Evandel’s heart swelled to hear those words.  Without realizing it, he had already done things that not many people – and in some cases, no one else – could do.  He had not thought it much at the time, but how would things have turned out had he not been there? 

“I can’t say that I knew that already,” Evandel said, but the dragon pointed at him with a claw that was easily as long as a large sword, silencing him.

“There’s no need to be modest,” Mychaelos grinned.  “You know just how honorable you really are.  Why else would a knight errant, a Kathilasi, and a distinguished treasure hunter be willing to give you their aid?  You’ve earned this title already, and you haven’t even saved the world.”

Evandel waved his hand dismissively, blushing.  “Alright already, I get it.  But there are some other questions that still need answering.”

Mychaelos nodded in deference.  “As you wish.”

“Poerna told me just before I came here of Illintra, and how she and I have two auras.  He said you could explain it?”

“Ah, of course.  You are a water principle, but you were able to tap into the Sun Symbol’s holy power.  This is because you possess a dual principle, just as Illintra, but under different circumstances.”

“Yes, Poerna told me a disease split her mind and aura in two.”

Mychaelos arched and eyebrow.  “Did he?  Well, tell him he was wrong.”

Evandel balked at those words.

“Illintra was born with two auras, but they manifested at the same time, and that was too much strain for her mind,” he explained calmly to Evandel’s surprised expression.  “It was her aura that broke her mind, though Warrane was able to heal her shattered psyche.  Though rare, it is entirely possible for one to have a dual aura.”

“So why didn’t I go crazy when my second aura manifested?”  Evandel asked.

“That would be because you have always had two auras, due to your nature as a Twinsoul and chosen of Taelri.”  Evandel’s silence prompted him to continue.  “It is my belief that you are the half of the Twinsoul that is linked to light, and as you are favored by Taelri, you have water magic also tied to your being.  Therefore, you are adept at mastering both principles, and your mind subconsciously chose the easier of the two auras to master first.”

“Why isn’t this information part of the regular curriculum?” Evandel said, flustered.  “That would have explained a lot earlier.”

The dragon laughed, the deep booming sound echoing around the relatively small chamber.  “Is that an earnest question?” he said when his mirth subsided.

Evandel shook his head.  “No, but I would like to ask about the prophecy again.”

“Oh?” Mychaelos looked confused. “I thought I explained it quite well.”

“Yes, but I just want to know, how much of that prophecy is known to those who know it?”

Mychaelos settled back.  “Very few actually know the whole story.  Most who know it know only that two chosen and their allies will save the world from great darkness.  You might call it the abridged prophecy.”

“But why the deception?”  Evandel asked.  “Why hide the Twinsouls?”

The dragon said nothing for a moment, just looked expectantly at the sorcerer.  “Are you sure you don’t know?  Not going to answer your own question?”

Evandel crossed his arms, about to give a sarcastic retort, but then ended up thinking about his question.  What made the Farseer hide the truth?

“Do you want a hint?” the dragon joked.

“If no one knew about Twinsoul,” Evandel said, unraveling the enigma in his mind, “then no one would suspect two orphans appearing out of nowhere . . . but why does that matter?”  He thought back to when he returned to his village, all the things he remembered when he saw his mother and his friends again.

At that moment, his thoughts clicked, the light of truth shining in his eyes.  He looked up to the dragon, who seemed to know what he was thinking.  Evandel smiled genuinely, as though joy had never found him before.  “You may have done more for us than all of Unity combined.”

“Just wait until you see some of their presents before you come to that conclusion,” Mychaelos said, smiling wryly.  Evandel started to explain himself, but the dragon held up a bronze paw.  “There’s no need to tell me, as long as you know why.”

Evandel nodded.  He felt a swelling of powerful energy inside him.  Nothing like magic, but a feeling of truth and purpose that brought justice to all that had happened to him in the past few weeks.  “I’m ready now,” he said.  “I owe it all to you.”  He bowed graciously, and turned to leave. 

The dragon cleared his throat, and Evandel turned around to see the dragon stand back up.  “I owe you more than you can ever know, Deepseeker.”  The bronze dragon started to approach the half-elf, and lifting his forelimb to his chest, and bowing humbly as a dragon can.  “I simply returned the favor you and your brother gave me.  But we are not done here.  You must come with me.”  He extended his bronze paw to the sorcerer.  “Climb on, and hold tight.”

Evandel did what he was told, stepping onto Mychaelos’ back and settling at the base of his serpentine neck.  Once he was comfortable, the bronze dragon’s paw reached up.  “Mind if I borrow your staff, Deepseeker?”  Evandel relinquished his weapon, his staff now looking like a twig in Mychaelos’ grasp.  The dragon reached up to the base of the chandelier, and Evandel watched as he prodded the staff into the base for a few moments, as though searching for something.  Seeming to find the right spot, Mychaelos pushed the staff into the ceiling, completely out of view. 

