The Ever Winter Trilogy

The Arkanist

The sky was darkening. It had begun.

The Ever Winter the freemen were calling it. Word had spread quickly across the realm, riding on the waves of bitter winds swept cold over grey-grass fields. They spoke in hushed voices within their old granite inns, sharing stories and rumors over horns of ale and mead.

As they talked, the skies drained grey as stone and the rain hardened into hail, and then snow. The crops shriveled in the frost while the farmers huddled by their roaring fires, cloaked in wool and furs. The lands froze under the dark grey cloud as it crept across the sky while the cities hoarded their provisions deep in their lower vaults and storehouses. The men died.

It came like a torrent of ice in the height of summer. Down from the icy reaches of the far north it howled, blanketing the realm in snow. The drifts climbed up stone and wood, while servants had been sent to shovel out paths and roads in the bitter cold. They all died. More servants were sent to fell forests and bring back mountains of firewood to keep the cities warm. They all died.

Provisions kept cities alive, while the water made them die. Lakes, streams, springs, rivers, and ponds had all been frozen solid after the fifth night of the Ever Winter. Seawater was the only other option, but soon, the Magisters, the great scholars of the realm, declared that even the great salt sea would be covered in ice and begin to shiver with the land.

Then came the ash. On a grey morning, the first flake trickled with the pearly white snow. It was a grim omen, a shadow amongst the white. More came. The Magisters imprisoned themselves in their studies high in frosted stone towers, reading scroll and lore book, until on the day that the ash fell hard as the snow, and tainted the white blanket grey, they appeared from their solitude. Their answer was more devastating than the Ever Winter itself. The gods were dead.

From the dawn of time, the gods had held sway over the seasons in their sacred halls high in the clouds. They changed spring to summer, summer to autumn, and autumn to winter. Except winter had stayed. For a year now, the Ever Winter ruled the realm, killing hundreds. Mothers would smother their newborn babes to save them from the harsh life, a life they couldn’t even support.

Nobody knew how long the winter would last, or if it would ever end. They feared the worst.

They feared death.

They feared life.

Harion was on his way to the capital when the sky began to darken. It was midday and the grey was slowly turning black, the winds creeping through his wool cloaks. The morning had passed swiftly and his pace had been prompt. The cold grey mists had burned away soon after the sun had climbed past the barrier of thick grey clouds, the snows glistening gold as if the world was cloaked in a halo of light. The beauty was brief, and the sudden arrival the bitter winds reminded the Ever Winter was still there.

Past the pinnacle of midday, the track turned to frozen dirt, with tumbles of dirty grey snow crowded on either side. Fragile fingers of naked brush were choked in the heavy white robe that covered all and dead brown leaves rested on the glassy snow floor. Old black trunks rose like pillars from the white sea, clad in grey-green bristles that shivered in the cold, huddled with stout, grim soldier firs shrouded in heavy snow. The wood rose for leagues to his left and to his right, the wood faded, dipping into a grey valley, patched with snow and jagged rock. The clouds rolled dark and ominous above, challenged only by the meek sinking sunlight.

Harion’s horse was a well-bred palfrey, thick and broad with a glossy black sheen that gleamed silver in the grey light. His hair was snipped short and streaked with tan. It wore white socks and dark hooves that marched along the dirt road. Frosted moss crunched underfoot, smothering all possible sound as the grey-green carpet pocked the ruts in the beaten road. It was well used, and heavily traveled; a main trade route through the land. This day, the road was desolate and bare as a naked tree, its leaves torn from its fingers and strewn across the ground. Harion was thankful.

Groaning behind his mount, an old wagon hobbled through the ruts, covered with a ratty grey pall, hay peeking through the rips and gaps in the fabric. Three days ago, Harion had repaired the right wheel, for the spokes had cracked as he climbed his way over the rocky passes and through the distant mountains back west. Broken branches had replaced them, and had held so far. Harion was thankful.

It was still a long trek until he reached the capital though, and it was essential he arrive with his cargo. Hidden beneath the pall, deep within the wooden storage of the wagon was an object of immense value. It was worth more than any amount of gold, silver, or bronze coin; more than any jewel known to man kind, more than an ancient dragon egg the crazed priests cherish in the Damned Lands; more than a spell-forged staff from the Shadows Beyond. It was supposed to be lost from the known world, crushed with those who bore it.

Harion had found it.

The moon was crowned with a pallid gold halo as it began to crawl out of the grey expanse. Harion could see the stars glimmer meekly around it, adorning the darkening sky with a faint elegance. His eyes darted to the road as he heard the patter of an elk’s feet scamper by. He watched it dash off into the wood, weaving between the crowded trees, snow spraying into the cold air. A large black cloud covered the moon as he looked back up into the sky and the shadows began to walk amongst him like the ghosts of his nightmares.

The road forked. One path took him deeper into the forest; the track turning white with snow and the other sloped down, the wood clearing a bit further down. Harion led his horse into the descent, slowly and carefully, the wagon moaning behind him as the wheels turned and the rusted iron screeched. He pulled up his hood as the winds screamed to life, the naked trees bowing humbly as he passed.

