Splintered Paths

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

The old man’s voice boomed, not unlike the explosions of thunder overhead. It was beyond that of a man, though the scant and decrepit body which it came from was at odds with it. Or with what he used to be, Daxon thought.

“Was only a few years ago they were belched from that,” he continued and pointed up towards the sky. Daxon glanced over at his sister before following the old man’s gaze. Unnatural lightning illuminated the blackened sky, the violent tendrils brilliant in various shades of purples, blacks, and reds. They were not dissimilar to the chaos present in the man’s ancient eyes.

Cereen scowled before asking, “What are we looking at?”

The old man leaned back, his face a mask of confusion. “The Singularity? It’s brighter than anything in the sky? How do you not see it?” He turned to Daxon. “You, sir, must see what your companion does not.”

Daxon winked at his sister and said, “Cereen sees things with different eyes, my Elder. She is a formidable warrior but does not possess the Sight as ones such as us.” Her whispered curses reached only Daxon’s ears and he smiled.

The old man snarled and flicked a hand in disgust. The ground trembled, even more than it had been in the days it took them to navigate the unpredictable lands. “I need not be called ‘Elder’, boy. A pedantic title for those who put credence in banal trivialities.”

“My apologies…what would you have us call you?”

The old man leaned forward, forearms on his knees as one hand stroked his bushy beard. Daxon watched in fascination and nostalgia as each of the old man’s hairs—from the fading crop on his head, the beard that seemed to reach the floor, or his expressive eyebrows—undulated like tendrils from a kraken. “My names have been many over the years though…” he drifted off, not an unusual occurrence since they had found him. No stimuli could remove him from the fugue state and though it lasted but a few minutes, it took as many seconds for Cereen’s agitation to show.

“How can he think dragons only came to Felluria a few years ago?” Daxon looked over at his sister. Though older than her by two years, Cereen was physically superior to him in every sense. Daxon was not small by any stretch, but his sister was a physical marvel: she was a head (or more) taller and outweighed him by three stones—all of it muscle. She cut an imposing figure, only bested by her quick temper and capabilities as a warrior. There was a reason she had become Warlord of the Night Riders at such a young age. Daxon glanced over at the old man, still lost in his fugue.

It didn’t hurt that her genes, like Daxon’s, were all but godlike.

“Such is the case with the Lapse, sister,” Daxon reminded her and not for the first time. “Those afflicted are betrayed by their own minds. Time becomes a jumbled mosaic where events and dates war with one another. It is difficult enough for mortals whose lives are but an eyeblink. Imagine memories of a thousand lifetimes. Ten thousand. Notwithstanding the Lapse, from his perspective, a few years could be millennia to us.”

“I know this,” she said, “as I know it does not help us in the least. We know when the dragons came. We just don’t know where they went. Or how and why. That is what we need from him, not a soliloquy on their origins.”

“'To truly know a thing, one must understand its beginnings’.”

Cereen glared at him, her crystalline eyes throbbing with the power that flowed through her veins. He had seen warriors greater than he cower before that glare. Daxon merely grinned. He hoped that, as when they were children, such defiance of her thundercloud of emotion, would draw mirth from her. Instead, the anger faded to hurt and betrayal before she turned away.

“Cereen…”

“Save it, Magus.” She said the last word—Daxon’s title—like a curse. “We are here for one reason, and it doesn’t include small talk.”

“Elreistan!” the old man shouted, startling the two siblings.

“Bloody frekk!” Cereen exclaimed only to receive an admonishing look from the old man.

“Such language is not becoming of one such as yourself, girl. Did your father not teach you the manners of your station.” He stared at her for several seconds, taking in the boiled leather, chainmail, and armor visible underneath her furs. “And dress such as this? Do you fancy yourself Iridia, Dragon Maiden?”

The old man’s bellowing laughter was cruel and mocking. Daxon watched as Cereen drew into herself. He knew why but comforting her was the last thing she would want and, if Daxon were honest, an unnecessary waste of time. He ignored the aspect of himself that whispered you are a right bastard.

“Is Elreistan how we should address you?”

Elreistan took one more judging look at Cereen before turning to Daxon. “Aye. It shall suffice.”

“Elreistan, it is. You had mentioned how the dragons had first come.”

