The memoirs

Kalia had found out quickly why the King was in such a fervor. For a second, she had believed–but listening to his report, she had discarded her suspicion. The King was impulsive, but he was not reckless. Not entirely. He would never commit the folly many a young mage of her grace fell for. There was no way he would commit himself to the Fever.

The reason for his agitation, all things considered, was no less baneful.

Aevar had stormed up and down the dais, disrupted into those branches, vacated from leaves, and repeatedly uttered prayers in the name of his ancestors Auris and Praemarion, his voice oiled with wine. He produced miniature missiles of purple, shooting aloft and crowning the stiff bark. She watched him fiddle as a child. A child who was responsible for a massive empire, closing down on the size it had once held during its prime. But in innovation and enterprise, it already surpassed the ancient Aurian League.

In the rear of the hall rose a tree, sputtering from the marble and claiming the dais of its foundation with its roots. Planted at the dawn of civilization, the tree’s crown, consisting of a thousand branches, twigs, and half-trunks, unified to meet in one pillar of black wood, two millennia in age. Its base was hollowed out and filled with soft cushions, offering a soft spot for the elected ruler. Vibrant threads whirled throughout the timber of the amaranth bark, and yet the throne of Doomsbane bore no leaves as though summer’s end had prolonged into the five seasons. In earlier days, acrobats were said to swing themselves from branch to branch and entertain the hall. Now, the King was singular in rupturing the void of the tree.

That was the dimension that conquest unfolded on the old mage. Siege, open battle, or monomachia–a duel among mages, it fevered his skin and rejuvenated his composure. How someone could draw strength from such ventures was obscure to Kalia, but that was the effect on the King.

“You sicken me,” she said to his face. They were alone, more or less, so she dropped her mask. “Your methods are out of date and cruel.”

“How dare you!” the High Priestess snarled while leaning into the velvet throne cushions of the concave trunk, her legs crossed, her knees rubbing herself. “The King offers you the opportunity to be part of his greatness, and you insult him?”

Somber in expression, Kalia dragged herself towards the priestess but before she could chide that dogmatic, tamed woman, a ripping sound descended from the crown.

The thick atmosphere of perfume, incense, and alcohol was intensified by a heavy disruption. Purple sparks knitted themselves back into the fabric of the atmosphere, leaving no trail behind, and Aevar spread his hands before the trunk. “The red continent shall be ours again.”

“How so?” It was impossible, she knew from a secure source.

“Since the Downfall, things have never been better for us. Not so much for the tyrannies. Sunfall suffers. The people who can’t escape the seven tyrants are fighting against their rule. And one of the tyrants has gone rogue again, leaving their brittle union. This is the time to swallow them.”

She feared for his plannings. They were essentially the same as those of the segregationist and late Blackswing Alion, the King’s father. After the reconquest of the Ancient Lands from the last human kings had ended, they had both begun to plot against the former territories. Their quest was to restructure the ancient Aurian League that had once, centuries ago, encapsulated half the world and many of the distant races from the outer realms. A feat so great and cruel it was not to be done again. “Your son attempted and failed.”

The King’s neck vein turned purple against his skin. Aevar then gritted his teeth, irritated. “Be on your guard. From now on I will not be so nice to you.”

“Bite me.” Her face hardened, heat rushed into her throat. Aevar had changed a lot since she had last seen him, when he had begged her, kneeled before her like a commoner. Now more than ever Kalia wondered if her retaliation back then had been the right move. The King had regained his strength after she’d left but not in the way she’d intended. Instead of accessing his wisdom, he had turned lethal. “Let’s not fall into old arguments,” she continued. “You were never nice to me, Uncle.”

“I was always nice to you, my darling-sweetness. But my son is my son, and his pains are mine to pursue. You mentioned him, and so I need to ask you something.”

Knew it! It’s all about that again. She pursed her lips. “What might that be?”

In a listless tone, he muttered, “Give me his memoirs.”

Quickly, she veiled the fury at her well-founded suspicion and averted her sight. “You only want them so you can learn why his conquest failed.”