The snow had halted for much of his journey so far this day and the paths had only been dusted in frost. Some days in the Ever Winter the roads were hidden under several feet of snow and trade stood at a stand still, as did the realm. As the wind brushed against Harion’s icy cheek, he felt a flake of snow kiss his lips. The first flake was followed soon after by a light flurry that lingered for a long while and which took Harion out of the wood and onto a wide cobble road, lined with a high jut of granite.

As the road opened and the trees grew sparse, the wind howled fierce and ripped at his cloaks, sweeping over the shivering grey-grass fields as they rolled into bleak grey shadows. To his right, the fields dipped and turned rocky, until they met the sheer rises of the Mountains of Abberion. Harion could see their dark silhouette in the distance, rising and falling in jagged peaks. Those mountains were known to house dark shadows in their bitter reaches and once, long ago, were home to dragons.

The wagon limped over the frozen cobblestone road, veins of frosted grey moss growing thick between the stone slabs. In the open, the sky was a swirling tempest of dark and grey clouds, streaked with thin blades of light that blazed white and clear as daybreak. Harion could feel the temperature drop dramatically as the black louds consumed the grey and the world darkened. The snow fell heavy and the ash began to trickle through the cold, the stench palpable.

Harion lit a torch in a burst of red flame, which soon calmed to a shivering orange as the winds threatening to silence its fury. The light danced pale against the stone road and lit Harion’s surroundings softly. If it got much later, it would be blown out, he knew. He needed to find a place to stop and set up camp for the night before the Ever Winter killed him. He was looking for a stone outcropping in the grey expanse of rolling grass fields, but nothing appeared. The sky was turning from a somber grey to a stark black as the air grew colder, until a copse of grim soldier firs rose like a gravestone up ahead.

He reached the trees in little time, and almost instantly their heavy coats of snow shielded him from the bitter winds. They did not, however, shield him from the arrow that drove into his thigh.

Harion grunted in anguish as the arrow quivered from his leg, the iron arrowhead colder than the Ever Winter itself. His horse stopped curtly and so did the wagon, but not the pain. It lanced up his leg, stung his hip, and ripped down his calf like a bolt of lighting, pulsing at his twitching ankle. His hand clenched into a tight fist and his other reached for the hilt of his sword, but instead of finding the curved steel pommel, his hand grasped another, gloved in black leather. He cursed the Nine.

“Looking for something?” said a voice to his side, dark and gritty. He laughed. “A fine blade, you have. Castle-forged, am I right?” There was a pause as Harion tried to pry the arrow from his leg. “Why would a Trader be carrying something of this make, and expense? Worth a good hundred gold pieces, I’d reckon.”

Harion cursed into the cold. “More than you have a right to know.”

He said the words with spite as he grimaced at the arrow in his shuddering thigh.

Harion ripped the arrow free and cursed again, the arrowhead gleaming red, his leather breeches dark with blood. He threw it to the ground as he turned to see a man examining his sword. The man was bearded like a bear with coarse black hair that was pulled back around his ears. Scars littered his face and a deep cut crossed over his nose and his dark brows hid his grey eyes. Harion saw the man’s arm caress the flat of the blade, the gilded hilt catching the grey. As the man turned, Harion caught a black patch of ink on his temple. Harion cursed again. He was a thief, and not just any old thief.

Harion knew the mark, how could he not?

The Black Hand.

The tattoo was infamous across the entirety of the realm, a stark indicator for all to see, renowned for thievery and for death. The Black Guild is seated in almost every city across the realm, while many others maraud the lands, catching weary travelers and merchants unawares, stealing their gold and valuables. The northern city of Vorr is where the vast majority dwells, deep beneath the streets they say, with paths running like rivers and halls large as castles. Once, during the rise of the Anturrians, they had infested Ald-Rhenar, the capital city of the province Alderon, but were disassembled by the mighty knights and fled into the wilderness. Death followed their every step.

The thief was swinging the ornate blade through the air when more crept from the shadows. All wore the traditional garb of the guild, black leather breeches with high grey boots and a black leather coat, slung with a brown sash that held dozens of pockets along the breast. None wore gloves, only linen wrappings and several held daggers at their waists, while others armed themselves with longswords or a crude wood bow. The thief that held Harion’s sword had a tight leather hood with a sword, dagger, and bow on his person. Blood stained his hands.

“Far from home, aren’t you?” asked Harion.

“I could say the same thing about you,” said the leader, driving Harion’s blade into the cold ground. “Out in the dark, cold, night. Alone.” It gleamed pale against the waxing moon as it shone like a golden egg through the naked treetops, cradled by their delicate fingers.

“Where might you be heading?” asked the thief. “Carrying a sword like this on you, I might guess it’s important.” He titled his head when Harion didn’t answer. “Or, might be, where were you coming from I might be fancied to ask?”

