TKC 347 348 349 and 350
Arc is a war zone and not even the dense foliage Enris and I
move beneath is able to hide it. Certainly the sounds alone reveal the
intensity ahead of us. We will run directly into the thick of it.
One section of the forest burns, and smoke is a dense weave
through the trees. Low scrub and grassland is aflame also and we trip over the
small creatures of Arc as they flee one blaze for another. I clench my teeth as
I run, for these innocents do not deserve this death; they are not part of any
war.
Struggling to keep up with Enris, who uses his Warrior speed
to make up distance and therefore time, I realise all sound begins to diminish.
Despite my harsh breathing scraping against my eardrums from inside and
outside, I become cognisant of the fact that the same eerie silence falls as
the terrible quiet we left behind at the shuttle.
The orb is gobbling souls.
By all stars, how strange that is, and how utterly
frightening.
Ahead, Enris halts. From a dead run to a dead stop in the
same breath. An instant later he falls into a crouch to crawl slowly forward. Slowing
my headlong dash, I approach warily. When I see what he sees I too lose height.
A curve filled with rainbows shudders in slow motion in our field
of view.
Enris places a finger to his lips and with his other hand
motions for caution. I do as bid, because I do not trust the orb’s intentions. Despite
its pretty aspect in the present, its mission is to kill. It may choose to
retreat to our position and gobble us into its embrace also.
We wait and we watch and I know both of us curse the passing
time. Iniri has not much of that scarce commodity left.
The skittering colours move forward. There is nothing to see
beyond it, for the curved wall has blinded us to what awaits ahead. I assume,
however, that its currently slow progression has something to do with the sheer
number of souls it needs to gather. Ever more, the silence intensifies.
And then the screaming begins.
Enris grips my forearm when I jerk, and shakes his head
emphatically. How is he calm? How is he able to accept this horror? Beyond the
wall of rainbows the soldiers are now aware of the danger; Ilfin and Glonu scream
and shout both warning and terror. We hear gunfire and laser sizzles also; the
soldiers shoot at the orb in desperation, but no projectile or light beam
pierces the curved barrier.
Barely a minute later the deadness of no sound envelopes us.
Everyone is dead. The orb then
suddenly advances swiftly, the colourful transparently moving rapidly away from
us. In its wake it leaves the scars of battle, but no soldiers, no weapons, no
gear.
Enris stands, his face without expression.
I push myself up to stare at mighty gouges in the earth,
overturned trees and boulders, burnt trees, scorched earth and churned shale
and mud. A mighty confrontation, and yet not a drop of spilled blood remains.
“Focus, Coltern,” Enris eventually mutters. “We are out of
time.”
The orb has vanished into the trees in the distance. “How
long will it act autonomously?” I ask and be damned the quiver in my voice. There
is nothing wholesome about what happens inside Arc right now.
“Until Arc is empty.”
I jerk my head to the Makar heir, hearing something in his
tone, something unsaid. “And after Arc?”
The man shrugs. “Massin as a whole.”
“There are thousands of innocents out there!”
He lifts his blue gaze to me. “Then we really need to find
that vessel, don’t we?”
I want to scream my fury, but he is right. Before us is the
evidence of a war stopped in its tracks; no added blood will be shed. The vanishing
act is terrible, but at this point it is in fact a kinder death. To reverse it
and to help the innocents, to save Iniri, we need the Glonu vessel. I pray now
that it survived the explosion Iniri created for it directly, as well as the
collapse of the Spire itself.
Squaring, my shoulders, I point at the massive mound of
rubble. The ruined Spire.
“We best get started,” I mutter and lope towards it.
Soon we are arms akimbo before the pile of stone, shale and
shattered mortar. Enris is dubious and so am I.
“It must be near the top,” I say.
“There is no guarantee of that,” Enris mutters, walking
around the rubble. “It may have fallen deep also while everything imploded
around it. To undo this will take too long.”
Again I hear something in his tone. “Enris, spit it out.”
He sends a wry grin. “Sharp as ever. The Warrior is a
bloodhound also; I will use that.”
“You are not seeking blood.”
“I am, however, able to seek talents and, if I am right, a
host of those were in that vessel. I need to find a knot of them, the greatest
concentration. Where that is, is also where the vessel will be.”
No, it does not make sense. We are not in fact searching for
the vessel, are we? “You are looking at it wrong. It’s not the containment you
seek, Enris.”
His chin lifts and his eyes narrow. “A point well made,
Coltern. I have been focusing on finding where the vessel is in order to find
the remains of the talents, while thinking I need to find a gathering of
talents to discover the vessel. A circle without result. I need to focus my
hound’s nose on one talent in particular, the one I need found. All else is a
waste of time.”
Leaning in to touch the shattered stone before me – it surprises
me by being warmer than expected – I ask, “What happens to a talent freed from
deliberate containment?”
“Depends on how long and how fierce the holding was. Most
talents will simply dissipate into the ether.” Enris gives me another look. “I
know what you ask and I tell you this talent cannot simply vanish. If it was in
the vessel, it is still here somewhere.”
I stare back at him, not bothering to voice my next
question.
He barks a laugh. “No, I do not know with certainty if it
was ever captured. Maybe it was captured, but could not be held. Yes, I deal
now in hope only.” He closes his eyes. “By the stars, what a terrible hope. This
soul may have been captured in a tiny space for millennia.”
I swallow. Yes, a talent plus a soul equals an Ilfin. To capture
a talent is to bind a soul also. “Who was he?” I ask quietly.
Staring at the pile of stone, Enris murmurs, “She. Her name
was Iliri Makar.”
My gut hollows. “Meaning?” I spit out.
“Iniri’s twin, Coltern.” His gaze is steady, but he is pale.
“No one ever mentioned a twin sister,” I whisper.
“Because everyone thought she died at birth,” Enris states
grimly. “Our father the king believes she died. Iniri does not even know she
was part of a twin birth.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I assume your Uncle Lorn knows.” Enris’
subsequent silence is my answer.
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