Ascent
an excerpt

I have been many things during my life. Shepherd, prince, clan lord, slave, priest, concubine, warrior and teacher are all roles which I have I played. A path of many curves and diversions, a path of sadness as I look back and know that I shall remain alone upon it as I trudge wearily on. My life is a legend, its true span known only to a few, my path but misty legend.

Let us start with those whom we hate, against whom we have warred for what now seems an eternity; a war that has shaped and moulded us down the ages: The Gods of Evernight. Ahh, the Gods who reside in their citadel that hides in eternal darkness. Hidden from all, its bowels contain thousands of slaves that are serving either as their servants until the end of eternity, or go mad and serve as their nutrition on the altars.

Madness comes quickly in those depths, for truly, Evernight is shrouded in darkness, no light ever comes and the eternal darkness, with its strange smells, tastes and textures. Most go mad in that darkness, their cries echoing down corridors worn smooth underfoot by the passage of time, worn smooth by the priests that move between the cages, caring for the mad ones until their time upon the sacrificial altar comes. Those who serve, do so for eternity, for there is no escape from those walls.

I know this, for I once served. I am Cassia, once Clan Lord of Clan Guthra, once priest to the Gods in Evernight. Read what comes and know, the opposition to the Gods is eternal and must be inculcated into our children until it is as natural to them as drawing breathe. Never surrender, never compromise.
- From the Cassia Manuscripts

The man closed the book as he looked over the class. The students knew nothing of him, aside from his name. They knew nothing of this class other than that it was a step to power and prestige within the clans, that they had been chosen by their clans, and ordered here. From birth, they had been conditioned to obey and accept such orders, eagerly. They did, and thus though they would act as they had been conditioned- obediently and eagerly. Right now, they would be wondering at the turn of events: enter the classroom, sit down, and have the stranger before them read from a well known manuscript in an ancient dialect.

He knew the questions would come, and how he would answer. The Cassia manuscripts were studied by many, their meaning debated and argued over endlessly by scholars and warriors alike. For the moment, he watched the students in the class working, deciphering the text he had read in the ancient dialect of Clan Guthra. He knew they would argue with this version, for it varied from that with which they were familiar. In the end, they would learn the secrets of this class, that he was Cassia the undying, and they were to be the new generation to carry forward the war between the Clan-holds and the Gods of Evernight.

“Ser Dragonis., this does not translate properly. In the versions I have seen it always talks of serving the old gods till death. But, as you read it, the translation would be for eternity. Surely you read it with the wrong emphasis?” The hand held up, covered in the purple of a high clan, displaying threads of gold and silver embedded within the weave, reflecting the harsh light of the crystals embedded in the walls and ceiling belongs to one of the older students, and one bearing the hallmarks of the Archivists.

Cassia looked at the student who had spoken and consulted the register. Heri Ferian, from the Clan Hessi Hold on the coast; she is one of the older class members and already a member of the Archivists Guild; no wonder she did the translation so rapidly. He says nothing for a moment, waiting for the other students to catch up. He waits in silence, examining Heri and her exotic, rich wardrobe contrasting with the lack of jewellery, the harsh starkness of the lines in her face, uncovered by any artifice. For him, the message she gives is clear “I wear the clothes expected of a High Clan but strive to be something else.” If it is brotherhood she seeks, she will find it within this class.

“Ser Ferian, my reading is accurate. This is the original version, written in the Frieze script, emphasizing meaning over fact.” Heri sits up and is about to speak in reaction to Cassia’s words when another does so before her. This student is short, long hair tied into the triple braid of the seasoned warrior, muscled arms resting lightly on the table in front of him. For him, Cassia does not need to consult the register, Jert Guthra is known to many, a daughter of the Clan Guthra Clan lord (a descendant of Cassia’s though she does not know it,) and a warrior who has been commended on the battlefield.

“Ser Dragonis, I believe that I must have misheard you. You say that this manuscript from which you read is an original version, in the Frieze Script. How could you read it? The meanings and understanding of the Frieze Script have long been forgotten and there is no one alive today who has knowledge of it. Our archivists and scholars have long tried to translate many of the old scrolls and manuscripts in our libraries, unsuccessfully. Many times we have asked the University for Help, only to be told there is no one alive today that is able to read, or understand the Frieze script. Your words imply that the University has lied and deliberately withheld their assistance in the rebuilding of Clan Guthra and its past.”

Cassia looked at Jert. It normally took longer to get a student so tense, so on edge. This class, however, seemed older than average. There were a few in it that were already established and known. Two of those had already spoken, revealed themselves; the third was Gervaise Hidren of Clan Biali. His presence was strange, a noted scholar but from a minor clan, one that paid fealty to Clan Guthra. He would have to watch to make sure that the Jert and he did not clash, allowing the inter-clan politics to disrupt the fabric he must weave between them all.

There was a rustling in the class, students getting restless as Cassia stood in silence. Cassia looked at Jert, knowing that what he would do would most likely provoke a confrontation; it would challenge the honour of Jert’s clan, and leave him with the option of challenging him, or having his own honour called into question. Each class, each time he started to teach, there had to be one to challenge him; Cassia hoped that this time he would not have to kill the unlucky student.

“Yes, Ser Guthra; Clan Guthra, as well as the other clans, have all been lied to. The University does so at my behest. As do many of your clan elders who have sat in this class; as will you when you, too, finish this class and leave to take positions in your clans. Forget your honour; the purpose of the lie will become evident in the every near future.”

A rock shot from a catapult falling through the roof could hardly have created a bigger shockwave through his class. Not just Jert, but two of the other students jumped to their feet, their faces red, hands clenched. The three looked at each other, the two younger students, both with only the first braid of the newly tutored warrior, deferred to Jert, allowing her the honour of the challenge.

“Ser Dragonis, you insult the clan lords and the clans. How dare you claim that amongst the lords are those that would lie at the behest of a scholar!” Jert’s voice was calm, cold, the last word almost spat out. Dragonis, a mere scholar in an University had insulted many who sacrificed their lives to protect the clans, and one such as he could not be forgiven such a slight!

On his part, Cassia looked at Jert, at the righteous indignation driven by insulted dignity combined with idealistic youth; a combination that often found in the person issuing the challenge. A pity; he would have liked someone less visible, less of a political issue. Clan Guthra would have much to say if he died in the challenge, yet there was no way to avoid it, in every class there had to be one, and if the lesson had to be taught to the point of the challenger dying, so be it.

“Your challenge is accepted, Jert Guthra. We shall fight tonight, in the Rememberance Hall when the chimes are rung and the other students are called to commons. This class, and this class alone, WILL be there.

For now, leave. All of you.”

Confusion crosses the faces of the students as they stand to leave, each looking at each other and wondering at the abrupt end to the lesson. Most confused of all is Jert Guthra. Openly wearing warrior braids, well versed in weaponry and well known for his effectiveness in battle, the last thing he had expected was the quick, and ready, acceptance of the challenge. He stops, staring at the scholar who has dared to accept a challenge from a warrior: an old face bland and impersonal, body hidden by the black robes of a scholar who has achieved the rank of academician, with no weaponry, beyond that of a simple eating knife, visible. Confused, he looks at himself as if to confirm his memory, that he truly is a young warrior wearing expensive leather clothes bearing the mark of his clan, metal bracers, scarred and battered from battle, worn even here where he can expect no attack, and hands calloused from many hours of sword work; striking at practice dummies or foes on the battlefield.

“Academician,” Jert’s voice is strong, causing Cassia to pause on the threshold, “Why do you do this? You could have rejected the challenge and retained honour; you are a scholar, not warrior.”