A quiet came over the wood, broken by the hidden owls.

“I’m traveling food and drink to the capital,” said Harion, lying. He was an awful liar, but tried his hardest to look and sound convincing. “The Ever Winter has hit the capital hard, they say. Hundreds are dying daily and the food is growing scarce as flowers these days.”

“What an atrocious liar you truly are,” said the thief. “I thought I might let you finish your well-rehearsed story, but well, we don’t have all day here and as it seems, the day is almost done.”

Harion grunted. “If I might grace you, it was no rehearsal.”

The thief laughed deeply. “Your even stupider than you look. Wearing a cloak in the Ever Winter is like to kill you before we even touch you.”

“A better death in my opinion,” said Harion, delaying.

The thief sniggered, and examined the blade once more, running his hand down the flat. “I’ve always liked steel more than iron, you know. Its lighter, and sharper, easier to kill.”

“Killing shouldn’t be easy.” Harion saw the light fade to darkness.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said the thief. “Would you like me to find out?”

Harion grimaced. “You wouldn’t even touch me.”

The thief paused and looked into the night sky, the silence resuming its reign.

“Let’s not wait here until the snows eat us up, Estarr,” said one of the others, his hair red as flame with a dirty auburn mane. “My fingers are like to freeze off if we stay out much longer. Reckon we just kill him, take the wagon back, and count the coppers. Enough of this talk.”

Several others agreed. Estarr laughed curtly and tossed the sword over to one of his other companions, who slid it into a leather sheathe. He walked up to Harion and looked up at him as he sat atop his steed, heart racing. “A very nice steed, I might add. Broad, tough,” he patted its corded leg. “Strong.” At his word, he threw Harion off his saddle with such strength Harion forgot to breathe. He landed hard on the stone-hard ground, the wind rattling as his injured leg crunched with the leaves. He grunted and gasped as he began to writhe on the ground, the snow churning around him, cold and wet.

“Unhook the horse,” said Estarr. “Check the wagon.”

Harion hardly heard what he said amidst the pain that engulfed his entire body. His leg was most likely broken and his face was cold as ice as it lay on the snow, while his cloak was heavy and wet. As he lay on the ground, seemingly dead, he heard the locks break and his horse rear, echoing through the barren silence of the forest. He could hear them shift through the snow to the wagon, trying to break the locks that held the covering. He tried to shout out to them, but he couldn’t, for his ribs screamed in pain as he breathed or grunted. His voice was lost in pain.

The locks broke within a minute of smashing and the cover was flown off with haste. The thieves scavenged through the wooden chests and barrels of food and ale while Estarr watched from the perch of his new horse. A glint caught his eye as the moonlight leaked through the deciduous trees and he dismounted. The glint was that of steel, the steel of a crosshilt, the steel of a sword. He shoved aside his companions as his hands found the hilt and when he pulled it out, it gleamed silver.

“A man who carries two blades is expecting something,” he said, looking over the pommel. His head titled in disbelief once more as he caught another glint. “But a man who carries three is positive in expecting a fight.”

He reached in and pulled out the other blade and walked over to the fallen Harion, grasping at the snow. He drove one of the blades into the ground and threw the other into the hands of his companions. “I will not disappoint you.” He unsheathed his own sword, the blade dark as ebony and the hilt silver with black leather banding the long hilt. The crosshilt was grey as smoke and in the moonlight, the dark blade ran with tendrils of smoky grey, for the steel was forged with skill and precision in the Shadows Beyond, some say with magic. Harion reckoned he stole it from a traveler, for none today travel into the land of shadows in the far west.

“Off the ground now,” said Estarr mockingly. “And pick up your blade. I don’t want to fight an unarmed man if I don’t have to.” He laughed. “That would dishonorable.” A wry smile curved across his face as he said the last word.

“You have no honor anyway,” said Harion, struggling to his feet, leaning on the wagon. “You have less honor than the dirt of this road.”

“I have killed men who fought with honor,” said Estarr. “It didn’t help them.”

“Its not supposed to help them.” Harion limped on one foot and drew his blade out of the ground, the hilt short and leathery, with a gilded crosshilt in the shape of a twin-spiked spear. The long white blade was etched with old words of a forgotten and distant language, one used in the dawn ages of the world. Harion knew little of what they meant. “It’s supposed to be your shield in the darkness and the armor that guards your heart.”

“Piss on that,” said Estarr. “Honor shows weakness, that is all.”

Harion limped forward, blade held out before him, blood racing down his broken leg. As he set his leg down, the pain excruciating beyond belief, as if his leg was being hammered into the ground a thousand times over, a cry from one of the other thieves broken his guard.

“Estarr!” came the shout. “You’ve to look at this with your own eyes. We’ll be richer than the bloody king with this in our hands!”

Estarr glanced back at Harion and kicked him in the leg, the pain lancing up into his arm. The thief pointed the blade down on his throat and began to lean forward, blood leaking from the cut. Harion couldn’t move as the blade cut deeper and deeper, his ears beginning to thrum, until the blade stopped and Estarr pulled it from his neck.

