Above It All

Kiinrin shivered and shook as Vilkanai carried him far above the countryside, the rolling plains of Glausiania transforming into the Quasexan Barrens as they flew. The air was much colder up here; the doublet and tunic that had been sufficient while in Glausiania quickly proved to give him no warmth up here. He rubbed his arms in a feeble attempt to restore some sort of feeling to them.

It was strange that he was able to do such a thing- up until an hour ago, moving any appendage had taken immense concentration on his part. He could not even walk, as the mind ailment prevented the amount of focus needed for locomotion. Now, however, he  didn’t even need to think as he slowly massaged his biceps, a small amount of heat returning to them.

“Take me back!” Kiinrin heard Jiriinii scream above the rushing wind. “Unhand me and take me back!”

“Spirited, isn’t she?” Vilkanai said, his eyes on the Jod carrying Kiinrin’s sister. “She will learn patience and respect soon enough.”

“Was it right?” Kiinrin asked sincerely, looking over his shoulder at the Jod that carried him. Vilkanai cocked his head, puzzled. “Was it right to choose her over Inalla?”

“What do you mean?” Vilkanai asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“Inalla has wanted to be a Var for all her life.” Kiinrin looked down at the ground,picturing his little sister’s face. He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew, but he could distinctly remember that fact. “Being chosen by your people would have made her happy beyond all her wildest dreams.”

“She would not have been able to cope with the process.” Vilkanai replied. “As good as her heart is, she does not have the capacity for the training required.”

“But why choose Jiriinii?” Kiinrin implored.

“We did not choose her,” Vilkanai said, shaking his head. “Aia did, and he does not reveal his secrets so easily.” He looked back over at the sobbing girl. “Something in your sister elevates her above all the other children in the kingdom, something that can be molded and shaped by the Jods. That is my only guess.”

Kiinrin nodded, only partially satisfied. He looked over at Jiriinii. Her delicate hands were balled in tight fists that slammed furiously into the Jod’s muscles, but they did not move an inch. Kiinrin briefly wondered what her intention was with the beatings, as being let go would be slightly detrimental to her health.

Kiinrin’s heart leapt into his throat as Vilkanai suddenly went into a steep dive. As he levelled out once more, Kiinrin released the breath that he had been unconsciously holding.

“Do it again.” Kiinrin blurted before his rational mind could come up with a reason against it. “Please.” Vilkanai raised his eyebrows a little, but he complied. Once more, the wind rushed against Kiinrin’s face as they fell, Kiinrin’s head spinning in a delightful manner.

“Would you like me to show even more, your majesty?” Vilkanai laughed as he completed the dive.

“Yes!” Kiinrin shouted, throwing his arms out to the side as though they were wings of his own. The wind whipped against them, tongues of air raising his hair up like the bristles on a cat.

Vilkanai began to execute a precise series of graceful twists, flips, and dives. Kiinrin could scarcely see where he was going, as his orientation changed every few moments. He laughed in delight, feeling more free than he had ever felt before. He was a bird in flight, master of the skies. No force or being could hold him down.

Vilkanai ended his aerial acrobatics, and Kiinrin sighed in content.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, joy shining in his eyes as he looked at Vilkanai.

“Not at all, your majesty.” Vilkanai responded with a smile of his own.

“Please,” Kiinrin said, putting up a hand as he had seen his father do. “My name is Kiinrin.”

“Very well.” Vilkanai nodded. “Kiinrin.”

Kiinrin nodded back, and he turned his head this way and that to observe his surroundings. They were currently above the Western Wastes, dust and sand dunes sprawling across the landscape. Kiinrin could see a few oases, green splotches across a tan canvas. On the horizon rose a great black mountain with white snowcaps coloring its peak.

“Valanal.” Vilkanai said wistfully. “Ancestral home of the Jods.”

“What’s it like?” Kiinrin asked.

“Beautiful,” Vilkanai sighed. “You shall see soon enough, Kiinrin, and believe me. Nowhere on Oaiao will you find such exquisite beauty as in that mountain right there.” Kiinrin nodded, his imagination running wild as he wondered what it could be like.

Kiinrin turned his head toward the other Jods as he heard an animated conversation going on between the other girl, Utira, and her companion.

“Who is she?” Kiinrin asked, and Vilkanai looked over at the pair.

“She is the only daughter of a poor serf family.” Vilkanai replied, smiling at the two. “Her father was crippled last night during an attack on their village of Carnidoni. She had been with her aunt and uncle at the time- there was nothing she could do.”

