A Curse Among Blessings

The sun was setting and day was beginning as Gestarin made his way through the streets.

“Gestarin!” Riina shouted as her husband ran feverishly to greet her. She was already standing near the gates, her natural instincts having told her to follow the jubilant crowd. “What is happening?”

“The Jods have come,” he said with a strain. Sitting on a throne made him soft, though running from the palace to the city gates was still quite a feat. “Perhaps Inalla may get her chance.” Riina’s eyes flashed, and a faint smile of joy began to play at her lips.

“I believe that our prayers may be answered, then,” she said. “Even though we both know that isn’t likely.” She wrapped her hand in Gestarin’s. “Shall we?” Gestarin nodded, taking her arm as they began to follow the path that inevitably opened as royal guards cleared the way for their king. People all around them clamored to get a single glance at the near mythical beings that were about to appear. Plain serfs formed a tight-knit group at the very front of the throng, each one praying that one of their sons or daughters would be chosen. The family of the child taken would be compensated immensely by the Jods; indeed, legend was Gestarin’s family gained their wealth and prestige from an event such as this. Behind the serfs clamored a slightly smaller group of armored Var, their blood-red plate and mail flashing in the light of the day. The Var wanted their children to be chosen for a far different reason: the skill of the Jod blademasters was renowned throughout all of Oaiao. If one of the Varian children were taken, they would be allowed to return and teach their parents and relatives. Such a man would be the proudest father and warrior in all of Glausiania.

Soon, the Bloodgates loomed over Gestarin’s head, the rusty sandstone towers flanking the mob as it exited the city. Gestarin and his wife, followed closely behind by bodyguards, walked casually out of the city to the Fields of Matrikai. A large body of serfs and farmers had already gathered in the center of the tall grass, their eyes anxiously scanning the sky for any sign of the heraldic host that was surely nearing.

Gestarin looked around for a moment, confused.

“Where are our children?” he asked Riina, nearly shouting over the din of the crowd.

“Right here, sir.” A bass voice said behind him. Gestarin turned around to see Jiriinii and Inalla escorted by his chief bodyguard. Closely behind him came Kiinrin, laughing and clapping as Preceptor Tixier, the old teacher, wheeled him through the part in the crowd.

“The Jods!” Inalla cried, leaping into Gestarin’s arms. “The Jods, father! Oh, do you think they will choose me?”

“I doubt it,” Jiriinii snorted. “I don’t think that the Jods would take such a crybaby.”

“Now, Jiriinii,” Riina scolded as Inalla’s eyes filled with tears. “Let your little sister have a dream.”

“But the odds of her being chosen are astronomical!” She shouted, folding her arms and blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Everyone knows the Jods choose mostly serfs and Var, with an occasional lordling. I don’t think that a child of a Bloodwielder has been chosen in over a hundred years.”

“You never know, dear,” Riina said, her eyes narrowing. “And I would suggest you apologize to your sister before I get even more angry with you.” Anger flashed in Jiriinii’s eyes, and she opened her mouth a to respond; before she could, however, a deep trumpet thundered across the field, and the entire massive crowd went silent. The only sound was the beating of hearts and the wind rustling the grass. Every eye was turned toward the dark sky, searching for the Jods among the twinkling stars.

“I see them!” A frantic voice shouted, and the crowd collectively held their breath as they  watched, a steady speck appeared in the sky, growing larger and larger every second. Soon this speck was joined by more that spun and whirled in the air as they enlarged.

“Ohhhh!” Inalla squealed, dancing in the grass as she watched the Jods descend.

“Clear an area!” Gestarin shouted at his guards, who quickly rushed to follow his instructions. The people naturally seemed to clump together as they waited, but the Jods needed plenty of space to land. Even the space the Guards were creating may not be enough with this amount of Jods. It was by far the most Gestarin had ever seen.

“Heads down, children,” Riina said, as they all knelt down and lowered their eyes. Jod landings could be explosive, to say the least. Even Kiinrin managed to focus enough to lower his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of something large, white, and winged.