“For you bloody honor,” he spat as he walked away toward the wagon. Harion knew then he had no choice. He had to protect what lied inside the wagon. It was his only task, bring it home, Harion, bring it home! The words repeated themselves through his spinning head, until he screamed, shattering the night’s stillness and hurled his blade into one of the thief’s back. The blade stuck, quivered and as the thief grunted, fell to the ground, blood pooling around him, the snow drinking the red like summerwine.

Harion forced himself once again onto his feet and began to charge at Estarr, his broken leg now shattered, the pain numbed so that it felt like nothing now, just emptiness. Estarr glanced up and brandished his iron dirk, glinting in the darkness and as Harion tackled him the iron dug into flesh, and through rib. Arrows followed, burrowing into Harion’s back until he bristled like a porcupine and collapsed onto his side. There he lay, twitching, seconds from death.

He was coughing up blood when he saw Estarr lift up the fourth and final sword, hidden under several wool wrappings. Bring it home, Harion! It was a greatsword, long and thin, with ancient inscriptions etched into the steel. The steel gleamed with a pale opalescence, burning through the darkness of night. It was an Anturius, one of the sacred blades of the mighty Anturrians, the protectors of the old empire, the high kings that ruled on their gilded thrones.

Attached to the blade was a roll of parchment, which Estarr ripped open as he marveled over the sword that was supposed to be destroyed long years ago. He dropped the letter into the snow and glanced at the blade and then at the dying figure of Harion, blood drenching his wool cloaks, and for the first time noticed his regal face.

“You are a dead man, Estarr,” coughed Harion, grinning.

One the others loomed over him, dark as shadow. “What does he mean, Estarr?”

Estarr looked at the dirk in his hand, the winds whispering through the forest. “That we have just killed the king’s son, Prince Harion…” A quiet ran through the night as the prince breathed his last breath and Estarr collapsed to the snowy ground. “Gods be damned.”

Fire danced with steel beneath the black night sky.

Jakn watched, blades clashing like thunder as the two men fought to the death. The air was cold and the winds bitter, but the roaring fire kept him warm. Ash fell from the dark sky, the ruined remnants of the gods that once ruled the world. The snow rushed grey, melting as the downy flakes hit the wrought-iron braziers, licking with red flame as they bordered the field of combat.

The men fought in heavy plate armor with hissing mail hauberks beneath and dented cuirasses that screeched with each attack. As their greaves danced through the cold snow, their swords ripped through the night, furious as wild beasts. The one knight fought with a broadsword, the pommel iron and the blade steel, gleaming pale like the moon overhead. The other bore a flaming longsword, the steel hot with blistering fire and the hilt cool as ice. He was Jakn’s uncle, Lord Ekin Blackstar, the Firesword, as most called him.

Crimson banners writhed in the harsh winds, bearing the black sigil of the Marauders, a traveling gang of exiled knights. Lord Ekin was their leader, once High Captain of the Royal Legions of Antur, brought low after the sacking of the capital and the treachery that followed. He had fled far, crossing the old woodlands and the grey mountains to find a group of exiled knights along the road and brought them up together to form the Marauders. Together they travel, looking to serve justice to runaway fugitives and capture high lords for ransom.

This day, Lord Ekin Firesword battled Sir Ulfric Fharn, formerly of Edenn, south of the capital, a runaway knight who had confessed slaughtering a family for their gold after he had been stranded in the mountains after a battle. Justice hung in the balance as the two fought, the flaming sword of Ekin roaring through the night like a lion. Jakn had watched his uncle fight hundreds of times, and not once had he ever seen him loose. He fought well and he watched well, learning all he could, for someday, Ekin said that he would take up the mount of Lord of the Marauders.

Jakn had come to Ekin early, when he was five years old, after his father had been murdered by a raid of bandits in the night. His mother had died giving birth to him, and for that, Ekin hated him. It was a cruel spite, filled with rage and anger, one that Jakn did not deserve the blame. Still, Jakn admired his uncle, oddly enough. He was still family.

Jakn had escaped and when Ekin came looking to see the carnage, found him hiding in a burnt home, crying. From that day, Ekin had taken Jakn up as a son, for he had none of his own, and even though his hatred was fierce, could not abandon a babe of five alone in the Ever Winter.

Jakn lived amongst the exiles, learning from them and traveled across the whole of Alderon with them, sometimes even crossing into Centh if the weather permit. Presently, they stayed at their small encampment on the rim of the Mountains of Varrin, built into a cave and guarded by grim soldier firs, scaled in frost and ash. The Ever Winter had grown too fierce to travel, and Ekin would not risk travel. But he would never risk a good fight.

