Children of Fire (14 page)

And to Daemron were given the gifts of the Gods, the Talismans imbued with the power of the Immortals that their champion might battle and defeat the Chaos Spawn. And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

Rexol read the passage of the slender volume a second time: slowly, carefully, word by word, then letter by letter. He spoke the Danaan language fluently, but this text was written in an ancient tongue five hundred years removed from any of the dialects spoken in the North Forest during the present day. The vocabulary and syntax were strange and alien. Even the alphabet was different, with characters and symbols that had long ago fallen into disuse. He wanted to be sure he had made no mistake.

And to Daemron were given the gifts of the Gods, the Talismans imbued with the power of the Immortals that their champion might battle and defeat the Chaos Spawn. And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

Rexol rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly as his vision blurred. A bolt of pain shot through his skull, causing him to wince. The glow from the witchroot in his system was fading, making it harder to pierce the veil between the mortal world and the realm of Chaos.

Spells of understanding were never easy. Unleashing Chaos to bring about death and destruction was elementary, but subtly manipulating its power to translate an ancient text was infinitely more complex. The safeguards necessary to contain the spell's backlash—the unforeseen consequences Chaos inevitably wrought upon the mortal world—were many, and maintaining them required great discipline and patience.

The strain was taking its toll, but Rexol had no intention of stopping. Ignoring another searing flash of pain between his eyes, he shook his head and forced himself to refocus. In response, his blurred vision became clear once more.

He read the passage a third time, taking particular care with the last line as he struggled to contain his growing excitement.
And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

For the last six years Rexol had been entrusted with the education and training of the heir to the Danaan throne. In exchange the royal family had sent him a steady stream of books and manuscripts that predated the Cataclysm. But despite their promise to exchange ancient knowledge for Rexol's vow to train the crown prince, it was obvious the Tree Folk didn't trust him.

The works were written in a dozen different languages, none of which was spoken anywhere outside the Danaan kingdom. Most were so archaic that even the present-day Danaan scholars would be hard-pressed to translate them accurately. They never imagined a human would be able to comprehend the true subject matter of what they had delivered.

But the Danaan sorcerers had only a rudimentary understanding of magic. Chaos came naturally to them; it flowed through their veins and wove its way through the forests of their kingdom. It was easier to call upon—they relied more on natural ability, and less on the complicated spells, incantations, and rituals that were necessary to summon Chaos in the Southlands.

In contrast, Rexol had spent decades learning to control and manipulate Chaos. The manuscripts had been preserved with the power of Old Magic—without it most of the works would have crumbled into dust centuries ago. Rexol knew how to draw on the lingering remnants of the Old Magic's power. He knew how to bend and twist it to his own desires.

It had taken nearly five years of study and research, but eventually he was able to read the manuscripts the Danaan had sent him, and he quickly discovered how he'd been betrayed. He'd expected to receive the works of historians and philosophers—accounts that would detail the lives and deeds of the great wizards of legend who had drawn on the raw power of Chaos before the Legacy had cut the mortal world off from the source of all magic.

Instead, he received census reports, royal proclamations, storehouse inventories, diaries and logs recorded by insignificant bureaucrats working for the royal family—mundane works focusing on the minutiae of daily existence rather than the epic events that shaped history itself.

Outraged at their treachery, Rexol had briefly considered ending the arrangement. But there was no other source he could call upon in his quest to unlock the secrets of the past. In the Southlands, all surviving documents that predated the Cataclysm had been locked away by the Order in the depths of the Monastery. Trivial as the meager scraps the Danaan fed him were, they were all he would ever get.

Hoping to unearth something of value from the thousands of seemingly worthless texts, Rexol had devised powerful incantations that enabled him to read and comprehend the ancient writings. And as he read volume after volume, he was able to glean small kernels of the kind of information he hungered for, tiny threads of a much greater tapestry.

This particular volume was the diary of a steward who had served beneath one of the many Danaan kings named Lassander. Since the first Lassander ruled nearly three hundred years before the fourth and final Monarch of that name, it made pinpointing the exact year of the manuscript's compilation difficult. However, for Rexol's purposes exact dates usually weren't necessary.

And to Daemron were given the gifts of the Gods, the Talismans imbued with the power of the Immortals that their champion might battle and defeat the Chaos Spawn. And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

The excerpt was hardly what one would have expected in the diary of a minor court functionary. It was buried between the inscribed guest list for an upcoming social event and the item-by-item description, including cost, of a new wardrobe the author had recently purchased.

A scribbled quote from a better-known text of his era, perhaps? An entry the steward made on that day to … what? Inspire himself? To give himself confidence about an upcoming event by reminding himself how anything was possible, even a mortal becoming a God?

Rexol mulled the words over once more. He had found mentions of Daemron before in the Danaan texts. According to the legends, he was a great champion who ruled the Danaan people before the Cataclysm—a wizard, warrior, prophet, and king. Over time, the legends explained, he earned the title of the Slayer for his many victories over the monstrous creatures that rose from the Sea of Fire to threaten those under his dominion.

The Order also had legends of a mortal hero called the Slayer. In their accounts, he was an arrogant wizard who dared to challenge the Old Gods. Rallying his followers, the Slayer made war against the Immortals. The Chaos unleashed in the battle caused the Cataclysm, and the world was nearly split in two. But in the end the Slayer was defeated and the Old Gods created the Legacy to keep the mortal world safe from the destructive power trapped in the Sea of Fire … or so the Order claimed.

It was dangerous to make unfounded assumptions, but evidence seemed to indicate the Danaan Slayer and the human Slayer were one and the same. The implications of a shared legend opened the door for interesting questions regarding the origins of the two races. Were the Danaan and humans once a single people?