Elreistan scowled and his eyes, a blistering swirl of colors Daxon had no name for, fogged for a moment before they returned to focus. “They were sent here. A thousand ages ago…or did they flee?” He scratched at his scalp in confusion. “It can be…difficult to remember all that. So many pictures swirling in my head. I just…”

Daxon knew what was happening and interrupted before Elreistan again became lost in his multitude of memories. “What was their purpose?”

Elreistan perked up at the question. “They were the guardians. Not just there but a thousand worlds. They, in all their infinite forms, were the wardens of the Void. Their fire kept the Veil in place.”

“Preventing incursion?” Cereen asked.

“Incursion?” Elreistan mouthed the word again, tasting it on his tongue. Finally, he shrugged. “Seems as good a word as any.”

“But then they disappeared. Why?” Daxon asked.

“Some died. Some fled to other worlds, by choice or necessity. Others were corrupted or tamed by the likes of Iridia and her zealots who…” The same faraway gaze returned and Elreistan fell silent. It lasted but a moment though when he returned to himself, the strength had left him, in both posture and the timbre of his voice. The change was like a slap to Daxon’s face. He didn’t need to see if it had the same effect on Cereen.

“Did you say Meeryn is gone? She promised to meet me here. Has the council work delayed her again? Speak, children.”

Daxon shook his head. “I do not know, Father. She tells us nothing.”

“Mine is a power of Creation and infinite lifetimes and I continue to fail in deciphering the mind of my wife. Did she tell Sullus, your brother? She was always more partial to him.”

Cereen made a choking sound. “Sullus was not our bro…”

“No, Father,” Daxon interjected. “I spoke to Sullus and she never spoke a word of it.”

Elreistan leaned his chin against his steepled fingers. “Curious. Sullus was always her confidant. Maybe Tierna knows. Or Xaxxon.”

“I am sorry,” Daxon said, “but her whereabouts are unknown to us. Perhaps she makes her way as we speak. “

“Was she to arrive with you?” As Elreistan’s agitation increased, so too did the intensity of their surroundings. The spiderwebs of lightning continued and the ground’s rumbling was a constant vibration, its releasing energy growing by the minute. Though he and Cereen carried Elreistan’s blood within them, Daxon was uncertain how they’d be affected if the Elder’s haven collapsed in on itself.

Closing his eyes, Daxon muttered words in a language spoken by those who had inhabited Felluria long before mortals. His fingers danced, a focus to magnify the strength of the incantation. Elreistan’s words continued but they were a distant thing, as was the escalating violence of the world. Daxon poured his will into every syllable, every somatic shape created by his fingers until, slowly, the violent upheaval calmed.

When he opened his eyes, Elreistan was standing, scratching his chest as he looked around. “They all left you know,” he whispered. “Every last one…but B’yallkynon. Don’t know why she stayed or where she went.” He started to say more, shook his head, stumbled a few steps before finding his balance and shuffling towards the rickety lean-to that was his shelter. Halfway there, he turned back towards them and started, as if seeing them for the first time. “Are you here to see me?”

The man offered a tight smile. “No, Elreistan,” he said. “Just two travelers with which you offered to share your fire.” Satisfied, the old man nodded and continued on his way.

Daxon felt, rather than saw, Cereen moved to stop him. “Patience, sister,” he said and, despite glaring at him, she reluctantly returned to her seat. The sat in silence for several minutes, content in watching the old man mumble to himself, picking up different things and setting them down. He finally laid on the dilapidated bedroll and turned away from the fire.

“Who’s B’yallkynon?” Cereen finally asked.

“In lore, she is the first dragon to…befriend humanity. Without her, there would be no enchantments. Not for the armor or weapons of your Night Riders nor magic for the Order. Nor many other things that exist in our world.”

Cereen nodded. “Iridia’s mount. I remember now, the stories Father told us as children.”

“Aye. But B’yallkynon was never Iridia’s mount. Those that canonized Iridia’s rise to power make that claim but there was something else there. From what we know of dragons—and it is not as much as some would believe—they were quite clever creatures, their plans, no matter how pedestrian, always had a purpose beyond what mortals saw.”

“You make them sound duplicitous.”

Daxon shrugged. “For mortals, it very well may have seemed that way. But the minds of whose lives are counted in the centuries rarely align with a person whose lifespan is but a fraction of that. Some even say that dragons were the embodiment of wisdom, eschewing the banalities of emotion for a more cosmic rationality.”

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t hesitate to take away loved ones.”

