Tag: writing

Prologue

Neliar, queen of the Neldivine Iloven, bearer of a ring of creation, looked out across the world she had helped save and wished nothing more than to see it burn. The wind blew cold from the mountains, falling over the vast valley, where mountain roots spread far into the distant horizon.
The sun, veiled by a thin layer of cloud, offered nothing for warmth. Pools of water glistened on the battlements of her fortress, remnants of last nights rains. She could feel the power within the water, within the world. It coursed through the ring on her finger, blue topaz a mirror of the sky above.
‘I know what it is you are offering’ She said, her head turning slightly to the open doorway. She turned, her blue robes swaying in that frozen breeze she loved more than anything. Another storm was brewing. Not one of wind and water but one of the Gods. A mirror storm was finally coming again. A rare occurrence on this world
She stepped into her throne room, vast in its emptiness. A lone chair of red wood, worked into the image of great waves sat upon a pedestal. Rich curtains hung over every window to cut of the breeze but they were not embroidered. No gold or silver littered walls or cabinets. The only glint of precious jewels rested on the bands of her guard. Neldivine Iloven all. Water Iloven, the men of this world called them.
So little they know of our history. So little we remember ourselves in the taking of mortal form.
Many of these Neldivine Iloven lined the walls. Sevent foot tall they stood mostly, hair colours of auburn all the way to grey. There skin was fair almost translucent in their colouring. Blue eyes sparkled with rage. Some men littered the room also. Rough men, with matted beards and hair in pony tails. They had no jewels and bore crude bronze weapons. Steel work had not reached these northern savages, removed from the rest of the world by the Ice mountains.
One man stood different to the others. He was human but Neliar did not need look at him for long to know he did not come from this planet. He was shorter than humans were. His round face was covered in a coarse and curled beard. His skin, what little showed through his clothes. Was rough and coarse, from a land where the world was tough and men needed to be tougher. It was his clothes that most set him as an outsider. He was dressed in black leather, a dark woven cloak spreading far behind him, clasped by a broach of silver. It was magnificently wrought. Delicate, in the shape of a creature that may have been one of the giant crabs that littered the northern shores. A circlet of silver sat on his brow and set within was diamond of magnificent cut.
She sat and the man stood forward. Most would be intimidated by her but not this man. Not this man who had crossed the stars to be here in her chamber. No, he intimidated them. As the man stepped forward, Neliar caught a shadow behind him. A warping of darkness that had no natural source. A dark Iloven, bound to his soul.
‘What I offer is the world.’ The man said, in an educated voice. Way to educated for the men of this planet.
‘The last storm was four years ago.’ She said to him, ‘Was that not enough time to spin your webs and schemes. What brings you to my solitary fortress?’
He placed his hand on his heart and smiled, showing rows of sharpened teeth, ‘I come to offer salvation.’
Neliar felt a sickness creep up her throat. She was chosen of Barta, immortal Iloven queen, bearer of a ring of creation, the ring of the seas and this human, a species she had helped create, spoke to her like an equal.
‘Some say you have a voice like golden honey, with words clever enough to bend nations to your will Emissary but to me it seems more like oil on water. I do not want my ears defiled by such filth.’
The man took another step forward. Green eyes locked on hers, ‘You are in so much pain lady of the sea. You talk of my voice.’ He inclined his head to the side slightly, as though he was listening to someone else speak and again that odd shadow moved behind him, ‘Selina say you once had one of the most beautiful voices that could be heard in Arasee or upon the fields of the life forge. It was said to be like water trickling down a stream and falling across gentle stones. Now it is violence. Waves crashing against a cliff face, crumbling everything in its path. True immortality has defiled you Neliar. Eternity must not have seemed daunting in Arasee or the life forge, free to travel the universe in any way you saw fit. Autonomous. Look at you now. Bound to Aurdan, trapped forever in this physical form. What would you give to see Arasee again, to be welcomed into Barta’s warm embrace once more.’
Coldness seeped through her. She had heard this man was good but she did not expect such knowledge. The words he spoke were forgotten by most in the universe and even her Iloven that lined these walls, long lived as they were, did not know a time before the long stalemate. These Iloven, if they could still be called the same, bred and died as humans did, their forebears forsaking the form of spirit and binding themselves to mortal flesh. Most would return to Arasee and work with Barta on other worlds. Not her though. That was something denied to her and the other bearers of the rings of creation. They were bound to Aurdan now to live forever until the world cracked, the seas ran dry, the fires of life extinguished and the air given back to the heavens, ‘You speak of Barta’s embrace. What warmth does your master give? I do not know what perverted thing Deagma did to bind you to the mirror storm, rider but why would I listen to someone sworn to the enemy.’
