FIVE
FORTUNATUS HASTENED THROUGH the Lucre, passing the endless stalls lining Niobe’s Way. Hawkers and bidders alike paused in their pitch to gape in awe, but he paid them no heed. His footsteps and staff continued to beat an impatient tattoo on the cobbled stone.
The high wall of the Retreat loomed in front, casting its shadow over the jumble of the Lucre. It was a somber and impenetrable barrier of stone, each piece cut and fitted by master masons of the Rubican Guild hundreds of cycles before: the Retreat of Niobe of the Magi and the High Seat of the Aelyth Faynir.
There were no gates to bar entry through the great archway facing the street. Few sought the secluded home of the archduke’s sister, and those who did must first pass the sentinel.
Fortunatus could see nothing beneath the shadowed opening, but he sensed a presence—and with it the unmistakable power of the Swordkind. He moved forward and stood quietly beneath the arch, letting the other man feel his aura.
“I come from the Sacred Isle to speak with the Lady. Will you grant me entry?”
There was a brief pause and Fortunatus heard the approach of measured footsteps. The Adept stopped when only a few paces separated them.
“The Pat’Riark knows he is ever welcome within these walls. His lengthy absence has been sorely felt by all those who reside within…yet one most of all.”
“She is well, Deemus?”
“Aye…as well as one can be who must bear eternal darkness.”
Fortunatus shook his head, and his answer held a hint of reproach. “The light within her must always dispel the darkness.”
Deemus was as tall as the Pat’Riark, with broad shoulders and athletic build. His features were handsome, though they might have been carved in stone. This was in keeping with his serious and determined nature. Long brown hair fell to his shoulders and beyond. His black robes bore no badges of rank. He wore no ornaments of any kind, save for a slender band of gold encircling the fourth finger of his left hand: the ancient sign of the love bond.
Deemus stepped aside, and both he and Fortunatus moved into the garden.
At once, the aroma of perfume inundated them. It was not one but a mélange of scents, subtle rather than overpowering. A soft glow projected from the wall at regular intervals, bathing the garden in a wash of subdued color.
The two men weaved through endless rows of flowers and laden fruit trees, making their way toward a series of low-slung buildings in the furthest corner. Fortunatus paused long enough to reach up and pluck a succulent apple. The juice was sweet, a well-remembered nectar on his tongue. “The Neophytes are in slumber?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“All but a chosen few who sit with Niobe. The rigors of the training make for heavy eyelids at first.’
Fortunatus bared his teeth in a smile as he took another bite. From the innumerable habitable planets of the five realms, human girls blessed with the Gift gathered here for the training. The methodology was akin to that of the Swordkind, at least regarding the increase of focus—though the girls trained as empaths rather than warriors.
Life-threatening illness was all but eradicated due to the efforts of the Genetic Engineers, yet there were still unfortunates on many worlds under the dominion of the Grimman-Seth and the D’ia Mor denied such knowledge. Most times, the poorest lacked even the necessary care. Those young women who completed the training and became fully fledged Aelyth Faynir traveled to these far-flung reaches of the Pentarchy, where they became roving angels of mercy. Yet no matter where they went they remained under the protection of Niobe, their Domina, and by inference both the Magi and House Mondragon.
As they approached the outermost buildings, Fortunatus heard music and the soft strains of a human voice. Deemus hung back and murmured, “You know the way, my lord.”
Fortunatus advanced alone until he came to a small clearing where several young women had gathered around a fountain. A few wore tan-colored robes with the blue stripe of the Neophyte, the lowest level. The rest wore the pale-blue of Novices in the last stages of their training. Upon completion, they would don the dark blue of the Acolyte and become a Healer: an Aelyth Faynir.
In the center, resting on the fountain’s lip, sat a woman clothed in the white robe of the Magi. She sat at ease, though her back was straight and she held her staff upright by her side. From her lips came the melancholy strain of an old love song Fortunatus recognized as originating from Pre-Cloister.