An echoing crash sounded as the Jods hit the ground, and a great plume of dust sprang forth on the dry plain. Gestarin wrapped his arms around his family as the dust blew past, stinging his face. After a moment, as the dust cloud subsided, Gestarin and the rest of the gathered Glausianians looked up.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, filling the gap to the very edge, stood the most magnificent beings Gestarin had ever seen. They towered over the Glausianians, the shortest among them still at least twelve stones high. They wore glistening white armor, the light of the phantom sun refracting off of the metal to form rainbows that danced across the crowd. Their helms were intricately carved to resemble birds, with flowing curves and sharp edges combining to form a work of art that would bring any armorer or blacksmith to tears. Perhaps the most majestic aspect of the Jods were the massive white wings that sprouted from the back of every member. Rippling with silken feathers and with a wingspan twice the length as a man was tall, those wings made the Jods the awe-inspiring beings that were dear to the heart of every inhabitant of Oaiao.

“We would speak with your chief.” A smooth, deep voice boomed over the crowd. Whispers and twitterings rippled through the multitude as they looked for their king. Gestarin coughed and raised his hand, the crowd parting at the guard’s command.

“I am King Gestarin of Glausiania, lord Jod.” He said formally, crossing his hand over his heart and bowing. Heretical as he was, he would respect the Jods as much as he possibly could, and saluting them with the symbol of their god seemed to be a wise idea. “What would you have of me?”

“We would have three of your kind, your majesty,” the Jod replied, returning the gesture with a salute and bow of his own. “Would you permit us to take and train them? Their families would be compensated greatly.” He nodded at two of his compatriots, who brought forth twin chests overflowing with gold and Prisms.

“Of course, my lord,” Gestarin said, as two of his own guards came forth to carry the chests. One of them dropped his on his foot, howling comically as he gripped it tightly in his hands. His friend quickly called forth two more of his comrades to help carry the treasure, but the throng paid no heed to this little scene. Their minds and eyes were fixed firmly on the splendorous words being said.

“Very well, your majesty,” the Jod said, removing his helmet to reveal a flowing mane of flaxen hair; Gestarin could almost hear the single ladies of the kingdom sighing and reaching for their smelling salts. The Jod pulled a scroll out of his belt and unfurled it, clearing his throat and taking a breath.

“Utira Jikansdaughter.” He boomed in a loud voice that carried over the crowd. A clamor of applause and cheering sounded from the serfs as a little girl of nine was pushed to the front, her face plastered with disbelief. She walked slowly, brushing off her plain brown smock as best she could. The Jod greeted her with a bow and a warm smile.

“Welcome, my lady,” he said kindly, putting his hand gently on her small shoulder. “Vulcalay will be your companion.” Another Jod stepped up and gently took the girl’s hand, leading her into the center of their group.

Gestarin listened as the crowd began to murmur quietly. A girl being chosen by the Jods was very rare; it had not happened once in Gestarin’s lifetime. Today was turning out to be very special indeed.

“Next,” the Jod continued, reading from his scroll as the crowd was silent once more. “Jiriinii Galarin, daughter of Gestarin Galarin, princess of Glausiania.”

The cacophony of gasps echoed through the mass of people as Gestarin looked sharply at the Jods.

It could not be.

Jiriinii and Inalla both ran forth to speak frantically to the Jods.

“Don’t take me, my lord!” Jiriinii cried, tears streaming freely down her face. All her regal bearing was gone.

“Take me instead, my lord. Please!” Inalla bawled, a veritable flood running down her own face. “Surely there must be some sort of mistake!” The Jod held up his hand, and the girls were both instantly silenced.

“There can be no mistakes when Aia is involved. Your sister has been chosen, and there is nothing you nor I could do to restrain her. She will go to Valanal, and she will be trained.” With that, he turned away to his scroll. Jiriinii and Inalla stood dumbfounded, the Jod’s brusque reply silencing any further argument. After a moment, Inalla stalked back to her mother as Jiriinii reluctantly took her place in the midst of the Jods.