“Ahh, young one, you have much to learn. Perhaps you will even be alive long enough to enjoy the privilege of learning it.” Once again Cassia’s words spread confusion, and he leaves, quickly, before any of the others can find the courage to question his motives further.

***

In Evernight time never seems to pass. One eats, sleeps, learns and performs one's duties. The Gods need their daily sustenance, sacrifices of prisoners and those who have gone mad and spend their days in maniacal laughter or perpetual weeping. The rest of us quickly learn how to live in the darkness; tThe raised language on the books and scrolls becoming familiar, the words learnt by rote taking on meaning, and the ceremonies taking an ever darker aspect as you begin to understand their import. Not just bodies were being sacrificed, but their every essence being used to sustain the failing Gods.

I spent an eternity there. Who knows how many I sacrificed, how many souls were destroyed as I worshipped in that hole beneath the earth. More than that, I was chosen as Consort to one of the Gods, supposedly an honour, but one that has driven many a man insane.

In time, I was sent out, to be an eternal, one of the elite soldiers, a direct emissary of the Gods. It took a long while for my eyes to see again. I was blindfolded with layer upon layer of cloth. One layer at a time, the blindfolds were removed- days passing between one layer and the next, till my eyes could once again stand the light. Then the training started. It took years, years of mastering oneself and weaponry, years of toil to become a tool in the service of the Gods. During that training I came to myself. I saw what I was and remembered what I had been. I hid that knowledge, nurtured it in my breast, until I was sent to battle against my fellow Clansmen -From the Cassia Manuscripts

Jert fumed as he walked from the classroom. The actions of the Academician were too strange, too bizarre, on top of the insults to honour and clan. He kept the clash running through his mind, the calculated insults and the ready acceptance of the challenge. Then, too, were the words he uttered before leaving “Perhaps you will even be alive long.…” No, Jert could feel there was something wrong, something out of kilter with reality. So the question began in his mind, “Who is Academician Dragonis.”

So, Jert thought, what do I know of him? Academician Heliath Dragonis of Clan Guthra. A man who taught the course that was seen as the pinnacle of success. Few were admitted; and it was not given in every year, yet graduating from it was a key to power, in whatever sphere you wanted. Graduates from it were tight lipped, never speaking of what they learned. Secrets, exclusivity, and an Academician that led warriors to challenge him; with contemplation the confusion grew. Perhaps it was an elaborate bluff, and some other lesson would be taught? No person would expect a scholar to stand before a warrior! So, Jert decided to check the Hall of Rememberance to see what preparations, if any, ha been made for it to host a duel and not a recital. He expected it to be unready, for its state to reveal the bluff, but the Hall had been cleared, the floor swept clean of debris underfoot.

Jert wandered through the Hall, getting its fell, carefully counting the steps between pillars and plaques buried into the floor. He halted his progress at the pillar of Clan Guthra, upon which the names of the clans greatest heroes were inscribed. Names scrolled down, more here than on many of the pillars of the other clans. Clan Guthra was always in the forefront of battle. Sighing, he rested his head on the pillar, reading the names and coming to an abrupt halt, “Heliath Dragonis, dead three hundred years ago.” No parent would name a child after a dead hero, it would be seen as demeaning to the hero, tacking other people’s deeds onto his own, as if the dead heroes deeds were not sufficient to grant him eternal bliss. Again the question flowed across his mind. “Who is Academician Ser Dragonnis?”

The Hall of Records is always cold. The Academician charge contending that the cold helped to preserve the precious scrolls and documents lodged within. Hundreds of shelves containing thousands of documents lined the walls, the order not well thought out, and, as a result, making visitors always consult with the scholars who worked there, for finding some item on your own was an impossible task. Today, Jert was rapidly getting frustrated. Time was running out and he wanted to know more about his opponent.

“It’s a simple request, Ser Scholar. All I want is a list of those who have taught the course currently taught by Ser Dragonis. It should not be difficult to fin, on some courses the list of Academicians that have been in charge is required reading!”

The scholar scowled, the argument had been going in circles for the last five minutes, and still this warrior oaf had not got the message. Time to be blunt, hopefully that would at least smash its way through the warriors mental armour! “Ser warrior, the list exists. It is just not available for casual perusal. Unless you have a compelling reason, you may not see it.”

“A compelling reason?” Jert leaned forward, his strong arms pushing on the counter top. “How about the fact that I am a student of Ser Dragonis and need to see that list to research something for the class?”

Maybe it was the reasoning, or maybe the implied threat, but the scholar ceased muttering into his hands, and instead smiled. “A student of Ser Dragonis? Ahh, I will get the scroll you need. In the meantime, please go to the rooms at the back, the third door to the left. I will bring the book to you there.”

Jert settled into the high-backed, soft chair. A small table stood to the right of the chair, and another chair was opposite him. He looked around the room, usually reserved for Academicians and those they favoured, not on someone just asking for a list of teachers for a course.

The door opened and the scholar placed the book on the table next to him, before seating himself. Jert glanced at the book, and then at the scholar. “I would appreciate some privacy, Ser Scholar”

“My apologies, Ser Guthra, but that is not something I can do for you if you want so see the book. You may read it in here, in my presence, but I am not allowed to leave you alone with it. You will also notice that some pages have red tinges to them. You will not be able to read those, and neither should you try. They are marked as dangerous for a reason.”

Jert controlled his mouth, but it was a close call since it was well on its way to dropping open in surprise. This all seemed too elaborate for a mere listing of teachers names.

Jert started reading, looking at the names and dates. The strangeness of the list bothered him; every teacher came from Clan Guthra, and every teacher taught the course for exactly fifty years, ten classes. The oddity hit him from two directions; the first was simply:, how could each teacher live for so long? Nobody became an Academician when a young man, so how did every teacher stay alive for so long? The second direction was that all teachers were from Clan Guthra.

A quick thanks, and the book was restored to the scholar as Jert Guthra memorised a few name sand jogged back to the Hall of Records and the pillar of Clan Guthra. As expected, against all probabilities every name from the book was a deceased hero. His hair rising with fear, Jert Guthra left to prepare himself. Whoever Ser Heliath Dragonis was, he wasn’t any time academician.

***

The runner from the library found Cassia meditating in the garden under the shelter of an old oak tree. He waited patiently until Cassia stood, coming closer to deliver his message.

“Acadamecian Dragonis, the librarian wished for me to inform you that one of your students requested the Tome of Names.”

“Hmm, which student?”

“Jert Guthra. We hope that this is in order, he seemed irritable and the librarian decided to let him peruse it under supervision.”

“It is in order. Return to the librarian with my thanks.” Cassia watched the messenger retreat, his mind contemplating the turn of events. So, Jert Guthra thought to find out about him, it would be interesting to see what he did with the information, to where it led him. If he understood the implications before Cassia was forced to kill him.

***
The Head Academician of the university entered Cassia’s room as he was finishing his preparations for the challenge.

“I don’t suppose there is anyway I can persuade you to go easy on this one?” The Head’s voice was wistful, but as a past student of Cassia’s he was well aware of what was about to happen. The Head knew full well what was about to happen, after all, it was no that long ago that he had been the one to challenge Cassia. He had submitted and learned the lesson before it became fatal, but he was a scholar, not a warrior whose entire self image depended on being strong and a victor in physical confrontations.

