25 Return to the Past

79BI, Before the Imperium, 1003 years in the past

AIYANA WISHED SHE’D never asked the question. Her imperial marshal appeared in perfect health. It had hardly been twelve hours since she’d lain in the medicary dying.

Aiyana smoothed her dress as she made to rise. ‘Forget it. I had no right to ask this of you.’

‘The answer is, yes.’

‘What?’ Aiyana paused halfway, bent at the waist.

‘There is no other way,’ said her imperial marshal. ‘I know you. You would not have asked if there was. I also know this is as it was meant to be. This is the culmination of my service. I never realised I would help usher in the Age of the viral. I had thought to witness it, nothing more. It is my honour to accept.’

‘When I asked, I had no idea ...’

Scatter smiled, ‘And does it make a difference?’

‘You are Angelborn,’ she blurted before she could stop herself. You idiot, she snapped in her mind. Why did you have to bring that up?

Scatter smiled, but said nothing, an admission in and of itself. Anyone else would have been shocked, outraged, or they would’ve laughed.

Aiyana retook her seat. It was real. It was happening. She tried to quieten her nerves, her fears. ‘I entered this with eyes open, and never knew how it might end. Here I am almost at the end, and I still don’t know. It was wrong of me to ask you, especially you.’

Scatter leaned forward in her seat, the leather armour creaking. ‘You forget, I am also Aidari. We live to serve the undead. A person can be more than one thing. When I took the form of flesh and bone, I took all the responsibilities of this existence. It was not a simple choice albeit one I made willingly, as I willingly accept your request.’

Aiyana was quick to note the choice of words, which was a further revelation of her identity. She had taken the form of flesh, and was not born to it. Who is this woman?

‘We Aidari live to die at your request. My former existence does not excuse me from this duty. You allow self-doubt to smother what you know is right. There is this task you must perform and I will help you.’

‘My brother does not completely trust you. He likes you though he doesn’t trust you.’

The Hatavan woman grinned. ‘Your brother is wise. No one knows my motivations or my heart. No one but me. If you wish my help, it is yours. I know the task awaiting you, Aiyana Todralan.’

‘Can you help?’

In answer, the former Aidari got to her feet. Her form blurred and emerging from the distortion of air and light, two women. Both smiled, and one spoke, ‘This is my talent as your brother would put it.’

The second Scatter then spoke. ‘I can do this to a limit of ten, before it becomes ... dangerous.’

‘In what way?’

The women blurred back together. ‘There is a limit to magic for all of us. Should we dare to cross those limits, it can destroy us.’

‘But you are ... angelic.’ Aiyana saw the slight smile on Scatter’s face, telling her she had also noted Aiyana’s choice of words. Angelic, and not Angelborn.

‘Yes,’ the marshal answered, ‘yet this body I took can only withstand so much and even angels have limits. However, for you, I will dare this. There was a viral once who had a similar talent, although I think it was much more traumatic for her.’

Aiyana stood, pulling her robes tight about her. ‘No, I cannot allow you to risk your life or your soul. This is not what I wanted.’

‘Ask yourself, Aiyana Todralan, is it just for you I would do this? Is it just for you that you would do this?’

Aiyana stared at her, feeling like a lectured child. Sometimes she forgot Scatter was a leader and a teacher. ‘No, but I still can’t let you sacrifice yourself.’

‘You are a leader,’ she said, echoing Aiyana’s thoughts. ‘You may order soldiers to battle knowing they will die. Tough decisions must sometimes be undertaken. You know this as do I.’

‘I, I can’t.’

‘Give me a good reason why and I will say nothing else.’

‘Well, you might die.’

‘Not a good reason. My life is not yours. Nor are my choices. What I offer you, I do so of my free will. After all, you asked. You didn’t order. Again, give me a good reason. In fact, tell me what will happen if we both enter this together.’

‘Cathya ...’ she whispered.

The imperial marshal examined her with a sad expression. ‘I understand, but I am not her. She gave up her mortal existence to save you and humanity. I know she still loves you. She always will.’

Aiyana struggled to think and began to pace, flustered. She felt worse than a child. She felt a fool. The entire world was at stake, perhaps the very nature of existence. She had thought it a brilliant idea, and it was. Scatter had spectralic magic and could manipulate time if for short durations. This would require she do so for much longer, but the woman’s arguments were sound. ‘I guess, I can’t think of another reason.’

‘Then it is agreed.’

Aiyana’s resistance crumbled. ‘Tell me how this might work.’

‘You must return through time to the original mage. The one whose soul split apart.’

Aiyana nodded. ‘Seems impossible doesn’t it.’ Ludicrous.

‘Nothing is impossible. Just often unachievable.’

‘Isn’t it the same thing?’

‘I can separate your soul from your body and I can bend time while I do it. You must know I have limitations and so I believe you have not told me the rest of your plan.’