However, speculations on ancestry and anthropology were not Rexol's primary focus. He was much more interested in the reference to the Talismans—the gifts the Immortals bestowed upon their champion. Rexol had seen brief mentions made of the Talismans in other Danaan texts, though never in connection with the Slayer or the Old Gods. He had assumed them to be items of great religious significance but no real power. Was it possible he had been wrong?

And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

Rexol didn't believe in Gods—not in the way the Order described them. But in the age before the Cataclysm, before the Legacy was formed, mages had reached freely into the Sea of Fire—the source of pure Chaos—to work their art. Such power would have made the ancient wizards truly seem like Gods. Were these Talismans artifacts forged with the power of the Old Magic? Was it possible the Talismans had survived the Cataclysm? Were they a link to the great magic of the past?

His musings were interrupted by a rap on the door as Vaaler poked his head in.

“Forgive my intrusion, master, but it's getting late. Should I start supper soon?”

“Prepare something for yourself,” he said to his apprentice. “I won't be coming down for some time.”

The prince nodded and slipped out without another word, closing the door behind him.

In the years since Vaaler had been under his care, the teacher had come to learn many things about his young charge. The boy was intelligent and quick, his mind was active and hungry for learning, he was driven to succeed at his studies, and he desperately wanted to satisfy the hopes of his people and his Queen. But even though he was born under the Blood Moon, he was as dead to Chaos as an Eastern savage.

The young heir was a lesson in the dangers of trying to control Chaos. The Danaan people had sought to breed a great prophet to rule and guide their kingdom through the union of two of their kingdom's most powerful Seers. But Chaos could not be controlled by heredity or bloodlines, and their offspring had been born stone-blind to the visions of his parents.

In desperation the Danaan had sent the boy here, hoping he possessed the Gift rather than the Sight. But after only a few months of working with him Rexol knew Vaaler would never be a wizard. Not even a minor enchanter or a traveling magician, unless he chose to become one of the charlatans who used sleight of hand and trickery to compensate for their inability to touch the true essence of Chaos. Yet Rexol had never admitted this to the Danaan, for fear they would recall the young prince and the stream of ancient texts—however mundane—would dry up. Even the small drops of knowledge he was gathering from the manuscripts were well worth the expense and effort of keeping Vaaler around.

Rexol stood from his chair, leaving the document he had been studying open on the table. He needed to take a break. One couldn't channel Chaos too long without risks, and he had been working with the manuscript for several hours already.

He stretched his hands up toward the high ceiling of his study as he turned to face the full-length mirror on the near wall. The markings painted on his arms and bare torso had begun to fade. This morning the ink had completely covered Rexol's lean frame like a second skin; the intricate red and white symbols traced over every inch of his exposed flesh. Now the ebony of his natural complexion could be clearly seen beneath the washed-out color of the ink.

The circles etched around his eyes and over his cheeks—glyphs to give him sight and understanding, and to protect his mind from the terrible power he sought to control—had vanished completely, devoured by the hungry fires of magic as the Chaos tried to wrench free of the constraints Rexol had enforced upon it.

His safeguards were gone, and there was a weariness deep within him, a mental and physical exhaustion. The complicated spell of understanding had sapped much of his strength; it was time to stop.

But there were many, many more passages still to be read in this diary alone, and hundreds of other manuscripts that he hadn't even started trying to decipher. It was likely most of them would contain nothing but useless dreck, but there might be more valuable nuggets buried inside—more references to the Talismans.

He had never heard mention of them before he started studying the ancient Danaan texts. But that wasn't enough to dismiss them as legend. If the Talismans actually were relics imbued with the power of Old Magic, the Order would have made sure to purge all knowledge of their existence from the Southlands.

Even if they were real, Rexol reluctantly admitted, it was possible they had been destroyed in the Cataclysm. If the Slayer, a great wizard, challenged the Old Gods—whom Rexol suspected were also nothing more than extremely powerful wizards themselves—the Chaos unleashed in their epic battle could easily have consumed the Talismans, just as Rexol's spell of understanding had eaten away the tattoos on his skin.

But it was also possible the Talismans were strong enough to survive. Maybe they hadn't been destroyed, but were only lost or hidden. Their power now would be muted by the Legacy, possibly even locked away so that they didn't appear to have any special properties at all. The Talismans could be anywhere, just waiting for someone with the rare combination of talent, will, and knowledge to find and awaken them.

Drawing on Chaos to decipher the pages was a slow and tedious affair. It would take him years—maybe decades—to go through all the manuscripts without help. He needed another apprentice. Not someone blind to Chaos like Vaaler, but one who could be taught the ways of magic. One who could learn to cast spells of his or her own; one Rexol could draw on to augment his own power.

Someone like Cassandra.

He shook his head, dispelling the unwelcome memory of the young girl's emerald eyes staring after him as he'd abandoned her to the Order. Cassandra was lost to him, but there were others like her: children touched by Chaos and born under a Blood Moon. Surely one or two had managed to stay hidden from the Order … and from him. But they couldn't stay hidden forever.

The power of Chaos was cyclical. Despite the Order's efforts, Chaos could never be kept at bay for long. Rexol could feel its influence in the mortal world slowly spreading once more, shaping events to alter the course of history. Perhaps that was why he had discovered this passage only now: The latent power of the Talismans was calling to him, urging him to find them.

In the same way, he would find another apprentice. Eventually the true nature of those touched by Chaos would be exposed—violently; tragically. Some called it destiny or fate. The Order branded it a curse. He knew it for what it really was: opportunity.

And while he waited for a worthy apprentice to be revealed, he would continue his studies. He would learn everything he could about the Talismans. When the time came, he needed to be ready and willing to claim their power.