“You know full well there is no other way. They must accept me fully and completely or it will take too much time. There are too many people in the clans to train as time passes. These must be prepared quickly so they can disperse to where they can used, and more trained to keep an eye on areas where previously none was needed. Also, you know well the ritual itself is important. None of those present, aside form me of course, will have enough knowledge to feel the threads and know what they mean. But they are needed for the binding, to link them one to another. I pray it will not be fatal this time.”

The Head sighed, “I know the reasons and arguments. I know the necessity; I just wish it could have been anyone else in the class. A Clan lord’s son who, while not heir, is popular and well liked, is going to be a difficult situation to handle. His uncle will do his best to mollify his brother, since he was one of your students. Alas, the father is not and in his grief could well cause us trouble. Or rather, could well cause me trouble. I will be the one that has to face him to break the news, not you. I beg you, Cassia, do whatever you can, within the boundaries of the rites and rituals, to help this one survive.”

Cassia smiled at the Head. “He may be a warrior, but he has a brain. He went to the Hall of Records, he went to read the Tome of Names. Perhaps he will understand in time.”

With that, the Head fell silent, turning into a servant to Cassia, acting as his valet in his preparations; helping to tie the ten braids of the Master into his hair. There was not much else to do. Cassia wore but a simple robe over a loincloth- and that loincloth would be all he wore in the fight, aside from the curved and notched sword of the Eternal. That alone should give him away, as none but one trained by the Eternals would know how to wield such a weapon effectively.

I had returned to the clans bathed in the blood of my fellow Eternals and the soldiers of the Gods of Evernight. I must have been a fearsome sigh;, a curved sword, symbol of the Eternals, in each hand, red from the blood that had flowed as I had swept through the ranks, taking them by surprise, laying them open to the depredations of the Clans. The warriors of the Clans looked at me, wondering whether to attack or to welcome me.

The standoff did not last long. I did not let it. The longer it lasted, the more chance there would be of panic or of someone getting the courage to attack. I strode forward into their ranks, ignoring them, as I made for the commander’s tent, the flag of Clan Biali flying above it. I thought I knew who would be there, but I did not realize how much time had passed while I served in darkness. I called out for Ser Jimal, and got his great grandson. At least, I was able to convince him of my identity, and, after the many years in darkness, I finally returned to freedom amongst the Clans. I was home
- From the Cassia Manuscripts

The class is gathered in the hall, silent as they contemplate what is to come. Silent as they believe they shall shortly see the humiliation of one they had trusted to teach them. They stand grouped in one of the upper galleries, waiting for Cassia to arrive. They peered down from beyond the polished balustrades, their faces showing over the railing. Jert Guthra waited for Cassia to appear, carefully placing himself alongside the pillar of Clan Guthra, the dim light from the sconces on the wall dimly reflecting off the the names of the heroes of the past.

As Cassia steps in, he smiles, mentally awarding him one point; a subtle attack, an excellent psychological ploy if I had truly been trying to hide from him. Cassia looks at the students, at the consternation of his appearance as he marches in. The tension level in the room rises, particularly as suddenly some of the overheard chandeliers burst into light, making every detail visible. They are faced with something they cannot comprehend- the supposed academician is gone, the loose flowing locks of a scholar is now braided, indicating a warrior. The level of tension rises as they see how Cassia is dressed, the double curved swords, the blades scimitar like, but the extra spike at the back, used in the breaking of a trapped weapon. He is a moving oxymoron, grey hair braided, wrinkles on his face, but muscles clearly defined, movements smooth, gliding over the floor. And all is visible as the cloak drops, leaving him in nothing but a loin clothe. Cassia nears Jert, and he smiles as Jert’s eyes rake his head, counting braids, seeing too many, far too many for someone hidden in an University. Jert’s eyes narrow. Cassia can see her calculating, trying to reconcile his information, my appearance, and the twin blades.

“You are all here to witness the challenge issued by Ser Jert Guthra against Academician Heliath Dragonis. I apologise that Academician Heliath Dragonis could not make it. He never existed and the real Heliath Dragonis died three hundred years ago. He was a close friend and a graduate of this class. Ask Jert here, he stands by the column which bears his name!” Cassia’s voice booms out, startling those gathered. It is unnaturally loud, the archivists amongst them feeling the movement of the arcane, feeling the power coming from him, power he no longer hides.

“In front of you all I state that I am ready for the challenge.” The formula is stated, and Cassia stands still, body relaxed and calm as he awaits the answer from Jert Guthra. He awaits the answer to challenge, waits to see how much blood will flow, knowing that some will, it is just a question of how much.

Jert stands uncomfortably, doubts assailing him as he stares at the man before him. Naked but for a loin clothe and two swords; two swords wielded only by the Eternals of the Gods, swords which have become close to legend since Cassia led the clans in the massacre of the Eternals, but failed to defeat the Gods when he could not find their hidden citadel. Jert’s eyes cannot leave the braids. There are too many, no living man should be able to claim the ten braids of a master. When last did someone live that could make that claim? Not since the great hunting packs of Cassia has anyone laid claim to master. But these legendary Masters of old have passed away. Those taught by Cassia, as he returned to the clans, are long dead. Cassia himself is long gone, obscured by the mists of time and history. And the thought returns to him. Who is Heriath Dragonis?

There is silence as Jert stands, wondering at his next move, wondering at the additianal taunts, yet more challenges in the words that state Jert has been lied to yet again. His head turns to his classmates above, Jert catches the eyes of others that were prepared to challenge, that now reflect the same confusion and uncertainty as himself. Slowly his eyes meet that of the man who stands naked but for a loinclothe and two swords, the man whose further goads strike at the honourable students of his class, telling them they are than children, that he has the right to belittle them and to treat them dishonourably with lies and deceits.

Jert still stares, knowing what honour demands, but the same question playing across his mind. Who is Heriath Dragonis? No old academician, that is certain. He moves like a young man, and is obviously familiar with the swords of the Eternals from the way they lie steadily and comfortably in his hands. The braids in his hair make impossible claims and his clothing is in itself a goad, a statement “See, I need no armour, no shield.’ Jert feels doubt assailing him. Suspicions are coalescing. Many suspicions, but not enough proof to act on them, not enough to ignore the dictates of honour.

“I, Jert Guthra, of Clan Guthra issued the challenge. I stand to defend my honour, and that of all this man has deceived. Whomever he may be!”

As the words ring out, Jert steps back into a combat stance, sword ready in one hand, a spiked bukler in the other as a deterrent to any charge. The tension grows and the watchers above are silent as the challenge is asked, and answered.

Cassia, face still impassive starts moving, his smooth, gliding stride taking him in a circle around his student. Good, his thoughts are ever those of the teacher as he notes Jert’s stance. Excellent, not just the image of a trained soldier, but the relaxed and poised stance of an experienced warrior; in his mind he compares what he saw to students of years gone by and his own knowledge of the forces of the clans and notes that standards have improved in the last century or so.

Cassia stops circling, taking a stance that may be recognised, but should let his foe know that the braids are no idle boast. He moves carefully, his body flowing into the stance of the lost, swords in front, hands together. Slowly Cassia spreads his hands, seeing how Jert follows their movement, without losing track of his body. As prepared as Jert is, he is not prepared for what Cassia does next.

Jert watches as Dragonis, or whomever he is, takes a stance. I have seen this before, when Ser Halik Guthra ascended to the rank of Master swordsman and his eighth braid. I was but a boy then, and I have never seen another attempt this. Jert tracks his movements, waiting for the right time to attack, watching the placement of weapons, the shift of weight in his body. All signals which show where Cassia will be next, where his body will go as he attacks. Or so he has been taught. Cassia’s weapons sweep slowly out, his body rippling like a wave, shooting out, arching over Jert’s head, his swords ignoring Jert’s defense as he lands, his body spinning faster than Jert can move, can even turn his head to follow. Jert feels the bite of the blade into his shoulder, as the other slices across his stomach. He spins round, trying to follow Cassia’s movement, rying to just see where his opponent is.