Aiyana glanced at her, and then down at her feet, frowning. She was perceptive and likely she already knew. ‘There is another. An Atlantian named Asher.’

‘Yes, the Atlantian prince.’

That caught Aiyana’s attention and her head snapped up. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Asher Tone, son of Haven Tone, the king of Atlantis. Ah, you didn’t know. Asher is obviously keeping a low profile. It is irrelevant in any case.’

An Atlantian prince? How was she supposed to forget something like that? That is why his name was familiar. There were some imperial reports, albeit sketchy, of the Atlantian royal family and their identities. The secretive island did not like the outside world to know much, if anything. ‘I cannot see how this will work. The longer I think on it, the more ... unachievable it seems.’

A knock at the door and Aiyana turned with a frown when it opened. She had not given leave for anyone to disturb them. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as Scatter entered. This new replica came to stand beside the first and said, ‘In one hour from now, I will split my form, to practice, and arrive outside this door just seconds ago.’ Once again, the women blurred and merged.

‘I’m officially impressed,’ was all Aiyana could manage, retaking her seat.

‘We will do this,’ said Scatter, ‘because it is the only way. All my mortal life everything I’ve done has led me to this, as it has for your ... Atlantian friend. The Spectrum smiles on us. Do not be afraid.’

‘I’m very likely not going to return.’

Scatter offered her hand and Aiyana took it. The marshal then moved closer beside her as a friend would. ‘There are many forms of existence. The Spectrum is vast and varied and beyond comprehension, but this is not an end for you, Aiyana Todralan. Just a different beginning.’

‘Well, when you put it like that it sounds nice. Not sure I believe it, but I’ll take it. Very well. When should we begin?

‘In a few hours, if that is acceptable to you. The sooner we start the better. And from now on you may call me, Linuncia.’

‡

THE WEEK-LONG JOURNEY across the Adalcis wasn’t one Desool would forget. For a start, they’d crossed three thousand miles of ocean in a week and had weathered two storms. Desool felt exhausted and all he’d done was stand and watch.

The Tenth Torment, and son of the infamous Grim, had stood on the bow of the ship arms outstretched. The silver-tipped horns on his neck and shoulders had lengthened as he let his power loose. Desool had stared in awe as white flame enveloped the longship, sails snapping in an otherworldly wind. The vessel had thundered through the waves groaning with the strain, but it had held together.

It had not been a pleasant journey and the ship, currently hauled up on the stony beach, had sustained serious damage. Ralan claimed he could repair it, but the Torment didn’t look much better than the vessel. He looked drained with dark circles beneath his eyes. His horns had become so small they were unnoticeable.

When Desool had set foot on the island of Yalta, a deep disquiet had entered his bones. Although the Necropolis was further inland, according to Ralan, the whole island felt like a grave. It saddened him, as he imagined life once would have existed there. No one inhabited the Aidaril Islands anymore because of a dark presence. Centuries of rumours had been sparse on detail, but all told of an evil manifestation inhabiting the old viral school. Stood there on the rocky shore, Desool felt the truth of it. Something was on Yalta, and it did not want visitors.

He lifted Ralan out of the longship and laid him on the beach.

‘You could snap my neck, Guardian,’ said the Son of Grim with a smile. He was looking up at Desool, squinting in the morning sunlight. Dawn had risen two hours ago. ‘With little effort too, I’d imagine.’

‘Why would I wish to do that?’

Ralan uttered something approaching a laugh. ‘The Seraphim Council.’

The Nephilim crouched down beside him. ‘They do not control me though they think otherwise.’

‘Ah, so they did ask you to snap my neck. Well, I’ll be honest with you. Part of me wishes you would and another part is readying to put up a fight. What do you make of that?’

Desool stared out to sea. Sunlight glittered across the calm water. ‘It is a complex existence,’ he then said, ‘filled with complex minds. I don’t pretend to understand it all, my friend, nor do I pretend to understand you, or the Council. I may have a little angelic blood, but the angelic mind is beyond me. I do what I must and when it fails, I do what I can.’

How was he supposed to tell this man he was to kill his mother? Not a conversation he wanted to have. What did the Council think was going to happen here?

As they rested, allowing the Torment regain a little strength, the water grew choppier. Waves began to thunder against the rocky outcrops to their left, threatening the longship. Desool decided to pull it further up the beach.

A fog descended until it lay thick and grey. It turned cold, much colder than it had any right to be. The islands were dead and had been for two centuries. Neither man spoke as they began the long walk inland, each following a feeling deep in the core of his being. Something wasn’t right and it lay ahead. Waiting.

It knew they were coming and its name was, Rade Wyn.

‡

AN HOUR LATER, THEY followed what was once a road through a village and beyond. Tree roots had since fractured and in many places shattered its surface.