“Attacked by who?” Kiinrin asked with gasp.

“Not who, what.” Vilkanai replied gravely. “Flens.”

Kiinrin shivered, but not from the cold. Preceptor Tixier had always told the children stories about those horrible creatures from the Void. Legend said they were taller than palaces and more terrible than the most fearsome beast. They were supposed to have ten horns and twelve eyes apiece, and they spoke to each other in horrid cackles and howls. No child would ever disobey their parents if they were told that doing otherwise would bring Flens upon them. Of course, no child had ever seen one. Very few had, and even fewer lived to tell of it.

“The stories are wrong, you know,” Vilkanai said, apparently reading Kiinrin’s mind. “Flens aren’t some strange beasts. In fact, they look just like you and me.”

“What?” Kiinrin spluttered. “You’ve seen them?”

“Yes.” Vilkanai nodded. “They look exactly like men, though distinguishable men at that. They all have this sort of bearing to them that makes them stand out in a crowd. They do not, however, have horns.”

“What makes them so terrifying, then?” Kiinrin asked, puzzled.

“They are made of the Void.” Vilkanai said. “They are able to manipulate their bodies. They can heal wounds, enlarge muscles, move faster than any normal man can. And,” He added in a strange voice, awe and fear combining in his tone. “They each wield all five of the Bloodblades.”

“That isn’t possible.” Kiinrin responded immediately. “No man can handle being bonded to more than one Bloodblade.”

“Flens are not men, Kiinrin.” Vilkanai reproached him, and Kiinrin fell silent and looked away. “They do not have the same limitations. Oio saw to that.”

“Oio?” Kiinrin inquired. He had never heard the name before. Before Vilkanai could answer, however, a shout came up from below them. In the heat of their conversation, Kiinrin had failed to notice that they had arrived at the mountain city of Valanal.

Kiinrin immediately saw why Vilkanai had vehemently proclaimed that there was not a more beautiful place. The city was made of pure white stone, the light reflecting off the snow and the buildings to create a luminescence that seemed to permeate everything. Many of the buildings curved gracefully against the mountainside, their architecture flowing and elegant. Trees even grew, somehow able to survive the rocky terrain and the cold. Their leaves were thin and extremely sharp, and the branches spurted forth almost perpendicular to the ground. They were taller than anything Kiinrin had ever seen before.

As he looked down at the city streets, Kiinrin was astounded by the number of  people living in the city. They moved around quickly and happily, many stopping to chat with their neighbors in the streets. As they flew over the marketplace, Kiinrin could hear the clamor of vendors hawking their wares.

“Who are they?” Kiinrin asked Vilkanai. “I thought Valanal was the city of the Jods.”

“It is, Kiinrin.” Vilkanai nodded. “But where do you think their children and spouses are?” Kiinrin’s eyes went wide, and he looked back at the city, not wanting to miss anything.

From his position at the front of the group of Jods, Kiinrin could see them approaching an enormous palace at the highest point in the city. It glimmered with a bright radiance, its crystal walls throwing specks of light in all directions. It was tall and pointed, with many spires reaching toward the top of the mountain.

“That is the Seat of Jod.” Vilkanai said, pointing at the palace. “And it is our destination. Hold on.”

Suddenly, Vilkanai and the other Jods went into a steep dive as they flew towards a bright red landing platform. A group of Jods waited next to it, their wings unfurled in anticipation. Kiinrin grunted as Vilkanai hit the ground and the platform shuddered slightly. Jods did not appear to do anything gently.

“Welcome, initiates.” A honeyed voice said as the Jods released their children. A female Jod in a white dress had come onto the platform, smiling gently and looking at each of the children in turn. “My name is Vulirnia, and I will be your caretaker.”

“Like a master?” Utira said shakily. Her serf instincts appeared to be the cause of her fear, a testament to the abuse she and her family had suffered.

“No, child,” Vulirnia said softly, kneeling down before Utira and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You will not have any more masters. From now on, you will have teachers.” Utira stood still for a moment, and then she broke down in tears and flung her arms around Vulirnia’s neck. The woman responded in kind, lifting the little girl up and holding her in her gentle arms.

“You are the last group to arrive.” She said to Jiriinii and Kiinrin. “If you will follow me, I will take you to the others.” Kiinrin and Jiriinii looked at each other.

“Don’t go.” She whispered.

“I have to.” He replied, and he followed Vulirnia down a staircase and into the halls of the palace.