Jert slides on the floor slick with his own blood, his mind working rapidly even as the pain fills him. The pain is easily dealt with, a simple meditation exercise any warrior should be able to perform. In his mind, suspicions are no longer suspicions, but certainties. How else does fifty years, ten braids, 11 names and a difference in emphasis fit together?

Cassia stands ready, blood dripping from his blades, waiting to see Jert’s reaction. In a way, he feels sorry for him, after all, there is probably not a living soul in the lands of the Clanholds that could have followed his movements, let alone mounted a defence. He watches silently, hoping that he will not need to administer another lesson, for with each one, the chance of Jert leaving the challenge alive drops. Thus, when Jert sinks to the floor, head bowed, arms straight and his sword loudly clanging on the floor as it falls, he is relieved. Jert has surrendered and rendered himself vulnerable.

“Well, Ser Guthra, what is it you think you know? Why so quick to surrender your honour?” Cassia’s voice rings out, again preternaturally aloud.

Words come to Jert as he stares at the ground before him. Strangely, there is no sense of shame, no lack of honour. It is right, clean. Jert look ups, allowed to by the dictates of honourable surrender since he has been addressed.

“I know who you are.” Jert’s words are whispered, but are amplified by whatever magic Cassia has used on himself, and echoes off the walls. The echoes embolden him, his voice risin. “I know who you are. What the secret that this class holds. I know you are, and because of that I am honoured to be in the dust at your feet.”

Cassia smiles. This one has courage, intelligence and a bright future ahead of him. There will be no further blood tonight. The Head will be happy; Clan Guthra will not be coming for an explanation of how one of their scions died.

“Who else knows? Those of you who watch, who else has pieced together the puzzle? Which of you will venture to name me?”

Heads turn down to stare at Cassia, as he stares up at them, challenging them. Their thoughts are almost physical, he can almost feel their thoughts, almost taste their fear as they stare down at one they considered a mighty warrior humbled in a few seconds.

“Master Cassia Guthra.” The name rings out clearly and he looks to see who has spoken; the name has come from an unexpected source. Quiet, unassuming, Leorid Kaftan. He is tall, gangly, hair worn freely flowing down his back, dull grey eyes sunken deep into a gaunt face with a beard that just won’t grow - neither arcanist nor warrior, but a scholar, destined to serve, not rule.

He watches their faces as his name is spoken, he sees the shock, awe and fear that normally accompanies this moment; on nine faces, but not on the face of Leorid Kaftan. On his face is boredom. Disturbing, and Cassia does not like to be disturbed. The Clan Kaftan is undistinguished, having produced few that have entered the ranks of heroes. Leorid is the first from that clan in over a thousand years to stand in this class. Boredom. For a while Cassia stares at the boy, then mentally notes to investigate this strange youngster, his reactions too far out from his experience. He contemplates the gangly figure, nothing wrong on the surface but his reactions are disturbing.

“I will see you all tomorrow. And remember, from now on your oath holds. Nothing of what you have learnt here tonight may ever be spoken of outside of this group.”
He turns and leaves. Behind him, he hears Jert rising to his feet, the soft words spoken to bring healing, but only once. He frowns and turns, wondering why she heals only one wound and not the other.

“Tell me, Ser Guthra, why not complete the healing? I see your stomach hale and hearty, but your shoulder still bleeds.” His words are soft, no need for these to be public, they are meant for hhim alone.

“Master I wish to remember. I want the scar to remind me of whom I faced. Without it, it would feel like a dream.”

Interlude: In the realm of night
Kisman hurried through the citadel. The way he went well-known but seldom traveled. The citadel within Evernightwas the preserve of those that spoke for the Gods and did not merely serve, those who consorted with them, changed beyond measure. Their changes remained unseen, for they, too, lived within the dark. The summons had come after he had completed the morning rituals, before he had time for the cleansing bath, he could feel the drying blood and ointment on his skin, but such summons were answered without delay, cleanliness would wait.

Kisman was still in the corridor when assaulted. The feel of warm breath carrying the aroma of a summer's day, the vision of the sun rising over the low mountains near the Border sea, the touch of a woman’s hand gently stroking along the inside of his thigh, the taste of a grape bursting in his mouth spraying its juice down his throat, and the soft sound of bells ringing out a melody over a meadow on a warm summer's night. He stopped, entranced. It was centuries since any of these had been the truth for him.

The rasping voice woke him from his reverie. As coarse sand rubbed into a wound it penetrated through the enthrallment.

“So, that is what mortality was like for you. Tell me, Kisman, does service to the holy ones fulfill you, or do you wish a return to your mortal frame?”

Kisman knew there was only one right answer; anything else would bring death, unpleasantly.

“Oh my Lord, Consort to the God Siriadar, my soul revels in my service. The memories of mortality are but images of enticement which assail us in times of weakness.”

The grunt behind him could mean anything. He was sure he had the right name, the voice was too distinctive; he wasn’t sure if the answer was correct, it was centuries since he had been forced to memorise such catechism.

“You always were a good student Kisman, and you have served well. For this reason, you have been chosen. You are to begin training as an Eternal, the first in many centuries. The God Siriadar has roused himself and will personally teach you. And then, you will receive your great task, the slaying of the Traitor.”

To Slay the Traitor, the one who had escaped, who had taught the prey how to be hunter. The traitor, the hated one, he who had hunted down the Eternals, one at a time, trapped them and destroyed with his band of thralls; clansmen too dim to realize how he was using them. Then there were the traitor’s other sins, the private sins that burnt in Kisman’s heart. His heart swelled with pride. It would take many years to complete the training, but at the end of it; aah, the revenge would be the nectar of the Gods!

“My Lord, I stand honoured and humbled before you, undeserving of this great honour. But is there no one else to train me, surely the Gods are not needed for such a menial task?”

The breath on his neck is cold this time, bringing the touch of a thousand pins into his skin, the smell of a cesspit, the images of himself burning, twisting in flame, the taste of dust in my mouth, the sound of a head being crushed by a rock.

“You presume Kisman. You know the Traitor hunted down and destroyed the Eternals. Now you presume to remind us of this fact. Perhaps you are not the right choice, perhaps there are other uses for you?”

Kismans heards, and dreads, the question in the consort’s voice. He holds his breath in fear, he knows the last words were directed at him, but to Siriadar, the God and master to the consort through the special connection they share. He shivers. What those uses may be are too horrific to contemplate, after all, Kisman has helped to punish others in the past. He waits in trepidation, knowing nothing he says now will help, and can only hope that his momentary lapse is not judged too harshly.

“Very well. Kisman, you are to be spared. You leave in three days.” Kisman feels the movement in the air before he feels the consorts touch; it is cold, leaving a trail of slime across his cheeks. The skin is rough, the consort has grown scales since the last time he touched Kisman who knows how long ago? One does not felt he passage fo time in the darkness of Evernight. A slow trickle of blodd edges down his cheek, the claws of the consort are sharp, though he has restrained himself cutting merely to amuse, not to do any real damage.