“Excuse me,” Evandel spoke up.  “How do I get that back?”

“Without a crystal it was useless anyway, right?” Mychaelos offered.  “Besides, you’re about to get a new one.”

Before the sorcerer could reply, a rumbling sound of grating rock shook the entire room.  The floor in the center where Mychaelos had been laying opened up, revealing a dark pit of water beneath. 

“You can work your aura without a staff, yes?” the dragon asked.  Evandel nodded, remembering that some sorcerers became dependant on the crystal focus on their staves and their magic without it was much weaker.  “I don’t suppose you can breathe underwater, so you may want to fix that now.”

Evandel barely had time to gather the necessary energy for the spell before the bronze dragon dove into the shadowy pool.  He quickly channeled the power to his mouth, where any water that entered would be broken down into breathable air.  He tightened his grip as Mychaelos’ wings pumped, just as useful in water as in air.  The dragon spread his great claws, and Evandel could see a translucent webbing stretch in between the fingers.  Pushing now with both wings and paws, dragon and half-elf soared through a water-filled tunnel, finally bursting out of the cave and into open water. 

Still holding tight, Evandel peered around, taking in the surroundings.  Never would he have imagined the brilliant colors and beautiful creatures that lay beneath the water!  Fish of all sizes, shapes and colors scattered before the approaching pair, and long, shimmering grasses waved about in the dragon’s wake.  Evandel had to wonder if they had somehow entered another world from the cave.

Evandel looked up, seeing the sunlight glittering above him, reflected by a dozen watery shards of glass.  It dawned on him then, they were beneath the lake north of Solreth, speeding toward the center.  But to Evandel’s knowledge, the center of the lake held a ruined old library, supposedly haunted.

Evandel felt the pressure change, and realized they were nearing the lake’s surface.  With a rush and a roar of water, air and light, they broke the surface, just high enough that his wings were above the water level, leaving Evandel about chest deep. Mychaelos shook his head roughly, spraying water everywhere.

They were at the middle now, in front of a broken shell of a building that seemed to float on the water’s surface.  It had probably once been a great tower, but now the top was shattered and broken, leaving whatever was inside exposed to the elements.  Around the outside was a staircase, spiraling from the base of the tower to the top.

“What caused this place to become ruined?” Evandel asked.

Mychaelos grinned over his shoulder.  “Nothing.  This is how it’s supposed to look.” 

Evandel looked at him shrewdly.  “You keep something here, don’t you?”

Mychaelos said nothing, just swam over to the stairs, prompting Evandel to start climbing.  As soon as he got off, Mychaelos dove back underwater.  Shaking his head at the dragon’s games, he began climbing the stairs.  At the top, he found nothing but an empty hole, going far beneath the water’s surface.  He surmised that the appearance of the tower floating on the water was merely an illusion, and that it went farther down than he realized. 

Coming to that conclusion, it was with incredible trepidation that he stepped off the stairway and plummeted into the darkness.

A great blast of air rushed up to greet him, slowing his fall and steadying his descent.  Evandel breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he was right but at the same time ready to pelt Mychaelos with hail the size of an ogre’s fist for not telling him what to expect.

He slowly dropped through the length of the tower, into what appeared to be an underwater cave much like the hall before the chamber where he met Mychaelos, but lit with crystals instead of glowing fungus. 

His jaw dropped when he saw the floor was covered with more treasure than he had seen before in one place.  Most of it was gold, giant piles of coins from which protruded all manner of jewelry and artwork, full suits of armor, swords of every conceivable make and length, and, disconcertingly, the bones of those who did not survive the fall.

In one end of the cave was a sort of carved out series of shelves, housing a great store of books of varying size.  Opposite the books was a large pool, out of which stuck a beaming bronze dragon leaning on his paw.

“What do you think?” Mychaelos said, his deep voice surprisingly light.  He sounded almost like a child showing off his first copper piece to all his friends.  “I’m rather proud of it, especially my blade collection; it took a long time to build it into what it is.”

Evandel was almost convinced that the person before him was not who he came here with.  It seemed that just being near the treasure transformed the wise dragon into a giant, excitable hatchling.  “It’s incredible.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Mychaelos said, beaming brighter.  “You’re the first person to see this place in a very long time, and only one other person ever saw it.”

“I’d heard dragons collected treasure, but this exceeded what I expected,” Evandel said, looking around again.  A question popped into his mind, and it was so delightfully absurd he had to ask it.  “What do you need it for?”

The large dragon looked as though he had been stuck in the foot with a spear.  “I’ll have you know this hoard is the result of hard work and endless searching!  I’ve spent two thirds of my lifetime to get this far, and it is worth more than most people will ever see in their entire lifetimes!”

“But what is it for?” Evandel reiterated, not daunted by the dragon’s outburst.  “You apparently don’t spend it, and it seems like it would just attract visitors,” he gestured to the skeletons under the entrance, “so what does it do for you?”