“Cereen, that is not fair?”

“Isn’t it!?” Cereen stood and her aura thrummed with the years pent-up anger and frustration. “Did you not take my betrothed? On the night before our wedding, no less! My own brother, ensuring that I shall not know happiness. That I will be branded untouchable!”

Daxon dropped his head. It was a losing proposition to explain his actions, something he had already done. Still, had their lineage not prevented them from shedding one another’s blood, Daxon knew Cereen would have buried her ax in his chest by now.

Instead, he said, “This gets us nowhere, Cereen. If what you and your Riders say is true, we do not have much time to reinforce the Veil. And helping Elreistan regain his memories is the best way to insure that.”

“What?” She said mockingly. “Your precious Magus Order doesn’t have the answers this time?”

Daxon ignored the tone but answered the question. “They work tirelessly attempting to determine a temporary solution, a stop-gap. The dragons are the key and…”

“In order to find the dragons, we need to help him become himself again.”

“Aye.”

“But how can we absolve him of the Lapse? And can the effects be reversed?”

“To the latter question, not in mortals. However, Elreistan is far from that. I believe that if we can identify the cause of this malady—it can only be magical in origin—his power shall do the rest.”

“You believe but you don’t know.”

“Few things in life are absolute, dear sister.”

“Don’t patronize me, brother,” she growled. Daxon held his hands up in surrender. Cereen cursed and turned away.

You must tell her the rest.

“What is it?” she asked when Daxon let out an uncharacteristic sigh.

“Your first question; about absolved Elreistan of the Lapse.”

“Yes.” Daxon merely stared at her. Cereen frowned and narrowed her eyes. “What?” Daxon remained silent. The light tremors of the ground spiked the moment Cereen understood. “NO!”

Daxon stood and walked towards her. While, as blood kin, she could not kill him, there were many acts of violence she could exact to induce the most exquisite pain. Still, he entered her personal space and nearly winced at the heat of emotion that came off her in waves. “Cereen,” he said gently, putting a hand on either shoulder. She pushed him away and he let her put some distance between them.

“We must find her. She is our best chance to cleanse the Lapse from Elreistan’s mind.”

“But you said finding the dragons was the most important thing.”

Daxon shook his head. “I did not say that. The dragons are vital if we are to repair the Veil; I do not believe even Elreistan can do such a thing. But to find them, to have them return to our aid, Elreistan must become whole.”

“’Elreistan’,” she spat. “Would it kill you to call him ‘Father’?”

“What I call him does not matter.”

“Because of course not. Why would an emotional husk understand why that is important? You’ve always been this way. To think, I used to envy how easy it was for you to keep your emotions in check, even when we were young. Now? I wouldn’t wish to be like for anything in the world. As if I’d even have time to enjoy it.”

“Elreistan must become whole,” Daxon repeated, “and to achieve that, we will need to find Meeryn.”

“So, we need to find our traitorous bitch of a mother to cure Father. And once Father is cured, he will be able to call the dragons to our aid.”

“In theory, yes.”

“How long do we have?”

Daxon shook his head. “I cannot even guess. Perhaps a year before the Veil becomes nothing more than a tent flap. Maybe another year before the extremely bad things invade and tear Felluria apart.”

“That’s not much time at all?”

“It is not; hence why I plan to begin once we are done here.”

Cereen glared at him. “You think you’re gonna do this yourself. Outer Gods be damned, I’m going with you.”

Daxon shook his head. “Meeryn is in a place that, as formidable as you are sister, cannot reach.”

“Where is she?”

“It does not matter…”

“I swear by the Veil and Void, Daxon, you tell me something else doesn’t matter and I’ll find a way to brain you with my knuckledusters.”

“Elreistan mentioned B’yallkynon earlier. That was for a reason.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

Instead of responding, Daxon slipped a hand into his robes and pulled out a small sphere. It was a matte obsidian though the shell was webbed with luminous cracks of purple, blacks, and red. He weighed it in his hand and tossed it to Cereen.

“What is it?” she asked, peering at the sphere from every possible angle.

“It is ta’lsmah—an ancient relic that can be used to locate nearly anyone or thing, so long as one infuses it with the necessary energies.”

“Like one of those locator spells you mages use. It can’t be that easy?”

“Nay, it is not. Felluria is not a small world, but if you listen to it, the ta’lsmah shall lead you to what you set your heart on. You must still navigate the pass, but it will offer you a starting point.”