“You have three days till you leave. You are welcome in my bedchambers at any time, you know I miss you.” Kisman hears the consorts low chuckle as he leaves, and remembers the last time he had been told to attend to the consort. He had been ill for five days, the blessing of the consorts presence not easily borne. True, as consrt to Siriadar he had to maintain his purity, but other actions were allowed, and his altered physiognomy hurt, both mentally and physically. Certain that the consort is now gone, Kisman slumps against, relief at his being spared the summons to the consort tempered by the knowledge that it is merely because the God has ordered him to do something, and the consort dare not oppose or impede on Siriadiar’s will. He is spared since he is to leave soon and any delay would anger his consort, for this I can almost love the God Siriadar.

Mentally exhausted from the encounter, from the consort’s manipulations, Kisman stumbles back to his quarters. In his exhausted, and terrified, state he almost loses count of the corridors in the darkness, but centuries of habit guide him well. On his quarters, he collapses onto his bed, the old blood from the morning sacrifices and the fresh blood on his face forgotten for the moment. He wails as he gives in to the fear he feels at these encounters with the consort.. Only then, shaking on his bed, silently weeping does it strike him. They must know where the traitor is.

My return to the clans was not as I imagined when I came to my senses during the time in darkness and the years of learning needed to be an Eternal. They allowed me back, but it took a long time before any would trust me. To make it worse the Clan Guthra Clan Hold had been destroyed and the remnants of the clan nothing more than mercenaries fighting at the behest of the masters of the other clans. I decided it had to change.

I traveled, finding the tattered remnant of the clan, demonstrating my superiority in battle, and offering to teach them. Slowly I gathered a following, training others not only as warriors, but in the threads of the arcane. The tradition of the braids started at this time, relative strengths being shown by the number of braids. Those whom I taught to manipulate the arcane we hid. Pretending they were record keepers, historians, the chroniclers of the clan. And so began the tradition of the archivists, a name that will be borne by them throughout time, carried with pride as a remembrance of the day that Clan Guthra returned.
- From the Cassia Manuscripts

The day after the challenge the class was silent. They sat watching Cassia from their places, fascinated by his every movement. Today, he once again wore the wardrobe of a scholar,; the braids gone, his hair falling freely over his shoulders. He walked between them, silent, his glance catching each student’s eye. He walked so they could feel his physical presence as it brushed past them, surreptitiously spinning threads that would cement a bond that would bind them all; to those who had been here before and those who would come after.

His path through them was completed as he came to a stop before them. From his shoulders, the robe silently droppers, his heavily muscled body visible to them, every muscle contoured, his skin flawless, devoid of even the barest hint of hair. In the utter silence he raises his arms skywards and turns slowly around for their inspection, letting them absorb every detail. In all this time no word had been spoken, no sound breaks the silence. He finishes posing, and smiles. He chuckles then, remembering a past student that had told him that the smile at that point was the scariest thing they had ever seen.

“You now know who I am. You now know that I did not just disappear at the end of the last war. That I did not just abandon the Clans when the peace began, and the battles between the followers of the Gods and the clans became the stories of history rather than the reality of daily life.”

He strides forward, summoning armor and weapons, becoming the warrior figure of legend and subject of numerous paintings.

“You know the way Clan Guthra returned to power, the training of the first warrior cadres, the revelation of the first archivists as the siege of Biali Clan Hold was broken and for the first time the forces of the Gods of Evernight were defeated. You’ve read the manuscript I wrote and circulated; the one that everybody loves to mistranslate. Welcome to the longest running conspiracy in history, you are to be the next generation to help perpetuate the myths that disguise the facts, and I will tell you why.”

Once again his gaze sweeps the room, seeing the shock on their faces. Not at the garbing of himself in hidden armour as he walked; that is a trick that many senior archivists and warriors learn, but at the fact that he iscalling on them to abandon honour and to embrace deceit. He had said this previously, but they had not learnt who he was yet. Now they hear it again, from the person that many people credit with creating the elaborate honour system the Clans live by.

He stands, watching their faces, wondering who will be the one to question him, to challenge their role in the grand conspiracy. His eyes meet those of Leorid Kaftan, and once again he is taken in by Leorid’s expression. Their eyes meet and Cassia sees what looks like amusement; and this is as wrong as his boredom of the night before.

No questions are forthcoming, the memory of the night before still fresh. His legend and presence loom too large, too certain, too intimidating.

“The war ended. The lands of the Clans were safe, those lands beyond ours spared further depravations, the Gods of Evernight fell silent, no word coming out of their darkness. And they have remained silent ever since, the uneasy truce broken by skirmishes and petty border wars, but the pitched battles of the past are gone, the clans too well trained and organized, the silence from their Gods too powerful a statement to be ignored. But the Gods slumber, they are not dead. They will awaken, and when they do we will need to be ready, for they will not want the conquest of the last wars, but vengeance.”

Cassia stopped talking, standing in front of them, his armor is glowing, outlining itself in the fires of power, the purple flames throwing their glow over the class. For the first time, he manifests the helmet, the dragon head covering his own; the eyes glow, and smoke rises from the horns. It is a nightmare figure, one out of legend, and, one not seen outside of this room for nigh on two millennia.

“I will teach you what you need to know, so if they do awaken you can help in the war to come. That is the purpose of these classes, of your complicity in the grand conspiracy. The element of surprise will be ours, we shall not be found wanting.”

Jert watches as Cassia moves amongst his fellow students. Cassia’s robes swish as he moves, his hand touching a shoulder here, a head there. Jert watches as Cassia removes his robe, and finds his his physical presence startling. His body is hairless with well defined muscles, smooth and beautiful in its perfection. He watches how Cassia talks, how he moves. His economy of movement is the epitome of grace. Every gesture, tantalizing in its perfection, as Godlike as the old legends stated.

Jert feels the heat rise. He is no stranger to men, but he is so far beyond any that he has shared with in the past, he makes them all appear as children. He hides his face, hoping that nobody notices how it reddens. Not even Cassia’s statement of how they are to deceive and abandon honour to win a future battle is something that will work to shock him. Nothing is now, not since he had been prostrated on the floor, supplicated to him. He is the perfect warrior, the teacher of honour, the bringer of freedom.

So Jert watches as Cassia manifests his armour. The armour of legend, black spines tinged with purple fire down the arms and legs, the sigil of the God Siriadar, outlined in the fires of Cassia’s power, yet subverted to his destruction. The armour of the eternals, completed when the helmet manifests and the dragon stands before us. The mouth opens, telling us of our purpose, carrying the stench f the burning fires that can so easily be unleashed.

An air of fanaticism overcomes Jert. A lifetime of service, blended with the powerful emotional experience of having the greatest warrior of legend defeating him in so dramatic a fashion. Eyes alight with fire of belief, he jumps to his feet.

“Master Cassia, I am forever at your service. Tell me what you want me to do and for the rest of my days it shall be so.”

Cassia’s armour disappears, replaced by a simple black robe.

“Thank you, Ser Guthra. For now it suffices to sit and listen. The harder tasks will come later as you learn, as you all learn, that arcanist, warrior and scholar are but diverse sides of the same figure. You will learn that no matter what role you play, once you leave this class, you will be all three, ready to step forward and form once again the Hunting Pack of the Clans.”

Cassia suppresses a burst of mirth that threatens to burst forth as he sees the shock on the face of his students. The Hunting Pack, the personal warriors in service to Cassia, legendary in their prowess and ability but from myth and legend, gone for as long as Cassia has been gone (or rather, as long as he has remained in hiding), gone into the legend of Cassia and history. A round the class, students feel varying emotions, from humility and pride to fear and anger. Cassia, joined to his students by his surreptitious weaving of threads earlier, feels them all, and wonders: Who is it that so angry? He looks at his students, his eyes focussing on Leorid Kaftan and his out of place emotions.

