79th of Fall, 511 AV
Ulric made his way through the winding lanes, an unusual spring in his steps, tracing two fingers over the crumbling plaster as he absently thought of the upcoming winter. He had a place of his own now, a fire to stretch out by and play his flute. He nearly felt happy, even with the crushing burden of his promise to a dead god at the fore of his mind, the power lurking within him.
Pausing, he crouched down, easing his rear onto a rickety crate, and peered up at the gulls whirling in the pewter sky. There was a rumbling of carts, the din of a crowd, the peal of old, bronze bells rising over the distant roar of breakers crashing against the stony coast. Leaning back, he saw a woman walking by with a grubby boy in tow, a pair of young men in leather armor with swords buckled above their hips, prancing on either side of a comely girl, a burly man in a sooty apron carrying a cask under his burly arm.
And then, of course, there were the chimeric surprises, the snakes that were really blades of swaying grass, the tongues of flame that licked at shingled roofs. The contours of the buildings seemed to shift before his eyes, sembling into a vaguely different order. There was suddenly a silvered trunk where one there was none, the leaves crawling with tiny blue salamanders.
Ulric got up after a few moments, stretching his aching elbow, and began to walk. He could hear the caw of a crow in the distance. Having abruptly lifted his head, he felt his left foot catch on an even stone. He reached out to steady himself, unleashing a string of oaths, and found himself crashing a slight, leather-clad form, his blunt fingers coming in contact with warm flesh.
“Careful,” whispered the fellow, turning his face away so that Ulric only made out a whirl of curly, coal-black hair, and then he was away, striding through a throng of tradesmen, servants, and sailors.
There was a rustle of parchment, the brush of something against his hand. What the shyke? Ulric frowned, glancing down. There was a tubular scroll lying at his feet, bound by a wisp of black satin.
“Asu aidbfa onda pwubad,” growled the Gasvik. Ulric just reached for his knife, casting a furtive, sidelong scrutiny over the crowd, but he couldn’t make out any sign of foes. He drew the knife, used the edge to cut the ribbon, and froze.
The seal was a ring of black wax.
Black Sun, he realized, a spark of fear coursing down his spine, infecting his mind and scouring his heart bare with a swarm of sordid, ravenous locusts. They’ve found me. Though he’d fought many foes during his life, he couldn’t keep the hand that broke the seal from shaking. His dark eyes warily scanned the sheaf of parchment, widening as he read the first sentence.
Ulric,
Rhysol sees you, my son. Rhysol sees you, and he wants you back. There is no easy way to say this, no flowery words to soften the shock of his message. The things we have done were necessary. The sacrifices we made were great, but they were meant to keep you safe, to serve the chaos that lurks in our souls.
Ravok awaits you. The time has come for you to return, to take your rightful place among your dark brothers, the paladins of our order.
But first, you must learn who you truly are, and you must come to understand me. I have always loved you, even though my mothering was naught but deceit, ordered by our most exalted leader, Myleena Sul, The Voice of Rhysol. Twenty-eight years ago, she summoned me to her chambers, a place of dark silk hangings and whispering, bare marble, to speak of a very peculiar man, masquerading as fisherman. The young man was your father. There was a power about him that our agents could not fathom, an unmatched capacity for acts of betrayal, for sowing the seeds of chaos, yet within his chest it was dormant, wasted. At the time, I was but a young agent, eager to prove myself and serve our master. My orders were simple, to disguise myself as a filthy peasant, to seduce this man and bear him a son, a boy destined to tear this unworthy world asunder. There was no grand prophecy, and certainly not the foul divinations of the white witches. There was only our fervent desire to consume, to destroy, and to spread the rightful chaos.
Haren was a simple man, a stupid man, a man like any other. He did not have the spark, you see. He was not you. My task was easy, but so much harder than I’d suspected. I was just a naïve girl, badly used. The first, awful day of my task was by far the hardest. The brutal trials of my training were hardly enough to prepare me for the horrifying crucible that my life would become. I could scarcely conceal my disdain for the dolt, for the wasted powers that should’ve been mine. I wanted to flay my skin away every time his rough, scaly, reeking hands wound around my back, when they parted my thighs. I loved his seed though, the powerful seed that was to serve our master. I licked it from my fingers more than once, hoping it would impart some measure of power into my body, but it never did.
In solemn truth, I’d rather have been petched by a fly-blown corpse. I performed my task, but the first of our spawn soon perished with a fever, the exact sort of wretched weakling that I expected to bear of him. I was angry, sickened, dismayed, and yet I kept to his side, bound by the grim shackles of duty. The next of his spawn was unable to draw breath, and he died just as badly as the other. Then came you. The day came when I forced your slimy, mewling body from my womb, and thought my task done. I hope you can forgive me, for I detested you so fiercely because you were of his flesh, loathed you because of what I’d endured.
However, my torments were not at an end. The task done, there were further demands on my talents, upon my patience. The order was that I should abide in that crumbling, filthy, rat-infested tenement for five more years, to ensure that you were kept safe. I wanted to hang myself. I wanted to drag the edge of a knife over my neck. I didn’t do that, though. I endured for your sake, and for the sake of our god. If forced you from my side, exposed you to the cruelty of the canal rats, and when I saw you rise as one of the coldest, most ruthless of their motley gangs, I felt a surge of pride in my breast. I even came to love you, with a tiny, selfish fragment of my heart, jealously guarded against the order, against my duty, against myself, even.