Looking back at him, Kalia saw the purple in his eyes sparkle. “So there is a reason!” Aevar snapped his fingers, the strings that interlaced the atmosphere quivered into visibility. “He always told me it was chance and trickery that got the best of him–my son the most powerful mage of his time. Of course, nobody could defeat him! What is it, Kalia? You must tell me.”

There was a reason her cousin Astaros had entrusted her with this most sacred artistry before he passed away. Verily, it stemmed from the pen of the most powerful mage of their time, and as such Astaros had founded many strategies, but Kalia had a strong feeling that he had consigned to her his greatest achievement so that his theurgical effusions would never be twisted for the benefit of a single individual, who would abuse it for a brute campaign.

She couldn’t give the father the son’s memoirs, for not only was it full of descriptions of versatile spells but of something else entirely. In his last days, Astaros had accomplished ingenuity. He had rediscovered the noblest of the arcane practices.

The King could never own such a key. Kalia’s thoughts went as far as to consider that if Aevar were privy to how fatal the content of the memoirs was, he wouldn’t even shy back from killing his last relative–Kalia herself–to get them. She fought down the panic that came with that awareness, her throat dry and her heart thrumming betrayal heavily in her ears.

There was another escape of fume followed by a whoosh. This time, however, the sparks were golden, and Lyrus jumped off a branch of the massive tree. She thanked the goddess for his timely appearance that granted her a short reprieve, so she could assimilate her collectedness.

He bowed to the King. “The Paladins await your command, Your Grace.”

“Good boy.” She watched Aevar’s amethyst eyes fixating on Lyrus like a raptor locking on his target. Then Kalia felt she was next, and she abruptly stopped her admiration of the young man. “Boisterous were you in front of the city! As your family suffers from disease, I expect you and your pupil to blast more gates out of their hinges. Can you do that for me?”

“Obviously.”

What city gates? thought Kalia.

“Well then. You are dismissed.”

Lyrus vanished and dangled atop the naked crown again.

She hated herself for it, that she was so unprepared and taken by surprise. Again. She was supposed to be the Dame of the Realm, the ruler and center of information while the warmonger did his conquering. Even their breakup hadn’t changed that. Her nails were buried inside her palms, and she pondered the means to escape all of this.

“Now back to you, Niece. What will it take for you to grant me insight into my son’s deepest caverns of his soul?”

“I told you before: I lost his novel.”

“And I’m to believe that? Am I a gullible child or the greatest monarch? No, this does not satisfy me.” He did not hide the menace in his voice. It made her uneasy.

The columns that spread throughout the throne hall, that had been erected as a temple, now bore down on her. Imprinted divines supported the firmament where a ceiling fresco depicted black and golden strings, the soul kiss of night and day that enabled disruptions, the most sublime gift that cosmic mages were famous for. Holding judgment over their descendants in the eternal court, Kalia felt every marble figure staring from the columns as though they inspected each of her mannerisms.

She weighed her words.

With all the confusion she could muster, she moved her brows together. Not too much as her facial expression needed to appear natural and not forced but also not too languid as to appear random. “When Astaros gave them to me, he spoke about how important these scriptures were to him but also how useless they were for the ensuing ages. All his magical discoveries are available to us in his Reflections. Go to any library, they will hand you a copy. His memoirs were but a gift to me: the words of an afflicted spirit. I think he wanted me to read about his mistakes and to forgive him as his sister was no longer around to grant him the absolution, he usually sought from her.”

“Yes, I know about that.”

“Then you will understand that I am utterly embarrassed, ashamed even–” Bollocks! Was that too much? She watched the King, but he didn’t appear to take notice of her trepidant tone and resumed, “–that I misplaced his deepest concerns for the future when I left these halls in such a hurry. You know after what happened between us…”

“Ah!” Aevar coughed uncomfortably and settled his desire. He rubbed his chin from which a snow white and fluffy beard grew. All the pearliness that his teeth lacked seemed to have grown out of his face. “Well, are you sure there are no spell instructions? Someone like him… an Arch Mage, I thought he had taken notes somewhere besides his Reflections.”

“If he did, then he did not share them with me. You know that magic was never of superior interest to me.”