Interlude: Out of the Darkness

It takes a long time before Kisman can see again. Too many years in darkness have taken their toll on Kisman. The God Siriadar visits him, his healing touch hastening the return of his vision, shortening the time to recover from years to mere weeks. In time he gets used to colour, sunrises, and the sight of faces; even that of the God Siriadar. He long for the darkness, a return to the quiet contemplation of most days, even the screams of those sacrificed would be welcome now, at least it would be familiar. He contemplates how long it has been that he has served in darkness for an eternity, it has become comforting, the light now feels harsh, an enemy that assaults senses.

“Wake up little man, the time has come for your training to start.” The sibilant voice awakens Kisman to the sight of the God Siriadar standing over him, his face covered by a mask worn to protect those who are of lesser stature from having to face the truth of his presence; Such an august presence would be too much for even an immortal such as Kisman to face. And so the training begins.

It takes years. Kisman gradually adjusts to life in the light. Slowly he adjusts to losing the anonymity of the protecting darkness, but no one ever adjusts to the presence of one of the Gods, and waking to Siriadar’s mask covered presence every morning remains a moment of fear. He learns about weapons, his body, and the way to combine them all into a whole that creates a weapon that is far more powerful than any mortal can ever be. He learns I all, absorbing it, the God making sure it becomes as part of him. In his dreams, in his thoughts, carefully hidden from the God, one thing continues to bother him: the Traitor killed hundreds of Eternals, all trained as he is being trained, some with centuries of experience in battle, yet they all fall before him. He fears that is to be his fate.

“You will defeat the Traitor. I will tell you his secret.”

The God Siriadar stands before him. It has been twenty years since he left the darkness. He has reached the level of the Eternals before him, a level that proved insufficient to defeat the Traitor. He leans forward, even the presence of the God Siriadar not enough to deflect his interest though even after all this time he trembles in fear in his presence.

“The Traitor was my consort.”

The words are flat, but they chill Kisman’s blood. Those who lie with the Gods are changed forever, no longer men, even further divorced from humanity than the immortals. He fears what comes next, but must ask the inevitable question, hoping that the ten years invested in his training will not be destroyed in a moment of godly anger.

“God Siriadar, how? Your consort is well known and has been there for millennia before the traitor. I know, the Traitor and I were brought to serve together, and your consort inducted us into your service.”

He is glad the face before him is a mask, he cannot see the God’s expression and if he could he is sure he would see his demise coming. He awaits the inevitable, for the pain. He awaits the God’s anger to manifest, for the punishment for angering the God to descend upon him. He waits but nothing happens, the God does not strike him down.

“Even Gods grow bored in time. The traitor was to be my new consort but first he had to be changed, prepared for the position. The changes you see in my consort are from millennia of contact; at first the changes are subtle. The consort becomes faster, stronger, able to see further and hear sounds inaudible to mere humans. Only those who come close will see the visible manifestation, and even then many will dismiss it unknowingly.”

“Then how do I defeat him?” Kisman fears he knows the answer, and hopes beyond hope the answer will be other than he fears.

He feels the God’s hand on his shoulder. The hand that is not a hand, the coldness from it penetrating through his shirt, penetrating his skin. He feels Siridar’s breath on his neck, icicles on his ears. He sits still as Siridar unbuttons his shirt, brings Kisman closer to him. Later, he knows that more happened, but he forgets, the experience forgotten, like a nightmare one cannot bare to face in the morning. The horror is too great, perhaps in time he will be able to bear Siridar’s touch without passing out.

The changes come fast; I can almost feel my body change as I sleep. It takes only two days before my bed is covered in hair, my body taking on a slickness and sensitivity I had never dreamed off. The God continues to visit Kisman daily but still he continues to hide the visits from his memory, the horror still unfaceable, still beyond his comprehension. More years pass, more time spent perfecting himself as a weapon of both the arcane and mundane, more time preparing to face the traitor.

In the training and horror of being consort to the God Siriadar, Kisman’s mind ranges far, finally being freed from the stagnation of the years in darkness. He remembers the years before the light was lost. He remembers the battle, being captured as the Clanhold was burnt to the ground; how he was chained and dragged away into the darkness, Cassia beside him, whispering words of encouragement and support even as we disappear into the darkness forever. He remembers the screams welling up, how they were at the tip of his tongue, and how Cassia stopped him; even then, knew to the dark and service to the Gods, he somehow knew that of Kisman had started, he would not stop till he found himself bent over a sacrificial stone, his soul sucked into one of the Gods to bring them warmth that they could no longer feel in any other way.

He recalls Cassia escape; how he became the Traitor, but left him behind in the darkness, until now. Now; now he shall hunt him down. As his mind rages Kisman revels in the idea of revenge, his descent into degradation too far to ever claw his way back; his anger at abandonment overriding his hatred of the Gods. In the madness of a life in spent in darkness, this becomes an affirmation, a justification of a life spent in darkness, of a life of sending untold souls to be eaten by the ravenous Gods. In Cassia’s death, he will finally join his will to that of the Gods.

Interlude: On the borders
It stood before the Freehold. It was a single figure clad in the armour of the army of the Gods, but bearing no weapon. The face was hidden by the dragon helm. The figure stood quietly, patiently, saying nothing, just staring at the closed gate.

“Is it still there?” Maerdyn of Clan Biali addressed the Captain at the gate, unable to see past the armour clad figures at the battlements.

“Yes, Clan Master, it's still there.”

“I will descend and meet with him, whomsoever it may be. Be ready. If it starts manifesting weapons, attack to kill; my life is forfeit in that situation and the sole job of those upon these walls is to not let it beyond these portals.”

The walk down the stairs to the gate was the longest walk Maerdyn could remember. Surely he had walked longer distances, but this seemed to be miles without end. Eventually, he stood before the gate and raised his hand for it to be opened, and stepped out into the clear space before the gates to confront the armour clad figure, face to face.

Maerdyn examined the figure in front of him, wearing the legendary Dragon Armor of the Eternals. He could see the flickering of pale red fire along its spikes, detect a hint of sulphur emanating from the mouth. He examined it as he stood there, taking his time, trying to show no fear.

“I come in peace.” The voice is high pitched, painful to the ears, unexpected.

“Welcome, remove your helmet and enter. We can talk peace better without masks.” Maerdyn stood, watching as the figure revealed itself. The helmet dissolves back into wherever it is stored. The person before him revealed as a woman with high cheekbones, a beaklike nose and yellow eyes. She bows, waiting for him to act. He returns the bow and turns, entering into the gate, followed by the woman.

“Clan Master, I bring the greetings of the Gods of Evernight. For too long have we warred. We would have peace; the war has been gone too long for old wounds to still bleed. We believe the time has come to set the past aside.”

Her voice is still too high, too painful on the ears. He is surprised by her statements. A life of war, of skirmishes with the forces of the Gods does not prepare him for these words.

“And what would you have in return? I have seen your warriors razing our fields. Our children dragged off to be slaves. You know we will never trade in lives nor will we agree to vassalage.”

She bows her head, long red hair falling over her face, momentarily obscuring it. When she raises it again she has changed, her face is rounder, the lips fuller and the eyes now pits of darkness.

“Vassalage is not so bad. Has not Clan Biali been vassals to Clan Guthra since the return of Cassia? He is long gone, yet you remain a vassal clan, a minor dependent on the kindness of their masters. We offer something better. Complete autonomy, none of your people taken for slaves. In return we want a tithing of food from you land and some of your empty space for the settlement of our people.”