Then, when you were only eight, I was informed that my task was over. I didn’t want to leave you. I schemed, pleaded, bargained as best I could, but there was no arguing. The day came when I was to walk away. Though I was enrapture by the fiery chaos of my second mark, by my swift ascension to the chosen ranks of acolytes, I did not forget you. There were always watchers. The agents kept up a steady watch, for two long, agonizing years, for our god’s design had only just run its course. There was stark necessity and subtle contingency, for we had to be certain that you would serve the chaos with your entire heart, that you wouldn’t inherit the weakness of your father.
The key was his death.
The Voice decided it was only proper that I should perform the ritual. The whisper of sweet vengeance made manifest in my head, the knowledge that I could repay your father for every stinging blow, for every clumsy fondle. That night, which you did not remember for so many years, the guards began to break down your door, the splintering of timbers like music to my ears. I was saving you from him. I was last to enter, and by then the sack was over his ugly, bloody face. There was no sign of you, though. Then there was a strangled cry from outside the window, a thump on the ground. I ran outside, saw the guard with his mace, shards of your bones sticking from the bloody flesh of your leg.
They never found his body.
Dispatching an agent for a healer, I ordered the others to bring you to a cellar that we had prepared especially for the task. I was angry that you’d been harmed, but seduced by the sordid rapture of his screams. I had brought my violin, and as they flayed your father to pieces, I played you a soft, special lullaby, a rapture of your own so that you would always be caught up in that night. I have always had power in my words, and I used them to the best effect. I needed to evoke in you a slayer of dreadful proportions, ever lusting to cause agony, but you resisted my pleas. I don’t know what I did, but those desires remained shackled inside of your mind, leaking only slightly.
That night, when I went to consult with my superiors, they offered new terms. They hadn’t given up hope. They would covertly raise you within the order, teaching you to fight, to have faith in Rhysol, while studying your every move, every word. That was where your other guardians were tasked. Kelus Taredan, my only half-brother, and the Paladin you knew only as Kell, in addition to his wife, the agent Liana Desorn, took over your education, though if Liana had done her job properly, you would already be among our ranks. However, she was weak. Her mind was declining, and she began to neglect you, even thought of sacrificing you so that she might bring a child of her own into this world. Kelus’ only flaw was her. He was ordered to depose of her, and so he did, though he never forgave me for giving that order. He, at least, kept to his orders. He taught you to fight, kept you safe from peril even as you ventured through the wilds.
Kelus Taredan was the best of us. He thought that you’d surpass him one day, and it was for your sake that he gave up his wife, his sumptuous manor, even an avowed force of his own paladins. He taught you well, and then he died.
Those of us that were involved in your development were keen to expose these truths to you then, but The Voice was not convinced. She thought you were soft, wanted to take your measure, and so a trial was devised. She raged when you fled rather than fight, and we both thought you lost until our agents returned, bearing the blackened, putrefying heads of the five hired killers we’d send after you. That was enough for her. There were further trials, further obstacles to surmount. That power did not awaken, though. The slayer did not surface, except perhaps for brief spans.
The Voice grew weary, stopped caring. The watchers were removed, and you passed out of our sight for several years, with only my own, harried eyes, and those of my agents, to follow you. Those years you feigned to be your father, reeking of scaly fish, your hands parted from the handle of your knife, were some of the hardest of my life. But then you rose from your flesh. I laughed in relief when I heard that you’d flayed that prideful, insipid girl, but then when our agents scoured the forests, seeking to bring you back into the fold, we lost any trace of your flight. That was a dark day for us, but now, my son, we have found you again. Rhysol is waiting.
The time has come for you to become who you were born to be. There is a set of armor waiting for you, a seat for you at my table. Take the test, and show our god exactly what you are capable of doing.
Come back to us, Ulric.
Your mother,
Ynara Dagor-Fyr
Ulric sank to the ground, not even feeling his knees strike the rough stone, his back crumpling, shoulder slumping. There was nothing but shock in his mind, his eyes aghast, face twisted in a horrifying mask. Desank swarmed over him, keeping him from sprawling over completely as he clutched at his chest, unable even to suck the turgid air into his paralyzed lungs. There was a low keening emanating from his cracked lips, drawing the gaze of more than one passerby.
"Usain aibe? Binae anbade oand?"
That’s not true, he wanted to snarl, but he couldn’t form the word, even as the shock faded. Ulric began to gasp, hot, bitter tears trickling down his cheeks, into his patchy beard. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to change the fact that his life had been a deceit, that he was nothing more than an experiment, a thing bred for slaughter, raised in ignorance of who he was, of what was expected of him, of why his father was dead.
Slowly, his hand curled into a fist, the dirty nails biting deep into his palms. There was a scant trickle of crimson as he bit down on his lip, so violently that he felt his incisors tearing at the tender flesh. Then his head came up, and when it did, those dark orbs burned with a fiery, coruscating menace, the inferno promising cruel vengeance, rows of torn carcasses, a brutal, sundering fury that showed no sign of slackening.
“Desank,” he growled, “We’re heading back to Ravok.”
To kill my mother.
To kill The Voice.
To kill them all.