“How do I use it?”

He stepped to her and clasped her hand and the ta’lsmah between his own. “Focus, sister,” he said, eyes staring into hers, “you must focus with your mind, heart, and soul on a single image. The ta’lsmah will take you to that place. I must warn you; this is not an inanimate relic. Ta’lsmah have been known to override the will of their users, to whisper long-dead desires and offer impossible promises to those who do not fortify their minds.”

“That’s not even a little terrifying.”

Daxon’s response was of silent resolution and Cereen sobered. “Wouldn’t you be a better candidate?”

He shook his head. “Even if I could, you are more able to carry this burden, dear sister.” She moved to object but Daxon held up a hand. “I believe in you, Cereen ex Deus.”

He watched the tangle of emotions—surprise, gratitude, confusion, fear, anger, sadness, and others—dance in her eyes before she lowered them. “What do I do when I find B’yallkynon? Convince her to fight with us? I don’t know about you but my ‘dragonian’ is a bit rusty.”

Daxon chuckled and Cereen returned it with a wry grin. “I cannot give you all the answers, Cereen—”

“How about just one or two.”

“—but I can tell you that, when the time comes, you will know what to do.”

“I hope so.”

“The journey to finding B’yallkynon will be difficult, the road to her one of peril.”

“Just like in the stories.”

“Aye. Just like in the stories.”

Cereen studied the ta’lsmah for a brief moment before she cut a longing look at their father’s sleeping form. “He doesn’t even remember us,” she said after a time.

“I know it hurts.”

“Do you?”

The challenge in her reply bristled something within him and Daxon frowned. He wanted to shout at her but instead remained calm. “I may not show emotion as you or others do, sister. But I assure you, I do have them.” He wanted to say how much Elreistan’s affliction had crippled him, how, for years he would go for weeks without sleep searching for an answer that would cure a god from something that should have never affected him. The things he had done, the bargains he had made. Daxon knew that he would be due to answer for everything he had done but, for now, that was unimportant.

“I hated you.”

Daxon looked up. Cereen stared up into the sky, at the Singularity Elreistan had pointed to earlier.

“Cereen…”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” She took a deep breath before finishing. “As much as I hated you for what you did to Xaxx, eventually I understood it. Even if it’s never seemed like I did.

“I hated you more for what you did to us.”

He knew all too well what she meant but remained quiet.

“We were best friends for half our lives, Daxon. No one, not my friends, not Mother, or Father who I looked forward to spending time with more than you. Anytime I struggled with something, you were who I went to. When I was proud of something, you were the first to hear it from me. What you did, though you may have had your reasons, broke that. Not just because you did it, but because you didn’t come to me beforehand.”

“Would you have listened?”

Cereen shrugged. “Probably not. But as much as it would have hurt and I still would have hated you for a bit, now I’d be able to point to the fact that you trusted me enough, loved me enough to tell me a terrible truth. That would have changed everything.”

Cereen walked over to Elreistan’s twitching form. She kneeled down, stroked his wily hair and whispered something in his ear. The twitches stopped and it looked as if he had fallen into a more restless slumber. When she turned back to him, tears tracked down her cheeks.

“I need him back, Daxon. Not just for the world, but for me. I know it’s selfish but I need it.”

“I understand.”

She stared at him before her lips curved into a sad smile. “I think you do.”

Taking the ta’lsmah in both hands, Cereen closed her eyes. For a time, nothing happened and then Daxon watched as the sphere began to pulse. Each time the pulse grew larger and, soon, it encompassed Cereen.

“When this is over,” she said and her voice seemed to come from far away, “and we save the world, maybe we can talk.”

And then she was gone.

Daxon stared at the spot where his sister had been. Even if she had stayed for another few moments, he would not have spoken. He had lied to her too many times already. He would not do so again, especially when it was for nothing more than to alleviate his own guilt.

Mirroring Cereen’s final moments, Daxon walked over to the sleeping Elreistan. His fingertips found the cool flesh that thrummed with power. “I am sorry, Father,” he said. “I failed our family. If there is a world left when all is done, please be there for Cereen. She will need you more than ever.”

He stood and turned to walk away and stopped. “I…I love you.” And with that Daxon ex Deus conjured a portal to begin the end of his journey.

He never saw the tears that fell from his father’s eyes.