Her hair was a startling white as though blasted by the sun, yet her face was without line or wrinkle. A slender ribbon of cloth, also of the purest white, covered her eyes. Like her daughter, her form and features were of exceptional beauty. Unlike the baroness, they lacked the ripe fullness, being instead of a more delicate nature.
As she spoke the song’s final drawn-out syllable, her voice became a whisper that drifted into the echo of falling water. She inclined her head as though listening. “We have waited long for you, Brother.”
Fortunatus knelt and clasped the smooth hand, kissing it softly. “I am here, Sister.”
They waited as the young Novices quietly retreated.
“I feel the rising of the Dark and I am afraid,” Niobe said in a voice without fear. “For my daughter most of all.”
Fortunatus studied her. Despite her blindness, she possessed the Gift and was Adept. She could sense his shape and any movement he made, though even such ability could not replace her eyes. He knew she could also sense his thoughts to an extent, for the Magi maintained a subtle melding of mind. Still, he spoke aloud as was his habit. “I have watched, sensing the same thing from the Tower.”
He felt a brief spasm as her hand clenched. “It is time for you to re-enter the world, Niobe. Have you not served enough penance for your transgression?”
“I am comfortable here,” she replied, withdrawing her hand.
“The one we have awaited has arrived at last,” Fortunatus said.
Niobe nodded. “We have heard the rumors, even though few happenings of the outside world filter through the walls of this Retreat.”
“He is the One,” Fortunatus assured her. “The Flamen now burns with greater intensity than ever before.”
“Is that why you come to me?”
“Only you have touched the Flamen. Of us all, you are the one most able to see the truth and recognize what lies within.”
“Yes,” Niobe’s voice rose with bitterness, “I touched it, and see my reward for such blasphemy!” With angry hands she tore away the cloth, revealing eyes blasted colorless—eyes total in their blindness.
“I have seen you before, Sister.” Fortunatus calmly took the band and replaced it. “Do not blame the world for your undoing. You did not heed the warning written plainly for all to see: ‘Touch not the Flame unless you be its master.’
Niobe settled back against the fountain’s riser. “Your words are true, yet no less painful for their verity. I am a woman. I alone of all my sex wield the Metals. Vanity deluded me and caused me to mistake the meaning of the inscription.”
“And yet the ability stolen from you gave birth to an even greater one,” Fortunatus added gently. “None can meld the way you can. We need you now. You must try to free Talisman from himself.”
Niobe sighed. “As always, you are the stalwart one, leading the rest of us who weaken. I am the worst, remaining cloistered here and wallowing in self-pity, deluding myself that I perform a worthy task in the teaching. Is this weakness any less than my daughter’s lust?”
Fortunatus waited, holding his silence while Niobe lowered her head and appeared to deliberate.
“Must I travel to the Sacred Isle?”
“It is unnecessary,” Fortunatus replied. “He has come with me; the Prince of Sid as well.”
“Ah…what a tangled web spins for us. I believe Zel is suborned. I sense the Dark strong upon him, which leaves Ashara vulnerable. What a pity she was unwilling to become Aelyth Faynir. With the training I could have offered, she would have some defense against what comes.”
“Be that as it may, there is no time to waste,” Fortunatus cautioned impatiently. “The D’ia Mor are suspicious, and there is no longer any doubt they are agents of the Evil One. I fear for Talisman’s safety until he has come to his full power.”
“You think they will attack one who is now Swordkind? That would be a bold and irreversible move.”
“What they lack in honor, they make up for in cunning,” Fortunatus said. “I suspect they have subverted others to their cause, either willingly or unknowingly.”
“Then let us hasten,” Niobe urged, rising to her feet.
A short time later, with Deemus and the Pat’Riark at her side, the Domina of the Aelyth Faynir passed through the archway of the Retreat for the first time in five cycles.