A chant began to drum through the surrounding knights as they held banners and torches in hand, the winds clawing at both with icy talons. Jakn sat on a smooth jut of rock, as he always did, and pulled the collar of his blue cloak over his chin, the wool bristling against his skin while the dark furs over his shoulders caressed his cheek. His dark hair, black as night, danced in the wind like the wings of a raven and his eyes were even darker, black holes that fell into nothing. They flashed red as Ekin threw a blow at Sir Ulfric’s shoulder, but the knight met the slash firmly, his blade engulfed in flame.

Ekin withdrew, swirling the sword between his fingers, his armor damaged and grey as slate, his chest bearing the red blade of the Marauders, and his dark surcoat beneath the plate flapped in the winds. His helm was slim and black, cut with slits at the eyes and around the mouth, while it was crowned with a pair of twirling horns, painted red, glistening dark in the flame. Ulfric bore no sigil across his grey steel chest and his mail was ripped at the legs so that it rattled against the steel plate. He was far larger than Ekin, and broader, with a large spiked helm on his head. It looked unfair.

Jakn watched as the ash fell on the two knights, the snows growing so that they covered their feet. It had been cleared away before the quarrel, but had returned quickly, climbing up their legs and into their leathers. The trees creaked and bowed, moaning in the wind and the moon was like a gilded sickle, crowded about with glittering stars. Blood sprayed across the snowy ground as Ekin’s fiery blade kissed Ulfric’s side, ripping through his leather jerkin below. The snow drank the red fervently as the knight’s side dripped with tears of blood.

Ekin the Red pounced, relentless, barraging the knight with a flurry of attacks and cuts, imprisoning him in a web of fire. Ulfric shrugged off the attacks and kicked out Ekin’s knee and The Firesword collapsed to the ground. Sir Ulfric swung down an arcing blow, but Ekin rolled away and sliced at his opponent’s leg as fire licked against steel and flesh. Ekin climbed to his feet, armor rustling, and blocked off a downward strike from Ulfric and returned with a quick jab that caught the knight off guard. The sword hit his chest, but did not break the iron. It had been well forged, castle-forged by the looks. It would not be easily broken. Jakn knew as much, and feared for the first time in a long time.

The night darkened as the knights circled the ground, ash mixing with snow like specks of burnt paper in the shivering torchlight. The trees bowed like a high lord, its bristles sweeping the snowy floor. Insults were thrown like stones at Sir Ulfric and jeers that made the crowd laugh. Encouragements followed Ekin, his eyes fixed on the large monster of a man. Thunder roared and the blades clashed like lightning, while Ulfric’s free arm dug into Ekin’s helm and he was knocked to the ground.

Ulfric loomed over him, sword crashing down like a boulder, helm thrown off. Beneath, his face was gnarled and hideous, with patchy black hair and a ragged beard. His face looked like a demon as he shouted curses at Ekin with each downward blow. As Ekin climbed to his feet, the flame on the sword was growing weak and the light dimmed. Shadows gathered beside Jakn as his heart thumped like a hammer inside his chest.

Sir Ulfric marched toward Ekin, the winds howling, and the moon a bloody sickle. The runaway knight swung hard, but Ekin blocked, and countered with a jab, the flame kissing iron. Ekin leaped onto the attack after successfully dodging a heavy blow that would have cut him in two. The Firesword charged, slamming his fiery sword until it was nothing more than a red blur. Several times, he made a large sweep toward Ulfric’s unprotected head, for his helm lay cold in the snow. Each time, the knight blocked, his guard growing weaker and weaker until the flame caught his hair.

His head blazed red, burning like a torch amongst the darkness. Ulfric howled and cursed, and ran towards Ekin like a crazed bull, holding his sword with a two handed grip above his head. The crowds silenced for a second and all that could be heard was the roar of Sir Ulfric as he charged the Firesword, who stood like a limp tree beside a mountain. Jakn watched with closed eyes, fingers a web guarding his vision.

All he heard was a piercing crack, as if the world had been split in two and the earth tremble. When he opened his eyes, he saw Ekin’s flaming sword in Ulfric’s stomach, the flame eating at the knight ravenously. Across the field of battle, a great soldier fir lay, cracked in two, splintered like a broken bone. There, the two knights remained, Ekin panting heavily as the large form of Sir Ulfric rested on the hilt of his blade, dark blood rushing over his gauntlets. The moon was gone.

The ride back to camp was silent. It so often was. The banners flapped under the dark sky like black wings, and the torches shivered like the rest of the troupe, struggling to light the path through the snowy forest. The night was old and the darkness older. The grey light of morning was in the offing, brooding about like a worn old man. The world slept. Jakn did not.

Jakn had stayed behind, the forest dark and the silence ominous. He could hear the flapping of the banners fade into the violent winds and the light of the torches disappear into the night like stars in a cloudy sky. It had been a week since their last meeting, Jakn knew. Hopefully, he would come.

The trees shivered in the cold and the snow danced through gaps in the bare, thin canopy. The moon returned, its gilded rays of light streaming down through the dead eaves like silver blades of steel, revealing the shadowy figure of Aredis. He was clothed in loose dark robes tonight, his usual garb, with his heavy hood and pale sash across his chest. He smiled at Jakn as he glided across the snow.