Standing she spreads her arms. “Think on it.” The words fade slower than her; in the blink of an eye she is gone.

The rebuilt clan was unveiled ten years after I had started bringing them together. Ten years of finding, bringing and teaching the remnants. Teaching them the arts of war, of the arcane and pride. Amongst those that had survived the sacking of the Freehold pride was sorely lacking, even their honor was in question, they had become mercenaries and thieves in the night, servants to the other clans. Now they learnt pride anew, a rekindled honor, and yearned to set out to show the Clans they would no longer be outcast.

We revealed ourselves at the siege of Clan Biali. The Biali Freehold had always been on the border, always on the frontline, peace never known in that restless land. The war had taken its toll, and they found themselves finally surrounded, besieged by the superior forces of the Gods, facing one of the Eternals. Our three hundred seemed pitiful compared to the vast forces of the Gods, even compared to the forces that Clan Biali commanded. But we harboured something new to battle; one hundred archivists amongst our three hundred. The Gods did not send arcane wielders to battle, they existed to serve and empower the Gods.

The battle was decisive. The arcane energy unleashed by my forces decimating the enemy; my warriors, trained to a level far beyond any on that battlefield, bathed in blood, howling their hatred as they massacred the enemy. I alone confronted the Eternal Commander. His look of horror as I revealed myself, as my armor burnt with might far greater than his, was the first feeling of joy I had felt in a long time. I toyed with him, letting him waste his power, his might, letting the arcane threads he cast melt off me like water, letting his sword blows, ever more desperate, always come close but never touch. Then I retaliated. His death was long, cruel and delightful in its intensity. The years of hatred, the feeling of the closeness of the God Siriadar, the burning of souls, all these I expunged upon him, releasing my guilt by his suffering.

At the end of the battle I counted only three lost from those under my command. Piles of dead from the Biali Clan and the enemy littered the field. Decimated, the Clan Biali elders came forward, knelt, and swore fealty. Clan Guthra had returned, and all would now take note.
- From the Cassia Manuscript

Cassia looked over the class. In the last three years they have changed. Hardened. His fault, they have been stripped of any innocence they may have possessed when they first saw him. Ruthlessly, systematically, the comfortable illusions of their lives have been removed, replaced by visions of the darkness that manifest in us all, forcing them to confront it. If they did not, they would fall when faced with it in battle. Today’s lesson would be difficult for them. They would be confronted with further uncomfortable truths, and it was here where students got lost; to madness, to suicide, and to despair.

“You all know me. We have sweated together, fought together, slept together. I have made you confront the best and worst in yourselves. Look upon vistas of your souls that we normally hide from ourselves. Today I will do worse.”

Cassia look around the room, watching as they shift uncomfortably. Many would gladly trade the knowledge gained in this room for the comfort of ignorance, of innocence returned. Cassia look at the three that have made themselves the leaders of the class. Leorid Kaftan, Jert Guthra and Hari Ferian. Jert has taken to worship, he gazes upon Cassia as if he were a God, but does his best at all lessons- his superb fighting skills not well adjusted to the casting of threads, but still he perseveres; Hari Ferian has proved her gift as an archivist, and showem an amazing physical aptitude as a warrior, and Leorid Kaftan. He worries Cassia still; Leorid has a brilliant mind, easily out thinking the rest, quickly adapting to the new dual role of archivist and warrior, absorbing information like a sponge, extrapolating meat from the bones provided.

Cassia has investigated him. Thrown threads into the world, asking the wind, the earth, for what they know. Nothing explains his boredom, his ennui, his coldness to life. He is an enigma, and, Cassia feels, he is the eye of a storm about to break. Even now his reaction is different, calculated. The others dread the further revelations, they fear what they will face, yet he leans forward, examining Cassia; almost Cassia detects excitement in his eyes, as if what he has waited for is finally here.

“Close your eyes. Look into the darkness before you.” As they obey Cassia seals their eyes, casting a thread across them, closing off any light that may enter. “Look into the darkness, let it swallow you, follow it to the source.”

They try to obey, but they don’t understand, only one student is succeeding, Leorid Kaftan. I can feel as he finds the path, falls into the pit, and is engulfed by the darkness within.

“You all still look for light. Release the light, look for darkness. Forget eyes, colors, shapes. Look for the formless, the lightless, and the source of the darkness.” And one by one they succumb, the previous lessons preparing them for this, for the void within.

Ten students, but only nine find the path. The tenth is a boy from the rock lands, Drawid Helodis of Clan Shelik. He is an unremarkable student, though gifted in his own way or he would not be here. Yet he is scared of his own darkness. Cassia knows he could push him over the precipice, plunge him to where the others are, but that would guarantee madness.

“Drawid. Come with me. The rest, stay within this meditation. There is power in that darkness, if you can find it.”

Drawid stands at hearing his name called. He feels separated from the whole. The last six months have created a bond between them all. A bond forged in the work and sweat, in the perceiving of our very selves in ways we could never have imagined. Drawid wonders why he separates him now, why he has been singled out.

Drawid follows Cassia through a door in the back of the room, a door he has never seen before. Cassia seems to have doors when needed. Doors to training areas, doors to rooms filled with arcane apparatus, doors to meadows where fire can be called down, waves unleashed or cows herded. His doors seem to obey no rules, so the class just accepts them as further proof of who he is.

Drawid steps through the door into darkness. He raises his hand, but it could just as well be miles away for all he can see. He squeezes his eyes shut, watching the lights dance. When he opens them the light is still gone. He hears Cassia’s voice from the darkness; soft, lilting, a rhythm to the words that entices the senses. He tries to follow but there is no floor. He floats in the midst of darkness. Panicked he searches for the light, for the indication of where the exit may be, but behind him he feels nothing, no door, no light.

He sinks to the floor, wanting to scream, to hear Cassia’s voice, any voice, in the darkness; through the panic his ears are filled with the soft melodic chant from Cassia. And he remember his words: ‘Release the light, look for darkness.” Drawid aims for the heart of the darkness, crawling, then running forward as he finds the path. His feet move him along this path, carrying him over the edge of a pit, unseen in the darkness.

Cassia feels the change as Drawid is finally in the pit, and looks at the boy seated amongst his fellow students. It was but a simple illusion he had used, but one that facilitates the transition. If that had not worked he would have been forced to risked his sanity, plunging him into the pit without warning.

“You are all in the pit. Searching. But you do not know what it is you search for. I told you there is power there. This is the power that the Gods of Evernight tap, the reason for the darkness of Evernight."

He feels them reaching, and then a sudden explosion of power. He feels the manifestation, and he manifests his own armour, vaulting back as he summons his swords to his hands. He faces an Eternal, armour burning, standing over the bodies of four of my students. Leorid Kaftan is no more; his body is blackened, as are the bodies of Kernia Sianluk, Pagu Jintao and Selian Maren.

“Oh great and mighty Cassia, are you not going to greet an old friend?”

The voice is cold, yet familiar. A voice Cassia has not heard in millennia; a voice from a hilltop, drifting across a meadow with grazing sheep; a voice which carries the memories of a descent into darkness and clutching at sanity as the truth of the darkness became known.

“Kisman.” Cassia speaks his name, it feels flat on his tongue, it tastes bitter, and brings with it much regret and the memories of nightmares and weeping as he searched, and could not find, a hidden citadel.

“Ahhh, you remember Cassia. Do you remember how you left me in the dark? Left me to suffer at the hands of a consort denied, at the hands of those who blamed me for your treasonous acts? I survived Cassia, and now I have been blessed by Siriadar as you were blessed. I will not die easily, not like those others who knew not what they faced!”