The hallways were bright and warm, torches flickering on either wall. Tapestries draped between them depicted regal kings standing beside Jods, the country sprawled out before their feet. Kiinrin assumed that this artwork stood for unity, for solidarity between the people and the Jods. After a few minutes of walking, they reached a pair of large doors. Their golden handles were carved in the shape of swans, graceful and lovely. Despite her anger, Kiinrin heard Jiriinii gasp softly.

“That’s beautiful.” She whispered. “Who did that?”

“An initiate of long ago.” Vulirnia replied as she stroked the still crying Utira’s hair. “It was their punishment for accidentally destroying the previous ones.”

Before Kiinrin could ask how the doors were destroyed, they opened with a whoosh of air. A single Jod dressed in a white robe stood in the doorway.

“Lord Valanal is ready for you.” He said with a smile. “Please, come in.” Kiinrin and Jiriinii looked at each other briefly. Without a word, they followed Vulirnia into the throne room.

* * *

King Gestarin sat on his bed, his tears long dry, holding a letter in his hands.

What happened? He thought to himself. What could possibly have brought the Flens upon us?

A Var had delivered the letter on behalf of Lord Rinjiro, governor of Carnidoni, a village in Northern Glausiania. Or, at least, it used to be. The message had said that Rinjiro and his remaining subjects were en route to Matrikai, their village having been attacked and levelled by Flens a fortnight ago. Reports said that three of them came in the night and ransacked the town, killing any person they came across. The messenger himself had lost someone, judging from the despair in his eyes and his slouched posture.

Gestarin only wondered one thing: why had the Flens attacked an unimportant village on the edge of the country?

An excellent question, your majesty. The Voice cackled from the mirror at Gestarin’s side. Gestarin picked up the small looking glass and stared at it. The face that stared back was not his own.

“What do you know, Nirastig?” He said out loud, addressing the face in the mirror.

Enough, my lord. The face replied, its disgusting green features smiling to reveal broken and rotting teeth. You know how easy it is for me to gather information.

“Tell me!” Gestarin shouted, shaking the mirror.

A week ago, a Bedseller by the name of Miriin was kidnapped from her brothel in Carnidoni by one Radiran, a local farmer.

“Anything special about this Radiran?” Gestarin queried.

A former nobleman soldier and chaplain on the Barabak Wall, my lord. Nirastig said. Somehow he was taught the Bloodoaths before being thrust out of the army to take up agriculture.

“Was he attempting to use them?”

Yes. Nirastig replied gravely. By the time I arrived, he had formed Eliran's Sickle.

Gestarin took in a ragged breath, thoughts of terror and destruction running through his mind. “How much damage did he do?”

Little, my lord. Nirastig said with a frown. The Flens dealt with him only a moment after he created the weapon.

Gestarin breathed heavily, trying to still his now shaking hands. How in the world had a simple farmer learned the Bloodoaths? Gestarin himself didn’t know them. Only the Harvester Lords knew them, and they could not create Bloodblades without express permission from the Harvester King.

Then, who gave them to a serf with a heart full of vengeance?

An excellent question, your majesty. Nirastig giggled. Perhaps you can tell me the answer to that one.

Gestarin sighed, putting the mirror face down on the bed and silencing Nirastig’s words. His children had just barely been taken, and here he was with a national security issue larger than anything else he had ever seen. It was times like these that reinforced his belief that Aia did not exist. No god would let his children endure hardship without respite.

He rose from his bed and pulled on a nightshirt and loose trousers. He walked over to the door and pulled it open, nodding at the guards on the other side. They nodded and stepped to the side to allow the king through.

“Sergeant,” Gestarin said, and the officer stepped forward. “I want you to be on alert if a Bloodwielder is in this wing of the palace.”

“Of course, sir,” he replied, a look of slight confusion on his face. “Has there been something like that?”

“No, no,” Gestarin lied smoothly, not wanting to bother the sergeant with what was almost certainly something unimportant. “I just fear that with two of my children gone, Bloodwielders may think it is permitted to come to my quarters now. I wish to reinforce the restriction to show them that that is not the case.”

“Very well, sir.” The sergeant replied, nodding to his companion. Gestarin forced a smile and saluted, his mind spinning about a thousand different things, each one seemingly larger and more terrifying than the others. As he walked toward his daughter’s chambers, he compelled his body to relax. It was impossible for anyone else to solve all these problems at once, and so he should not expect himself to be able to. One thing at a time; and right now, he needed to comfort his remaining daughter.