“I am aware,” he said with a harshness that made his alar wing and upper lip twitch. He whirled and seated himself next to the priestess, who was quick to fetch him some of his rare date wine. She poured half a cup of its black content into Aevar and started to play with his beard while her other hand massaged his broad thorax.

Kalia averted her gaze yet again at such a public display of pleasure.

She had no problem with affection as long as it was sincere, but the priestess behaved so lascivious and saccharine around Aevar Aurian, Kalia couldn’t stand being around them, watch how she always rubbed some body part of his as if she expected to conjure up a wish-granting spirit from Aevar’s pores.

The throne hall began to brim with army soldiers and servants, which meant the city had already been informed of his plans for invasion. Kalia had been so involved in her ventures that she must’ve missed the report. Maybe there was still hope and she could distract him from attacking a continent that was infamous for its archaic practices. The last tyrannies on Orros, unbroken from the human rebellion and unchased from Kalia’s ventures, Sunfall was also a hotbed of unharnessed dark energy that the King needed to access. Next to Astaros’s memoirs, it was the logical choice for the enlargement of his dominion.

“What about the Ashlands or the Valley of Wind?” she inquired. “There are two Valleys left in the Ancient Lands that you have not yet subdued.”

Aevar produced air from his lips. “Oh, please. The humans to the west bother us not. They have no mages to tame nature. Let their country be swallowed slowly by magical forests, storms, and beasts. Afterward, we will enter and pacify a feral country without any resistance. They’ll call on us, you’ll see. The Valley of Wind, however, is a different manner.” He lifted the harassing hands from the priestess off him and bowed on his knees, a mischievous smile taking overhand again. “Why do you think, I am planning my campaign on Sunfall now?”

She couldn’t believe it. Kalia traced all sources of information, gathered every message, and every report she had read in the recent weeks, and went through them in her head again. Yes, there were rumors and comments of troop and ship movements, but these things usually took longer than a week or two if one wanted to stay undetected. A disruption was quicker but also much louder, warning any stronghold of an approaching foe. And even multiple cosmic mages together would struggle considering the logistics of moving a host.

Was that why the King had a new pupil? Little could be expected from the capital of lies and intrigues, but Estas Araseon, the one she’d appointed emissary, should’ve told her!

“Don’t look so grim, dear,” Aevar solaced. “It happened so fast and unspectacular not many took notice. The rest I swore to discretion.”

Kalia flustered. “What are you talking about?”

“King–wait. He’s no longer king. High Mage Arvengar’s Valley is small.”

More worry. More vexation. “You crossed the borders to the north.”

“Hah!” Aevar barked a laugh. “Crossed the borders–that’s cute. I overran Arvengar’s damn Valley and captured his capital in a storm. Within a fortnight it was ours. His son is under my leash as you know. You should’ve seen me, Kalia! I was not hiding behind my executors and forces as you’d think. I led my soldiers from the vanguard like the old masters did, like a man in his early forties, known and taught, and physically impetuous–the most dangerous breed.”

“He… is your relative…” Kalia’s family was a beast, a monster, a horrendous oppressor. Her shoulders heaved; her gaze torpid.

“Ah, family. What is that? You are my niece, my family. These would-be elders are nothing but impure breeds, former bastards, lifted into positions that are supposed to be held by true mages–if only there were more of us left! Now, I am a gracious monarch, so I won’t go back on my son’s reforms. Bastards are permitted into the Pantheon, where they try their minds to levy what little dimensional arithmetic of the Reflections they can grasp. The humans have their assembly, and the mages have one which grants them more rights than I’m comfortable giving. But I don’t begrudge them. Let them argue for the crumbs as long as I speak the last word and own the heaviest chunk.”

Her heart sank, her face emptied.

In a way, Kalia pitied the King. He was still trying to impress his catacombed father, the biggest prick of them all. When his daughter and son had perished, whatever had been left of Aevar’s heart since the death of his wife had slowly turned to ice. And now the icy King with the drive of an adolescent, the resources of a flourishing economy, and a formidable host had no one else to torment but the world.