“And now, the final chosen,” the Jod announced solemnly, closing his scroll and putting it back in his belt. “Kiinrin Galarin, son of Gestarin Galarin, Crown Prince of Glausiania.”

Gestarin’s breath caught in his throat as the crowd became as silent as the Void.

What?

Through the midsts of the crowd, Preceptor Tixier slowly rolled Kiinrin to the center of the Jods. Kiinrin’s face was filled with fear, a consequence of his wounded mind. Anything out of the ordinary or anything involving him in front of large groups of people caused an irrational terror to take hold of him.

And this was certainly terrifying.

As Kiinrin approached the Jods, the people began to murmur much louder than before. The choices of today should have been impossible. A little girl, a princess, AND the cripple Crown Prince? The Void was more likely to collapse to a single point than for these three children to be chosen, all on the same day. And yet, they had been.

Gestarin continued to gape at the Jods, his mind wiped completely blank by the pronouncement. After a moment, however, he shook his head and walked quickly up the Jod.

“My lord, are you sure this is the correct choice?” He asked the Jod, who looked at him with stern eyes. “Surely you can see that my son is not… entirely whole. It would be wrong for me to allow you to take him now only for him to fail the training.”

“Be at peace, your majesty,” the Jod said, his eyes softening as he looked over at the terrified young man. “The Jods will not allow any of your children to fail. The humiliation and grief has killed parents in other days, in other places. We do not make the same mistake.” He looked at Gestarin firmly. “If you will allow me, your majesty, I will help your son.”

“Of course, my lord,” Gestarin said quickly, a spark of hope forming in his heart. “Anything you can do for him will bring happiness to my family.” The Jod nodded with determination and turned toward Kiinrin, whose eyes flitted back and forth between the different men. The Jod leader walked softly over to him and grasped his shoulder, gentle but firm.

“My son, I have come to help.” He said formally, bowing before the terrified prince. “Wilt thou permit me to heal thee?”

Kiinrin gulped, but, after a moment, he nodded slowly.

The Jod reached over to his wrist and undid the leather straps that held his vambrace, letting the glistening white armor fall to the dry ground. His arm was tanned and muscular, the skin bearing scars from countless battles. On his wrist was a white spike that oozed out of his skin at the slightest touch. The Jod grabbed hold of the spike and jerked on it, sliding it out of his arm.

The gasp that followed came from Gestarin’s own mouth as white ichor flowed from the Jods skin, whirling and gyrating as it coalesced along the base of the hilt. He did not gasp because it was a process he had never seen before; indeed, he himself possessed a Bloodblade. No, he gasped because he did not know what this weapon was other than the fact that it was not a Bloodblade. The blade was too white, the process too clean for it to be one of the Harvester’s weapons. After a moment, the Jod held a milky white Sickle in his hands, the light bouncing off of it in all directions. In that moment, Gestarin knew exactly what this weapon was.

An Aetherblade. He thought to himself. The supposed Sword of Aia. His eyes widened. But that means that, instead of blood in their veins, the Jods have…

“Your majesty,” the Jod said without taking his eyes off of Kiinrin. Gestarin jumped a bit, the stern voice interrupting his reverie. “I need your word that you will not interfere with what I am about to do.”

“Why would I, my lord?” Gestarin replied, puzzled.

“Your word.” Came the terse reply.

“You have my word. Do as you must.”

The Jod nodded shortly and, with a graceful motion, plunged his sword through Kiinrin’s heart.

“No!” Gestarin leapt blindly to save his son, all thoughts of promises and oaths of uninvolvement washing away as the fear of a father coursed through his brain. He screamed as he tried to rush to his son’s side, but a pair of strong arms held him back.

“Do not interfere, your majesty.” A gentle, feminine voice said in his ear. Gestarin looked over his shoulder to see a woman Jod, her eyes fixed firmly on the spectacle before them. “This must happen. Your son will not be harmed.” She nodded toward the leader. “Look.”

