Page 34 of The Truth

“That is something I’d pay all my coin to see.”

“You don’t have any coin, Salara.”

The young elf gave him a flat stare, then turned back to Aeson and Atara below.

“Atara Anthalin is perhaps the greatest blade in all Epheria. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that her sword would rest against my throat.”

“But you are the First Sword?”

“Indeed.” Below, Atara moved in front of Aeson, lifting his blade and tucking his elbow in with the flat of her steel. He rested a hand on Salara’s shoulder. “I must take my leave. Join Atara and young Aeson in their forms.”

Salara looked back at him with incredulity. “But I was going to fly with Vyrmír. I’m tired, Master.”

Eltoar smiled at that, not turning his gaze from the pair below. “Have Vyrmír join you, as Lyara does. It will do him well to see through your eyes.” Eltoar turned his gaze to his apprentice. “Greatness is defined by what we do while others rest, Salara. It is forged in the moments that would break us. I believe in you. I believe that you can be a Draleid whose name echoes in time. But only if you are willing to sacrifice in your pursuit of that greatness. You will rarely be called to act when you are well rested.”

Salara looked back at him like a deer caught in the sights of a dragon.

“Apologies,” Eltoar said, shaking his head. “My mind is in a pensive place, young apprentice. When your body screams at you to stop, when your muscles ache and your bones tire, when your mind tells you that you have nothing left to give – that is when it is most important that you charge forwards with every fibre of your being. As Draleid, we must always strive to be stronger. It is never enough to simply be. Now go, I will see you for supper and a warm bath for your muscles.”

Chapter Ten

Whatever the Cost

Fane sat on the floor of the drawing room with his legs crossed and Duran Linold’s notes open on a stand in front of him. A pot of ink sat on his right with a journal at his side.

The Spark thrummed in his veins, threads of Fire, Air, and Spirit weaving through the ink and scribing his notes into the journal as he read.

He didn’t blame anyone for dismissing Duran Linold’s ramblings as insanity. The man wrote of wars that had never happened and of people and places that did not exist. But that was precisely why Fane had required the original text. He needed to ensure that nothing had been omitted by any overzealous scholar or Exucendi. That tended to happen far more often than not with transcriptions of old works. And, as he read through Duran’s original writings for the twenty-seventh time, he could categorically say the liberties taken with the transcriptions for this particular work had been most egregious.

Among the omissions were no fewer than forty-seven mentions of battles, thirty-eight names, and eighty-six entire pages, including whole sections that documented the first landing back around three hundred years After Doom. Not to mention whatever Scholar took it upon themselves to transcribe the work seemed to take pleasure in obfuscating every thought that left Duran’s mind to make him seem even more insane.

Fane waved a thread of Air and turned the page, focusing on the same passage that had stood out to him on every read, a passage omitted from the transcriptions.

It was his eyes. Always the eyes. In every form he came to me, the eyes remained the same. So vivid and full of life, as though lightning had come alive within their bounds.

One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that this man is no druid that I can tell. He bears their powers, sees the paths not yet walked, but so too does he wear new skins, so too can he touch the Spark. I do not know what entity with which I deal, but I will note one thing: I am terrified.

Short of the Enkara themselves, I know of no thing wrought of flesh and blood that wields power of such magnitude.

He came to me on the peak of the last moon wearing my brother’s face, speaking as though he were my blood. And I would have believed every moment of his ruse had he not called me by my name. My brother never used a person’s name. A strange quirk. He had always believed that names held a mystical energy, that speaking them aloud was a sacred thing. I suppose that was not revealed upon the paths. Or perhaps it was, and the man had always intended for me to uncover his ruse. All our meetings so far would have me believe it is most likely the latter and not the former.

Each time we meet, he greets me with a new name, and each name reveals something of his soul.

Amatkai. At first this name meant nothing to me. But as is ever the heart of scholarly endeavour, I decided to view every word from my visitor’s mouth as a puzzle. And so I brought the name to a friend, Buithín Landisath who has spent eight centuries traversing the oceans of etymology. And so it appears that ‘Amatkai’ is not a name of little consequence.

The word comes from the ancient Enkaran ‘Amatihane’ meaning ‘to forge’ and ‘Kaitain’ meaning destiny. The Forger of Destiny.

Rokka, the second name by which he called himself, is apparently rooted in a language lost to all but the most ancient of texts. It is a language of Terroncia, of the lost world. Builder of Worlds.

And when I met him near the Naiwell woods, he went by the name Sathâr. I did not require the aid of Buithín in determining the origin of this name as I have come across it before in my studies of the ancient elven myths. The Sathâr is a creature of shadow that transfixes elves with its voice, promising them their deepest desires and setting them to the darkest of deeds in payment. Of course, in all tales the Sathâr is a liar or weaver of deceit and trickery. And it’s true intent? Not to consume flesh or drink blood, not to achieve anything of physical note. But simply to find joy in the pain of others.

There are six other names that the man has given me, but of those I have uncovered no origins:

Uahtikín.

Tasten.

Marketh.