Gestarin opened the door to Inalla’s room, and he nearly gagged from the smell. There must have been a hundred different types of incense burning in this room. Gestarin briefly considered drawing his Blade, just so he could pierce the intense cloud of smoke that permeated the room. He could hear a murmuring chant that echoed in the haze, the acoustics of the room giving the noise an almost ethereal feel.

“Inalla?” He shouted, holding his arms out as he floundered about the room.

“Careful, father!” Inalla cried, the chant ceasing for a moment. “You’ll knock over my altar!” The chant began again in earnest.

“What is all this?” Gestarin asked. He somehow reached the wall and pulled open the curtains to force the smoke out. “What are you doing?” As the smoke began to clear somewhat, he could see Inalla kneeling on her bed. She had her hands clasped against her chest, eyes closed, and she was muttering something over and over again. Near the door sat a small table draped with a white cloth, with dozens upon dozens of incense candles burning all at once. “Inalla!”

“Go away!” She shouted between mutterings. “I’m praying!”

“Inalla, please stop,” Gestarin pleaded. “This is not healthy!”

“Get out!” She screamed, not moving an inch. Gestarin steeled himself. He hated threatening his children, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Inalla,” he said evenly. “If you do not stop, I shall send for the royal dressmaker and force you to wear a beautiful pink gown.” Inalla did not stop her mutterings; if anything, they only became louder. “With lace.” Gestarin added with some finality. The mutterings ceased, and the only sound that could be heard was the hiss of the candles burning. Inalla turned her head toward her father, eyes wide in fear.

“You wouldn’t.” She said icily.

“And when did little girls begin to tell a king what he can and cannot do?”

“What do you want?” Inalla hissed.

“I wanted to make sure that you were alright.” Gestarin said. “And,” He gestured to the altar and incense. “To make sure that you were not doing anything quite as idiotic as this.”

“I’m praying to Aia to bring the Jods back and take me instead.” Inalla said haughtily.

“Aia will not listen to you.” Gestarin said.

“He will if I pray hard enough.” Inalla replied shakily.

“Inalla,” Gestarin said softly, walking over to his daughter and putting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but she did not shake it off. “Do you really think that the intensity with which you pray gives Aia more reason to grant your request?”

Inalla stiffened, tears welling up in her eyes. With a wailing sob, she flung her arms around her father with such force that Gestarin staggered slightly. “It isn’t fair!”

“What isn’t?” Gestarin said. He knew the answer, but he allowed Inalla the opportunity to explain her woes.

“I’ve always wanted to be a Var and fight and be strong.” Inalla wailed. “I would have been the perfect choice for the Jods. And they chose stupid Jiriinii instead!”

“What is wrong with their choice?” Gestarin asked.

“She’s so prissy!” Inalla cried acidly. “All she wanted was to play dress-up and make eyes at all the boys. They didn’t care about her, but still she did it. She never wanted to fight and be strong like you.”

“Perhaps that is why they took her,” Gestarin said, stroking his daughter’s red hair. “Perhaps that is why she was chosen.”

Inalla sniffed. “What do you mean?”

“You have always been confident in yourself, Inalla, and therefore you could not see how your sister was,” Gestarin explained. “Jiriinii did all those things, dressing up and watching the boys, hoping one would notice her, because she hated herself. She hated how ugly she was, how no one liked her, how no one ever paid attention to her. ”

“That’s stupid,” Inalla said, confused. “Everyone loves her. She has always been the center of attention.”

“That is indeed true,” Gestarin said, nodding. “But still she thought it. Did you ever notice the boys always wanted to play with you?”

“Well, of course they did,” Inalla said with an air of surprise. “The boys are rough with each other and played rough games. I fit right in.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Gestarin said. “The reason why the boys loved you didn’t matter to Jiriinii. All she could see was that you were getting more attention acting as a soldier than she was as  a princess. She resented you for it.”

“Well, why didn’t she just come and play with us? I would have let her.”

“But the boys, who had been taught by their parents from an early age to respect princesses, would not,” Gestarin said solemnly. “You were rough enough that they could ignore who you were, but they respected Jiriinii too much to risk the ire of their elders. ”

“I guess I can see that.” Inalla admitted. “But why would being chosen by the Jods help her?”

“She will learn to be strong like you,” Gestarin said with a smile. “And, since she is a girl, she will always get attention from everyone simply by being there. Being part of the royal family as well, it is quite possible Jiriinii will get more attention than she could ever want.” Inalla and Gestarin laughed at that thought for a moment, and then they were silent.