“It’s been a while, Jakn,” he said, the winds ripping at his words. “Two weeks, has it not?”

“One,” Jakn answered. “I’m never gone for two, you know that.”

“Let us hope it stays as such,” said Aredis. “But since you are here now, let us begin, for morning will be upon us soon.”

Jakn procured a small wax candle from beneath his cloaks, showing it to Aredis in the pale moonlight. “As you asked.”

Aredis took it in hand. “As I asked.” He smiled. “Why do you think I asked for you to bring this tonight, Jakn? What did I teach you our last meeting?”

“The name of fire,” said Jakn.

“And what is the name of fire?” Aredis fingered the candle in his long fingers. “Engentiuen?” Jakn said, uncertain.

“Try again,” said Aredis.

“Tharendarus?” responded Jakn.

“Again,” said Aredis.

Jakn mulled it over in his head, running through all the frivolous prefixes and suffixes. “Aeresvaeriar!”

Aredis perked up. “Splendid. Now I’d be very amazed if you remembered the phrase that follows.”

Jakn frowned, at a loss. “Is it, Vearium ovar fuernia daelis aris daerr?”

Aredis laughed, rubbing his face with his hands. “Definitely not. You just said: Light goes into blanket and out face, in Old Anturan.”

Jakn scowled.

“We’ll move on anyhow,” broke in Aredis, holding the candle up before Jakn’s eyes. “Focus on the wick and the wick only.”

Jakn did as he was told, and his vision began to buzz and blur, but the wick was crisp and clear.

“Now say air’s name and they shall appear,” said Aredis.

Jakn knew what he was talking about. The arks. The world was filled with them, floating about like particles of dust in the air, invisible to most. To see them, one must know the Four Words of Sight, known only by a select few nowadays, the magic lost after the First Raid centuries ago when the barbarians stormed south and conquered the southern kingdoms of Atar. Aredis was one of the few, an outcast amongst the people of the realm. He was teaching Jakn his secrets, for he was a very curious boy, and had been for some time now.

Arks are the building blocks, the very core of Arkency, the magic that controls them. They cannot be created nor destroyed. They are simply there. Without them, the magic wouldn’t work. They float amongst everybody, blind to their brilliance. Only by uttering their names can you see them and they have four different names. There are the A`ae Arks, which float in the winds, and are most common. Then comes the L`un Arks, which swim in any sort of liquid. Following that are the F`ae Arks, found buzzing about in flame, and the hardest are the T`ae Arks, found burrowed in the earth, in rock and stone. When a man knows all four of these names and can call upon them, they are an Arkanist, the highest of ranks in the magic of Arkency.

Aredis is such man, but Jakn only knew three: A`ae, L`un, and recently F`ae arks, but not T`ae. That knowledge is hidden from his mind, for now. He is an I’lethe, one level below Arkanist in the rankings of Arkency.

Jakn obeyed the wizard’s instructions, and said wind’s name, “Vhiantesom!” He blinked and the arks appeared, swimming through the falling snow, bright as golden dust. They shimmered above the wick.

“Focus on the wick, Jakn,” instructed Aredis. “The wick is your link. Pour your energy over it, use the friction to light the fire, then call fire’s name when you see the spark.”

Jakn nodded, hardening his mind, and the arks began darting toward the wick, buzzing about like a hive of bees on a honeycomb. They rubbed against the small black wick, furious. Then there was a spark like lighting and not a second later Jakn shouted out fire’s name. “Aeresvaeriar!”

A lick of red kissed the wick, then leaped into the black night like a firework. The wick blazed red and blue as the fire built and the flames turned orange until it writhed easily in the cold, the wax below slowly melting. Inside the flames, he could see thousands of arks, leaping to and fro, disappearing in the tendrils of flame as they rose.

“Now silence the flame, Jakn,” said Aredis. “Instruct your arks downwards and quiet them.”

Jakn bit his tongue as he tried, and the flames lessened, until they were only faint wisps of red. Jakn was sweating now, cold beads of ice running down his brow. As he pushed, the flames vanished into swirling rings of smoke. Jakn collapsed to the snowy ground, mind heavy, blood pumping.

“Well done,” said Aredis, clapping. “You’ve called fire’s name, and fire obeyed.”

Jakn looked down at is hands, and then at the arks swimming through the air like butterflies. He watched them dance about, feeling his stomach flutter, knowing that he had controlled them. He was almost like Avian the Great, the famous wizard of so many tales and stories told through the realm. He made him feel happy somewhat, made him feel as if he was something special.

“When will I learn the next word?” asked Jakn, eager. “When will I learn earth’s name?”

“When you are ready,” said Aredis. “And right now, you are not. You are too young to learn any more, and you are too young to become an Arkanist. Neither do you have the understandings of the world around you, or even the ways of Arkency and its origins. Only then will you learn its name and gain its power. Only then, my friend, will you become a true Arkanist. As of now, you will remain an I’lethe.”