Mychaelos stared for a long time at the insubordinate half-elf, and Evandel could almost see his mind working furiously behind his eyes.  The deep blue eyes lit up as he seemed to have found the answer: “Where else am I going to sleep?”

Evandel restrained his laughter and walked over to the pile with blades sticking out of it, mostly sticking upward and obviously arranged for display.  He gestured to it and looked over to the dragon dryly.

“Well I don’t sleep there!” the dragon said in exasperation, and Evandel burst into laugher.  The ruffled dragon grumbled loudly and crossed his front paws indignantly.  “Isn’t that just typical; you show someone your favorite hobby and they turn it into a joke.”

“My apologies,” Evandel said, still chuckling.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.  What was it you wanted to show me?”

Mychaelos nodded, assuming his calmer demeanor, and climbed out of the pool.  He walked calmly to a pile of gold and sifted through it with one paw.  He grasped onto something, and gently removed it from the pile, almost reverently.  Evandel couldn’t help but suspect that his gentleness was as much in respect of the object as it was so he wouldn’t disturb the pile.

What he removed was a slender staff of intricate carvings, painted white with silver set into the runes that were set in a spiral fashion down its length.  The bottom was capped with a metal covering, and the top was an ornate silver fixture that resembled a wave cresting in all directions.

“It’s . . .” Evandel started, but the breathtaking majesty of the piece made words seem pale.  “That is for me?”  He now felt truly ashamed of himself for his jests earlier.

“I had it fashioned long ago, for the one who stole my heart.” He bowed his head, almost sad.  “She gave it back to me when she died, saying that she wanted it to go to the Twinsoul.”  He passed the staff to Evandel, who held it carefully, testing its weight and stroking the carvings.  He recognized some of the runes as similar to ones on the wall in the cavern.  He was about to ask what they meant when Mychaelos walked past him, over to the wall with all the books. 

From a nearby pile, he pulled out a wooden chest with a truly enormous padlock.  Evandel wondered what kind of key could open a lock like that.  He was answered when Mychaelos leaned down and took the lock in his jaws and bit down, severing it like he was biting through a carrot.  Evandel gulped hard, truly glad that all the horror stories he heard about dragons as a child were misleading.

“In here is the other half of her gift to you.”

Evandel came toward him and looked to the chest, then back to the dragon.  Mychaelos nodded, urging him onward.  The half-elf lifted up the lid only a crack, and soft blue light shone out.  He opened it all the way to reveal an ovoid crystal, completely smooth like the most exquisite pearl.

“This is the Serenity Sapphire,” Mychaelos said, “which once belonged to Illintra Redwater.”

Evandel understood so much more from that one sentence than he learned from his entire visit with the big bronze.  He knew why he was standing in a treasure room that now only the dead had seen before, why Mychaelos had done everything that he had for the half-elf.

He silently lifted the gem, which felt curiously soft.  As he brought it closer he could see that it had a cushion of water all around it, and his touch sent light ripples along its surface.  He placed it on top of his new staff, setting it in the middle of the circular wave.  Its glow ceased as he did so, the soft radiance of the light-crystals on the walls all that kept the room from darkness.

“My task as a guardian is done,” Mychaelos said.  “I would ask, however, that if you need any more questions answered, you will come to me first, if at all possible.  It’s the least I can do now.”

Evandel nodded.  In truth, there was much more he would ask, about the dragon, Unity, and many other things.  But he did not have the luxury of time, and he already knew where to find the rest of the artifacts.  He felt closer to this dragon than to most of the people he met in his life, as though he knew him from a time and place older than them all.

Mychaelos laid himself down.  “I do hope you understand why I cannot keep you.”

“There is much to be done to stop the Betrayer,” Evandel said, placing his marked hand to the Sun Symbol.  “I will try for the Moon Glyph next, it’s closest.”

Mychaelos looked at him urgently.  “No, you must not go there now.  The only safe road to it lies through Faarthusia, and you must avoid the orcs’ homeland at all costs.”

“I understand,” Evandel said, remembering Zaken’s warning.  “I trust your wisdom.”

“You would be better off heading in the other direction, for Eldrina and Urdor,” Mychaelos said.  “Your friends would benefit from the air and earth artifacts, after all.”

Evandel smiled, not needing to ask how he knew his friends.  “I will come back, Farseer.  There is much more I wish to know, at another time.”

“I will be glad to see you again, Deepseeker,” Mychaelos said, almost sadly.

Evandel came over to Mychaelos, who extended his paw to lift him to his back.  Evandel ignored the gesture and walked straight to the dragon’s chest and did his best to put his arms around the base of the dragon’s neck.  Mychaelos simply returned the gesture gently with one paw. 

After he returned from the island, and he was walking up the stair to the Secondmaster’s quarters, he wondered what had made him embrace the dragon.  He could only conclude that it was his only way to repay the true gift he granted him.

He had given Evandel courage, as Evandel had given him hope.