Gestarin turned his head toward his son, fully expecting to see Kiinrin’s lifeless body slumped on the ground. Much to his astonishment, however, he could not see either his son or the Jod leader. A pulsating light whirled around the center of the group, obscuring everything it enveloped from all sight. Gestarin had to shield his eyes from its massive brightness.

As he watched, the light slowly began to dim, and he could make out the silhouettes of Vilkanai and Kiinrin in the center. Gestarin gasped as he realized that both of the outlines were standing and embracing. Kiinrin had not been able to stand for over ten years.

“Father!” Gestarin heard Inalla cry as she ran toward him, and he pulled her up into his arms. Though she had grown much since the last time he had held her, she still was a child in need of comfort, no matter the strain on Gestarin’s arms. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, darling!” He said in her ear, his eyes fixed on the still dimming light. He could now make out Kiinrin standing with his arms wrapped around Vilkanai.

Suddenly, the intense light disappeared and the wind stopped completely. Silence engulfed the crowd as Gestarin stood in shock at the sight before him.

Kiinrin stood triumphantly in the center of the Jods, his wheeled chair lying forgotten in the grass. Preceptor Tixier stood behind him with a look of profound pride on his face. Vilkanai wore a gentle smile as he sheathed his Blade once more in his wrist and reattached the vambrace to forearm.

“Behold!” He boomed, his wings unfurling and thrusting themselves into the air. “The Crown Prince has been made whole!” An intense cheer answered his call as the crowd of people hooted and hollered. Gestarin himself made his vocal chords raw as he shouted for joy. He gently set Inalla down and ran over to his son.

“Father,” Kiinrin said, his speech no longer halting or slurred. “I feel different.” He looked at his arms and legs, both rippling with muscle. It was a stark contrast to the spindly limbs of his previous body. Now, however, Kiinrin looked as though he could lift the entire palace above his head and toss it all the way to the Void.

“Yes, my son,” Gestarin said, tears making little rivulets down his cheeks. “I would expect so.” With a sob, he flung his arms around his son. Kiinrin wrapped his own arms around his father and began to cry himself. Father and son stood on the dusty plain for nearly a minute, embracing and sobbing.

“My lord.” Vilkanai said softly, laying his hand on Gestarin’s shoulder. “I apologize for not explaining my actions to you. There was not a way for me to explain to you that your son would not be harmed, and we have precious little time as it is.”

“My son is healed. What ill could I bear you now?” He clasped his hand with Vilkanai in a gesture of friendship.

“Unfortunately, your majesty, it is time for us to depart,” Vilkanai said gravely. “The sun approaches, and we must be at Valanal before nightfall.”

“So soon?” Gestarin sighed. “Can I not have a little more time with my son?”

“It cannot be, your majesty,” Vilkanai responded sadly. “Every moment further you spend with him will only make departing more strenuous. It is best we leave now.” Gestarin nodded, tears welling up once more in his eyes. He walked over to Kiinrin and embraced him once more.

“Be well.” He whispered in his son’s ear. “Be well, and someday you will be far greater than any king.” Kiinrin nodded, tightening his grip on his father. After a moment, they broke apart, and Kiinrin walked over to Vilkanai.

“Farewell, King Gestarin!” Vilkanai called. “May the Void never take thee!” With that statement, he wrapped his arms around Kiinrin. Two other Jods did the same with their own charges, engulfing the small frames of Jiriinii and Utira in their enormous arms.

“Don’t let them take me, father!” Jiriinii screamed, reaching her arms toward Gestarin. “I don’t want to go!”

“I know!” He called back, anguished. He blew a kiss toward her, and she caught it in her hands. Tears flowed freely down her tender cheeks.

Every Jod unfurled his wings and, with a single unified thrust, soared upward into the air. The crowd cheered tremendously, but the only things Gestarin could hear were his own sobs and Jiriinii’s fading screams.