“But I am ready!” Jakn said adamantly. “I know the world, I’ve traveled it!”

“You’ve only traveled half of it,” responded Aredis. “Where have you traveled? Across the great salt sea? Over the Mountains of Aztar-Thalak? Across the Heart Sea? No, you have only traveled through Ardinell and Centh, and that is not the world. The world is wide. The world is boundless.”

He sighed as he looked upon the skulking figure of Jakn. “Look, my friend, you must wait and with time you will learn, and then, only then will you know the names of all things like Avian himself.”

“How long?” asked Jakn. “Will if be a year? Five? I cannot wait that long Aredis.”

“I do not know how long you must wait, Jakn,” he said. “That much is for you decide. You are at an age when you must make decisions for yourself, either for bad or good. Nobody else can make them, only you.”

Jakn frowned and looked up at the moon through the thin canopy, the naked branches shivering in the cold winds. “Where must I go?”

“Across mountains and rivers, forests and seas, you must travel west, far west to the ends of this land. There is a man who is waiting for you, Jakn. He is my brother, living weakly in his old age. He is wise and knowledgable, mind you. He knows the name you so desire and is one of the last Arkanists in this world. It is our goal to make sure the world has an Arkanist when we meet out demise. Now come, I will take you to my home and show you of where I speak.”

Aredis led Jakn through the ominous forest, alit from the beaming white glow of the moon overhead, casting long dark shadows over the leafy ground. They came to a grove of white birches in little time, where here was a broad maple in the center, clad in lush green leaves that glinted silver in the moonlight. Aredis ran his hand along the bark, and muttered a word beneath his breath that was earth. Jakn tried hard to listen, but all that filtered through his ears was the sounds of wind. As Aredis removed his hand, there was a great crack like a sudden lance of lightning and the trunk split in two. The sliver began to grow wider as the trunk arced and twisted until there was a wide and tall doorway, leading down into the earth. Jakn could hear the trunk creak shut as he descended the spiraling wood staircase.

Below, deep in the earth, Aredis led him, the smell of wet moss and slick wood growing palpable. Then the earth opened and came to be walled all in old stone, bearded in moss and lichen. Candles burned through the darkness, their long red tails of flame throwing a dancing light across the small room. In the center, stood a round stone table, laden with sheaves of parchment and scrolls dark with text. A range of stones scattered the floor, Jakn found as he stepped over one, all marked with runes of one sort or another. A small four post bed lay hidden in the corner, blanketed with furs and cloth.

The room was surpisingly warm, Jakn found, for being so far underground. He guessed it was magic, but when he whispered fire’s name, he did not see any special ark displacement of the like.

“You won’t see anything with those eyes of yours,” said Aredis. “As I said, you must know before you can see.” He walked over to the stone table of hewn granite, picking up his scattered runes. He brushed aside dozens of scrolls, and Jakn watched them smack the ground, revealing maps and inscriptions.

“Spent most of my life chasing after this rubbish,” said Aredis. “My rother though I was mad, and maybe I am. He elected the more practical approach, becoming an alchemist and attending a special school for his studies. He was a fair bit ore studious then me you’ll find, didn’t liketo leave the classroom type. I was a fair bit different.”

He dug through the scrolls and un raveled one. “Ah let’s see here…An address the Emperor Aros made to the people of Antur, if my eyes read write.” He picked up another. “Personal letters to the High Lord Ambrose from King Barrion, telling of plans for rebellion, this. Intructions on how to construct an ashcatch, one of the greatest invenstions of Eaoden And yes,” he picked up another, “here is the accounts from the Old Magisters of that fateful day all those yeas back when they discovered that the gods had bee killed. Written in Old Anturan by the looks. Difficult to decode, even harder to read aloud.”

Jakn was speechless. This man must have had hundreds of precious valuables. But how, he thought had he gotten them all?

“This is what I do, you see,” Aredis said. “I run across the world collecting information, and building my own.” He reached across the table, and brought back a folded page of aged parchment. “Here,” he said, unfolding the burnt edges, “is the map I wish to provide you. My brother made it and left it for me when I visited him last.”

On the parchment was a depiction of Runir, right after the fall of the Anturan Empire, all the Provinces outlined and distinguished. Mountain ranges were drawn, rivers, and the Heart Sea in the center, all inked in black. It looked a basic map.

“We are here,” said Aredis pointing to a patch in the heart of Ardinell. “Presumably.” Jakn watched his finger trace across the map. “My brother is here.” His finger pricked over the Free City of Vintil, seated on a ridge of the Mountains of Aztar-Thalak. Being a free city, it played no part in wars or in political struggles. A treaty of peace had been signed at the start of the Anturan Empire, so that the Old Runish people, the Alduri, who had been conquered had a place to retreat to. The treat was signed and the city made. Ever since, there has never been an attempt to break the peace.