His eyes flickered to the ring on her hand and he smiled in a way all to knowing. She felt her fingers twitch. She wanted to hide the topaz, its blue now showing slightly, the slightest impure tint to its stone.
‘Deagma is an enemy only because you have been told to believe it. There are six forms of Iloven, all of one kin. Water, fire, earth, air, spirit and death. All must thrive for the universe to have life. Yes the dark Iloven are Deagma’s but has Barta not forced upon you just as dark deeds as Deagma forces upon his kin.’ He stepped towards two urns and Neliar felt her hackles rise, ‘Do you want to see them again?’ He caressed one, ‘Your husband and son. Long ago it was that they died and returned to Arasee, leaving you alone. Deagma would bring them to you. Swear to him and you could go to the storm forge at will, be with your husband at will.’
Yearning, filled her to her core. Seven hundred years had not eased the pain of that passing, ‘You are immortal.’ Neliar whispered, ‘Your soul is tied to the universal storm. You know what it is like to watch the world change around you. People falling like leaves in winter. It is our curse as immortals to bare such things.’
‘Deagma told me of what my immortality would bring. What did Barta tell you when he sent you to this world. Blocked off from entering the mirror storm, abandoned to fight a never ending war against other immortals. Deagma promises you the storm again. You could ride it, like me and my brothers. A chance to leave this cesspit.’
‘Stop.’ She said sharply and to his credit, he bit on his words, ‘Deagma promises me freedom of the storm. Give my soul to him what would he want in return?’
Again the emissary’s eyes went to her hand and then she knew, ‘Ahh the rings of creation. That is what he seeks.’
‘He does not seek them for himself.’
‘He seeks them on hands that serve him. Eight of his immortal lords still live upon Aurdan. Why does he not have one of them do this bidding. They have weapons, armies enough to smash upon my kingdom. Why do you come here?’
Humility seems to cross the emissaries face, ‘You are unique. You have loved and you have lost. You want to change. Something those lords you speak of do not want. They are too happy with their immortality, their never changing kingdoms and their trinkets. They like the stalemate just as much as your fellow ring bearers but I can feel the rage in you, the will to change.’ Again his eyes went to the ring, ‘Yes I sense it. I see you looking at your guards. The hatred you have for your fellow Iloven. Hatred because they can die. Do you even bother learning their names anymore. What do they mean to you when they can die so easily.’ He stepped towards the ring and touched it, ‘People may think that the Iloven of death are broad in their gifts. I know different. As there are five forms of the life Iloven, so are their five forms of the dark. Yet their gifts are easier to learn.’ He touched the ring and shuddered. ‘It is summer, these mountains should be teaming with life but winter still has a hold. You have already touched Deagma’s power. The power of desolation. Scorching heats and blinding frosts. Of course that is the closest one to your own powers.  How many innocents did you have to kill to corrupt a ring of creation to give you such power.’
The guards twitched nervously. The wicked men of the North dropped their heads, their own hands were stained with that blood, ‘Leave.’ Neliar ordered. They did without argument.
She stood, blue robe falling across the floor. He gave her a warm smile.
‘Afraid of rebellion.’
Neliar felt a darkness through her. Her ring glowed but not the blue of the topaz. It glowed with a silky green light, unearthly beautiful, hauntingly wrong. The emissary went rigid, eye bulging as the ring held the water of his physical form, locking him place. The room darkened and the green light extenuated the fluctuating shadow. Then she locked onto it. The shadow gave a scream.
‘Look at this.’ She said in a voice husky and cold, ‘You talk of the fall of my people. Look at your own Iloven ally. Bound to your soul. A parasitic abomination.’
The emissary opened his mouth wide, ‘You have the power of necromancy.’
She stared at the emissary and his Ostivanti, his demon, ‘I can see your spirits, stitched together by strands of his essence. I can see your soul tied forever to the universal storm, trapped within its violent tempest. I want to break it.’
She saw her reflection in his broach. Her skin was now white and rotten, her eyes leaking black ink, her hair falling out in clumps. She sickened herself.
Slowly her hand fell, light returned to the room and the stone on her finger became again the blue topaz. The emissary fell to his knees gasping.
‘You have already given yourself to him. Necromancy is our most vile desecration.’
‘You talk of my connection to the water allowing me the gift of desolation but that is not what I am closest too. Grief is what I carry in this ring. Constant and eternal and for four hundred years I have carried that power.’ She walked over to the urn and stroked it, Even without her ring she could still feel the spirit of her husband. ‘The night he died I prayed to Barta and in the mirror storm it was Deagma that answered.