Fazel had been a great man once. Born a Varenkai, he’d loved life and the light and performed many great deeds. Many had wanted him to be High Mage, but Fazel had never accepted the title. He’d served under the Throne Siante, during the time that Assidax had been Shadowdreamer. Fazel had hated what Assidax had achieved in the south, and eventually had journeyed to find her. Arrogant and brave, he’d believed he could defeat her in her own realm – but when the two had fought, Fazel was slain. Assidax’s terrible gift for necromancy meant she’d been able to bring Fazel’s spirit back whole and bind him to her as a shadow creature. Unlike many of the undead, he’d retained his intellect, but was powerless to act on it. He became a slave to the Shadowdreamers, locked in servitude to those he’d always loathed the most. Fazel hoped Elessa had truly killed him, for his was a soul that needed to be put to rest. Poor Elessa …
Later, thought Fahren. Springing from bed, he dressed hurriedly in his blue and gold robe and left his quarters. Tall and spry, he bounded down the Tower stairs three at a time, a clashing mix of age and youth. He had wrinkles, but they were well defined, as if they’d always been part of his face. His hair and beard were long and full, a vibrant blond untouched by grey. His crystal blue eyes shone clear, and there were still women who vied for their attention. As he ran, he thought about what he had dreamt and had to force his feet to keep moving lest any single realisation stop him in his tracks. It couldn’t be, he thought. It couldn’t be that.
Mentally, Fahren was well prepared for the coming of the child of power. The prophets had known the child would be born within a hundred years of their collective vision, and that hundred years was almost over. But what had happened to the boy to split him in two? It was something to do with that stone around his neck, Fahren was sure.
‘It has to be,’ he muttered. ‘The Stone of Evenings Mild.’
Legend said that when Arkus and Assedrynn had joined forces one last time to destroy the Great Well, the Stone of Evenings Mild had been created at the point where they had focused their power. It was a way for them to stay unified even as their magic separated. The Stone, then, was capable of uniting shadow and light to the same purpose; something impossible since the demise of Old Magic. Used in reverse, it might also be capable of separating Old Magic into its opposite parts – and that, Fahren theorised, was what had happened to the child. From around the child’s neck, the Stone had channelled the pulling spells of Elessa and Fazel into one force, drawing the child into the Stone and breaking him into shadow and light.
Questions without answers burbled through his mind. Was this breaking part of the prophecy, or had the child’s potential been destroyed? Were both children now capable of breaking the stalemate? That seemed pointless, for it would only instil another level of balance. Fahren believed the long war existed because shadow creatures were stronger in Fenvarrow, just as the creatures of light were stronger in Kainordas – thus each had a defence stronger than their attack. What did it mean if both boys could counteract that? Or was one great, the other weak? Why had the original child been born with Old Magic? Where had the Stone appeared from?
At least one thing was certain: Fahren wanted the shadow child and the Stone brought to him as quickly as possible.
At the bottom of the Tower he composed himself. The air was warm and the gardens quiet with a sense of serenity he did not feel. He trod paths that were pale in the early morning, his robe swishing around his sandalled feet. Towards the Open Castle he went, expecting to find the Throne Naphur asleep in his rooms. Instead, as he approached the castle, the Throne appeared striding towards him, fully clothed and surrounded by guards. A squat man, but broad-shouldered and muscular, Naphur was bronze from his many days holding court under the sun. Hair grew upon him in unruly abundance – his chest hair in particular refusing to stay tucked beneath the neckline of his cream silk shirt. A red cape hung from his shoulders, and around his head was a circlet of gold with an image of the sun set at the front. Gold ‘rays’ spread up from the sun, over his forehead and into his closely cropped brown hair, where they moulded perfectly to his scalp. The circlet was the Auriel, crown of the Thrones, and it hadn’t left Naphur’s head since he was twenty-two.
‘Fahren!’ said Naphur. ‘What are you doing? Have you had further news from the front?’
Fahren fell into step beside his ruler. ‘The front, my Throne?’
‘Yes, the front!’ said Naphur. ‘Battu is marshalling war machines. All this increased activity we’ve been experiencing along the border – he’s been testing our defences. We’re certain he plans to invade again! Gerent Ratacks and his cerepans are assembled in the barracks to discuss our recourse.’
In that moment Fahren saw it clearly. Battu must somehow have known where and when the child would be born, or else his servants could not have been there at the precise moment. More importantly, how long had he known? Long enough to create an enormous distraction to draw Kainordan troops away from their regular postings? To clear the land of threats to his returning minions?
‘Where does he concentrate his forces, my Throne?’
‘In the southeast. We think he sets his gaze on Holdwith.’
Not the Shining Mines then, the target of his last invasion? No, of course not, for the Mines were due south of Whisperwood, right in the path of his servants.
‘My Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘there is something even more pressing we must discuss.’
‘More pressing?’
‘Naphur,’ said Fahren, ‘the child of power has been born.’
Naphur frowned, then looked startled, then scowled and shook his head. ‘Magic,’ he spat.
As they strode towards the barracks, Fahren described his dream – from the moment Elessa had stepped from the hut, until the reinforcements arrived too late. He spoke of the separation of the child and his theory about the Stone. Naphur was annoyed by that, as he always was when magic complicated things.
‘And this “invasion” of Battu’s,’ continued Fahren, ‘I don’t think it’s real.’
Naphur drew to a stop. ‘What do you mean, it isn’t real?’
‘It’s to focus our gaze elsewhere, so Tyrellan can escape with the child.’
Naphur frowned. ‘I cannot ignore armies collecting on my border, whatever motive put them there.’
‘Of course,’ said Fahren. ‘But you cannot ignore the other concern either. Send out patrols south of Whisperwood, put the area on high alert.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Naphur, glancing impatiently towards the barracks. ‘But why do you worry so greatly? By the sounds of it, we have the right child under our control. He should be here in a matter of weeks, and surely it’s a good thing that all the shadow has been blasted out of him.’
‘I’ve no idea what it means, my Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘but the future of Kainordas depends upon our actions. We need to do whatever we can to get the Stone and the other boy. Will you promise me that you will take this seriously?’
The Throne looked somewhat abashed – he’d never really forgotten that Fahren used to rap his knuckles as a boy. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he repeated. ‘Soldiers will be sent to comb the clearing in Whisperwood for the Stone, and I will deploy extra patrols from the Shining Mines. Will that satisfy you?’
‘It’s a start,’ said Fahren.
‘I’ll have birds sent presently. As for now, my officers await. We’ll speak again soon.’
Fahren watched the entourage head off down the path. Naphur would do what Fahren asked, but Fahren doubted he grasped its significance. Naphur was a soldier at heart, and would fight this in his own way, even if that was exactly what the enemy wanted.