“The Free City of Vintil is where you will go if you wish to find the name of T`ae,” he told Jakn, handing him the map. “Bring warm clothes and don’t get yourself killed in the process. It is a long and dangerous road.”

The morning dawned pale. It so often did.

The haze was thick and the fog clung to the black trunks like a newborn babe does its mother. The air was crisp as an autumn apple and the sky grim stone. Snow trickled from the heavy clouds, large downy flakes glistening like diamonds. The ash fell dark and dull as iron.

The troupe had left for the road in the early morn, before the birds sang their eloquent melody. The quiet was odd to Jakn’s ears as he followed close behind Lord Ekin, his mare a strong black destrier. The world looked to have been frozen under a vast sheet of glimmering ice for miles wide. The realm might have slept last night, but the Ever Winter did not. It never does. Jakn knew as much.

The ride was long and slow. As the day darkened and the shadows loomed, camp was made. Heavy hide and canvas tents were erected, lined with white furs and black. A great hearth was sparked in the center of the small ground, thick and red. It battled the winds as it roared. All the while, Jakn thought of what Aredis had told him. He felt the map in his cloak pocket and he thought about the trip incessantly. How would he tell Ekin he would be leaving? Would he even tell him? He might not even notice, Jakn suspected. He hates me anyway.

Jakn shuddered by the fire, hands outstretched. Wrapped in heavy wool and fur, he was still cold, somehow. Even fire could not fight off the Ever Winter. Nothing could…except maybe magic. Jakn would not risk it though. His ability was secret, even to his uncle. If he roused the fire and took in it’s heat, questions could be asked, and he would have to answer them. Instead, he gazed into the fire, wondering how the Ilmari, the northmen, the barbarians, the invaders, survived in the cols wastes of Vorae far north.

It was a long way to Centh, Jakn knew, and an even longer journey to Edfast. It was there they were riding, down through the countryside of Alderon and into the lands of Centh, where they would arrive at last in Edfast, the capital. There, High Lord Ambrose ruled on the Embae Peninsula. It was over a thousand leagues from the north of Alderon, even with the conditions in their favor. If not, the Ever Winter would force them onto a ship and sail around the bulk of Runir, through the Ice Isles, and into the Shuddering Sea. The price was worth such an endeavor. A thousand gold crowns granted to the champion of the tourney, held every year by the Lord Ambrose, ever since the Ever Winter had came. Lord Ekin had finished second the prior year, a hundred gold crowns to a thousands was nothing. He had his eyes on a greater prize and was determined to reach it.

The tourney was a month in length and three months away. Two months would see the troupe safely into the Centh. The third month was for any delay and such was inevitable. The Ever Winter is ceaseless. It never sleeps. It is erratic, like lightning, striking fierce and fast, or lingering for months. Always the grey veil looms over the sky, always the cold. Snow drifts as high as seven feet have been recorded in the northern forestlands of Edelh, some rising over the high granite walls of Caeldin, its capital. Other reports have been heard from Vhaer, where the great River Vhaa had frozen solid under sheets of thick ice and heavy snow the prior year.

Jakn was still staring in the coruscating fire when the prisoner was brought forth from the dense throng of firs at the corner of the camp, cursing and struggling against his iron bonds. He was garbed all in black, with a long leather hood, beneath which his face was scarred and leathery. He wore a longsword at his hip, the hilt smoky and dark.

The camp silenced as the captive cursed his way to heart of the tents, where he was thrown to the ground and kicked until he spat blood over the white snow. Lord Ekin appeared shortly after, wearing a plain grey jerkin and a heavy wool cloak. His hair was fiery in the grey light, and his thick goatee blazed the same, his dark brown eyes lingering on the prisoner.

“My lord,” said one of the Marauders, scaled in light steel and leather. “Found this one off near the stream when I went to search for firewood. Didn’t give him time to explain himself, I fear.” He sniggered.

Ekin leaned to see the man’s face, the camp whispering with the wind. “It looks more like a chicken then it does a hand,” he mocked wryly. “Suppose we should call you the Black Cocks, aye?”

Laughter trickled around the camp.

“Why do you thieves insist on inking that on yourselves?” said Ekin derisively. “Can’t you see it looks like a bloody cock?”

The prisoner did not answer, only stared at the frozen ground. “Reckon we kill him right here?” said the Marauder. “I’ll do it right quick, mind you. No screams. Just lost of blood.” He kicked the prisoner hard in the back.

Ekin shook his head. “This one’s coming with us.”

“To Centh?” said a man close to Jakn. He had an Anturan beard, thin and forked. “Blimey, that’s a long time traveling a prisoner.”

Ekin shook his head. “To Ald-Rhenar.”

“But that’s back north…” The Anturan’s words fumbled from his mouth. “We’ll miss the bloody tourney if we double back to the capital now.”

“Exactly.” Ekin peered down at the prisoner, eyes stiff. “This one’s worth more than a thousand crowns, brothers.” The camp shifted uneasily, murmuring. “This one murdered the prince.” Silence.