His words are cutting, bringing Cassia’s guilt to the fore, the guilt he felt when he first left Kisman in the dark. He had promised to look after him, promised to protect him and to not leave him alone with the monsters in the dark. He had promised that he would return to free him, but he had not returned, but left him to the degradations and deprivations of those that ruled in the darkness.

“Kisman.” This time his name is a whisper, a supplication. “My brother.” Cassia bows his head, he knows Kisman cannot see the tears in his eyes through the helmet, yet he dare not remove it, the true fight might start at any moment if he cannot be dissuaded.

“Brother, I wanted to, I could not. Every step closer I came to Evernight I reached out, trying to reach you, trying to penetrate the miasma that the Gods use to hide Evernight. I killed thousands in my quest. I searched mountains and vales. I looked through the sky and dived into the depths of both water and earth, yet I could not find it. Evernight is hidden brother; can you find it now that you have left? It is hidden, but to those who bring it its victims, and return the faithful to its walls.”

He watches the figure in front of him, seeing the power coming through, close to his own, but he has not the time for a detailed estimation of his power. He wonders: “Has Siriadar dealt honestly with him? How much did Siriadar tell him, how much does he know of the true nature of the Gods?” Cassia reaches out with threads, wrapping them around his students even as they prepare for battle. But they are not yet ready- he moves them out, shunting them to safety.

“Well Kisman, the innocent are away. Are you here to offer your help against your degenerate masters?”

“You always made me laugh as a child Cassia. My older brother, always there for me, protecting me against the monsters in the dark. Only, you didn’t. You were brave when the monsters were not real but failed when they came alive.”

Kisman jumps down, standing in front of Cassia.

“I serve the Gods well Cassia. They have rewarded me, made me stronger, more powerful than any man, mortal or immortal could be. Now I will carry out their command and destroy you as an indicator of my faith.”

Kisman takes a stance, swords at the ready, defensive, steel and arcane threads equally embedded in the fabric of his movements. Each enhancing the other, the two bound into one.

“Ahh Kisman, you always have been naïve, trusting. Thousands of years have not changed that; it is an endearing trait. Think Kisman, think on what you felt from the consort, on what you felt when with Siriadar. Compare them Kisman.”

Cassia mirrors his stance, their movements synchronous, beautiful but deadly. The weaving swords and limbs forming patterns, patterns that create barriers, trailing arcane threads, a rainbow of energy for those able to see.

“Why so silent Kisman? Think on what I’ve said. The consort has been changing over the years, becoming less human, has he not? Ask yourself this question, what is at the end of the change?”

“Brother you speak too much. Were you not taught to concentrate on the battle at hand?” Kisman’s voice is soft, and Cassia feels the power embedded in his words to break his concentration, to force his head to turn in just one direction.

“Kisman, ask yourself this, 'what is the battle at hand?' You see it as the testing of blades, the spilling of a brother’s blood. I on the other hand see it as a battle for redemption.”

Even as Cassia speaks, Kisman attacks, one blade whirling around, arcing in to his side, the other sweeping down, deflecting any attack that would be coming in retaliation. He jumps back, allowing Kisman’s blade to pass harmlessly in front, and he swings his own blade down, not to hit, but to drag the wall of protective magic to block Kisman’s magical thrust.

“Still no answer, Kisman? Their Godhood is nothing divine. It is a disease. One from which you and I suffer; received when they embraced us. Think, Kisman, they are immeasurably old. It has just had time to run its course in them.” Kisman hesitates, perhaps my words are reaching him, but then Cassia sees the feint, the blade outlined in blue as it spins with Kisman’s body, trailing power.

Cassia dives into the earth, swimming through it, rising behind Kisman, striking out with both blades, hitting Kisman’s armour and soaking up the magic shielding him. Kisman shrieks, unharmed, but now knowing his vulnerability.

“You have been embraced by Siriadar, Kisman. Now you carry the disease, just as he does, as I do, as do all of the consorts and Gods. Siriadar thought to harden you against me, to make you as powerful. Siriadar and the others choose to deny the reality of what they are, what they have become. You can never be my equal, I have been sick longer than you!” And this time he shoots up, through the roof, but as a ghost, diving through walls, then through the floor, up behind him, again draining his shields as his strikes suck his power.

“Think Kisman. Why do the Gods need the sacrifices? They are dying, immortality being lost to bestiality. They are not sleeping, but they lose their minds to the beasts they are becoming. Immortality is not for humanity, the gift is stolen from the dragons, mocked in their armour, needs to be reversed. They eat souls Kisman, to try and stay human, to stave off the final transformation, to not become the food of that which they once longed to be.”

Kisman listens to his brother’s words. They make a mockery of him. They make him question the Gods and their words, but Cassia is the Traitor, to the Gods; he deserted them and left me to suffer in darkness. His flight, his swimming through stone is not something Kisman can emulate. Kisman knows he is powerful and could defeat a whole host of Clansmen, but the being that his brother has become is too powerful. He crosses his swords and shifts, running away, back to the God Siriadar, back to the comfort of those that have tormented him for so long, to the comfortable belief in divine, immortal Gods.

Cassia feels his brother shift, and throws a thread, trying to follow him into the darkness, hoping he will lead me to Evernight. It does not work, the thread goes missing, foiled by one of the Gods. He mourns for the loss of his students, of the four lying dead before me and the one who died to allow Kisman in.

He reaches down, to heal the bodies of their wounds so they can be beautiful for their death rites; a small comfort for those who will mourn them, and find that Leorid still breaths. He is in pain; Cassia can see how the burns tear at him, yet through that pain he still murmurs words of healing, not enough to cure, but enough to hold off death! Cassia marvels at his willpower, the will power that allowed him to stay awake through pain that would have felled any other man. Cassia marshals his own power and channels it through the armour, turning the flames of war into flames of healing, paradoxically curing Leorid’s burns with flames.

It appears the time of hiding is over, the war has begun anew.

Interlude: On the border

She keeps coming back. Every year, on the same date, the dragon armoured figure appears, never menacing, never threatening. When invited in, the same offer is made each time.

Clan Master Maerdyn sits before her. The wine is not yet drunk as he awaited the now customary offer. She wears her red haired aspect today; over the years she had shown three other aspects, but the armour always remained the same.

“Ahh, my guest, you know, after all these years I still do not know your name?” Maerdyn spoke softly. It had indeed been many years. She had first appeared at the Clanhold fifteen years before. Her visits growing longer, friendlier, even as his daughter Kernia had left, destined for greatness as one of those to study the Unknown. He had tried to enter the course years before, but had not been accepted; it was rare for the minor clans to gain entry, and nowadays Clan Biali was a minor clan.

She looked at Maerdyn, her eyes slits, looking at his hairline, now receded from the thick patch of the years before to a high widow’s peak, his face worn by the passage of time, lines of age showing along with the spots that old men wear.

“Nes. A simple name, for a simple messenger.” She smiles lightly, knowing he no more believes her to be a simple messenger than she does. “Clan Master, this is my last visit without my weapons. As we speak events unfold. Sides are being chosen, and you sit in a unique position. Clan Biali can be the new Masters of the clans, serving the Gods as their messengers and controlling these lands. Soon you will know of what I speak. I will return in 7 days, at that time I will need your final answer.”

She stands, her wine unfinished, the pastries left lying untasted. As before she spreads her arms and disappears, but as if carried on the wind he hears the words. “In 7 Days”