“Father,” Inalla said after a moment, wiping tears from her cheeks. “What did the Jods do to Kiinrin?” Gestarin’s eyes welled up with tears of his own, and he looked away.

“We’ll save that for later.” He said, forcing his emotion down. He had to be strong in front of his daughter. “For now, I want you to clean up this mess and get to bed. The hour is late, and you need your sleep.” Inalla nodded, embraced her father once more, and went over to the altar and began to pick up the candles gently. Gestarin slipped out of the room quietly, shutting the door behind him.

“To me! Bloodwatch, to me!” The Captain of the Guard shouted from down the hall, and Gestarin immediately tensed. What was going on? More shouts followed, along with the clang of steel; however, there was something more. Along with the sound of blades, there was an unnatural thump that pounded in rhythm with the same sound in Gestarin’s chest. The sound of a heartbeat.

A Bloodwielder was assaulting the king’s halls, only a few yards away from Inalla’s rooms.

Gestarin immediately wrapped his hand around the spike on his wrist as he ran towards the shouts, the bone raising out of his skin obediently at his touch. As he rounded the corner and the shouts grew louder, he jerked on the hilt firmly, blood coursing out of his veins and solidifying into the shape of a sword exactly as long as Gestarin’s arm. The hilt split in two and Gestarin flipped one side into his left hand and kept the other firmly grasped in his right. Everything around him became sharper in color, texture, and vibrancy. He could see waves of sound bounce off the walls if he focused; he could even see the walls slightly shake as the sound rebounded off of them. Such was the blessing of the Falconeyes. With them, Gestarin’s vision was increased tenfold.

Gestarin rounded the corner. A few yards away, the Bloodwatch was fighting a single tall figure draped in black, a hood obscuring his head from sight. In his hands he held a crimson Blade that was hooked and serrated on the edge.

Fishmonger. Gestarin thought as he leapt to the aid of his men. They really do want to kill me.

“Stand aside!” He shouted at his men, who instinctually retreated. “He is mine!”

The man in black turned his head toward Gestarin, and Gestarin could see his eyes through the black mask that obscured his face. Malice shown in the violet irises, but there was also fear.

Excellent.

Gestarin bellowed a battle cry as he leapt forward, thrusting with his left blade. The assassin quickly parried and sliced with an attack of his own, but Gestarin brought his right around to block it before following through with his left once more. Such was the spinning of the Way of the Falcon, alternating strikes and blocks with the two Blades. Difficult to learn, nigh impossible to master.

But if a man could, no other could stand in his way.

Gestarin and the assassin spun as they exchanged a flurry of blows, each clash of swords thumping in their chests. Because of the peculiar sound their Blades made when met, they soon fell into a rhythm as they instinctively synced their blows to the beating of their own hearts. Each man fought with the intensity of an animal, their blades singing as they whipped through the air with impossible speed.

Aia’s Blood, he’s fast! Gestarin thought to himself, grimacing as he parried a quick flurry of blows from the assassin. This man proved to be a true Blademaster; few could stand against a Falconeye. But this man not only was holding his own, he was quickly gaining the upper hand. Gestarin had not fought with his Blade for many years, and it was taking its toll. The assassin seemed to move with an inhuman speed, spinning his blade in ways Gestarin had not thought possible. Gestarin fought on, but it soon became difficult to maintain his form as fatigue began to seep into his bones. In a moment, he was entirely on the defensive, his Blades blocking attack after attack. The assassin beat upon Gestarin with abnormal strength, his hands and arms blurring in the air. Almost imperceptibly, Gestarin swung his left Blade out an inch too far, allowing slightly less room for his right to swing around for a parry. Victory shown in his opponents eyes as Gestarin blocked incorrectly, leaving himself open for a counterattack. The assassin raised his Blade for a killing stroke.

And screamed as another Bloodblade, thin and pointed like a saber, ripped through his chest.

The assassin slumped to the ground, his eyes dull and lifeless. The Outlet from his Bloodblade clattered onto the floor as the Blade dissolved and a pool of blood began to form both from the assassin’s wound and the destroyed Blade. That was the true sign of that the man was dead; his Blade no longer functioned.

Gestarin stood, breathing heavily, his mouth open in shock. Viceroy Vixin stepped over the assassin’s body, sheathing his Blade in his left arm.

“I normally would not be so forward, your majesty,” he said with a completely straight face. “But I think gratitude is in order.”