The remains of vine-smothered hollow buildings, mostly collapsed with partial walls remaining, lined the way. Grass, small trees, and vines had overrun the village. There was very little remaining to tell the Nephilim what it must have looked like.

Imagination was not his strongest point, not that it bothered him. The past was just that. Finished. What it once looked like wasn’t important. They strode through the ghostly echoes of a past existence.

Some Nephilim were sensitive to such things and he caught glimpses of people going about their lives, followed by images of death. He focused his gaze inland, blocking such emanations.

Two hours later, they caught sight of it emerging from forest cover as they approached.

The Necropolis.

Fifty broad steps of limestone rose towards the main entrance, flanked by misshapen limestone statues. Some of the steps were missing and visible beneath were writhing roots and twisted skulls. A Necropolis in truth, but the main building was in better condition. It seemed untouched by time and neglect.

Tumbled blocks of stone smothered in greenery was all that remained of the outer protective walls and what was once a main gate. Both men had taken their first steps upward, when Desool spotted something in his peripheral vision. He whirled, unsheathing his scarap in one smooth motion.

The ghostly form came at him with a blade of its own. Desool met its downward stroke, which was meant for his head. He deflected it, stabbed at the winged emanation, and heard it utter an unearthly cry as the blade absorbed it.

A second spectre knocked the scarap from his grasp and a blow flung him aside. He rolled over to see Ralan’s power strike at a third, which shot towards them. It shrieked as white flame devoured it.

Pain lanced through Desool’s right arm and shoulder, as he stared up at more of the things. He knew what they were. His people had told stories of the angel dead known to humans as wights. He had never thought to see one.

Another loomed above him, as Ralan fought off half a dozen at once. Faint sunlight broke through the fog as the wight raised its blade to strike.

A blade of fire intercepted the ethereal weapon of the wight. It shrieked and a fist back handed it in the face, and it was the wight’s turn to go flying. It dissolved into nothingness its visage a twisted mask of surprise.

Ralan extended an arm to his friend, his magic evaporating. Desool took it and rose, and stood examining the Torment. If it came to it, he could not defeat this man. In such an event, Desool’s death was assured, but it did not bother him. To die by the sword of a friend was the greatest honour. He realised the distinction would be lost on Ralan, however.

‘We tread dangerous ground,’ said the Tenth Torment. ‘My power is spent. If the Shathra Stone is here it will be inside, and I imagine there’s a lot more of those in there than out here. I cannot fight them all.’

Desool took a deep breath testing his right arm. It hurt, but it remained functional. He stooped to retrieve his scarap. The blade was ice cold but intact. Nephilim steel wasn’t easy to destroy, even for wights it seemed. Within such metallurgy were secrets of the angels themselves. Examining it, he wondered if he’d seen what he thought he had when he’d stabbed the first one.

Ralan grinned at him, and the light in his eyes delighted Desool’s heart. ‘A soul shard. You are full of surprises, my friend. Such a weapon will be useful.’

Desool looked up towards the massive set of doors at the top. ‘I am fine doing this alone. No need for both of us to die.’ A soul shard? He had heard of such blades, but had no idea he possessed one.

If he could keep Ralan away, if he could kill Rade Wyn without her son watching, he might not lose a friend this day. Perhaps then, he might not need to fight and die, forever destroying his friend’s spirit.

I do what I must, Desool thought, or what I can. He knew he could defy the Seraphim Council and leave Rade Wyn to fate, but if she refused to hand over the Stone, what then? If her soul joined Astra’s and the sorceress became whole, what then?

‘You don’t understand,’ called Ralan from behind him as he made to catch up. Desool blinked, realising he was almost at the top. He didn’t remember climbing those steps. ‘You don’t know what’s waiting for you inside,’ said his friend.

Desool stopped and turned, two steps higher than Ralan. He could strike now from the advantage of height. Not to kill, but to render the Torment unconscious. Long enough for him to complete his task. A kick to the temple from a Rephaim, even one as young as he, was no laughing matter and this Torment was weakened. Something held him back and it wasn’t fear. It was both the act of betrayal as Ralan would perceive it and a warning in his heart.

Ralan stepped up beside him, the chance evaporating. To do so now would result in his being incapacitated. The son of Grim was no laughing matter either. His friend sighed. ‘I must go in with you. In there waiting for you, with the Shathra Stone in her lap, is my mother.’

Desool felt shock course through him. Ralan had known it was his mother. Desool had not told him everything the Council had said. He saw no sign of deception in those eyes, just resignation and pain. Ralan hadn’t told him because it had been too painful for him to speak, until now.

‘Ah,’ said Ralan, ‘I see you knew already. Of course, the Seraphim Council.’ He stepped up and past his friend. ‘I’ll warn you now, Guardian, she is in a foul mood.’