Page 33 of Light Locked
Hatred of Veilin. That fit.
“Their Kaletik name for the Warlord is Alkerrai al Shambelin. Shambelin means land of light. He is the warlord of light, the warlord of illusion. To them, life is noise and torture. Veilin are only agents prolonging that torture.”
“And you think my companion could be an Insednian?” Clea asked.
“Real Insednians have eyes that hide in the light,” Althala explained. “Perhaps your friend was once a part of their cult. Or perhaps he was born into it and left. Insednians were once the closest things to royalty in the forest. Imagine the cruelty and power necessary to subdue a world such as this, and you’ll perhaps get a figment of what they were capable of. The Decline, however, seems to have struck them the hardest. They’ve all but disappeared.” She tapped her lip, still squinting.
Clea almost wondered if Althala had forgotten she had an audience, her words filling the room in a speculative monologue.
“Rumors claim that in large numbers they can level mountains or open volcanic chasms.” Althala leaned forward, tapping Clea on the knee. “If your friend is an Insednian, he would wish that no one know. His people have no allies, and if he left his people, he would have no allies. At the peak of their power, they would never have associated with humans, much less Veilin. Perhaps The Decline has in some ways humbled us all. To be honest, I’m a bit jealous of you. I’ve always wanted to talk to one. I never would have imagined a Lodain Veilin and Insednian traveling together. In fact, I dare say, it makes me like you even more that you’re unaware of just how bizarre this is.”
Clea thought hard on the subject, and nodded as she attempted to understand how the facts fit. She remembered that Ryson’s bandages were stained with ashes, and she remembered how he always covered his eyes. Traders charging more for Kalex could have been an excuse to wear the bandage in Virday. He didn’t seem to feel welcome among Kalex either.
Had she finally found the reasons why? Despite her uncertainty, a certain fear built within her. She recalled the moment she’d grabbed his hand. How he’d flinched at her touch. She tried to use the memory to combat her fear. Regardless of his past, she’d seen vulnerability, and in that moment, her own hesitations had faded. He wouldn’t harm her. Would he?
“Ah yes, and I almost forgot about this.” Althala stood up and approached a large bag shoved into a corner of the room. She untied it and rummaged through it. “I actually have one of the Insednians’ religious talismans. I saw it in the ashes and snuck off with it. Luckily, no one saw me.” She pushed a few things aside within the bag, mumbling before she exclaimed, “Here itis!” She removed something about the size of her palm, wrapped within tattered cloth. Approaching Clea, she unraveled the object as she handed it over. “This is it.”
Clea took it in her hands and turned it.
She inspected the designs laden in silver. The circular talisman depicted a silver eye, and chains spilled like tears over people who appeared to have silver eyes as well. They wore robes and the chains bound their hands.
“Eyes crowned by the moon,” Althala continued on. “It has birthed many rumors regarding the relationship between the Insednians and the warlord. Some claim the warlord’s bloodline lies within the Insednians.”
“His bloodline?” Clea replied. “The bloodline of the moon,” she repeated, putting the pieces together. It was all connected, different symbols telling the same thing. If that were true, and the Warlord of Shambelin was a symbol of The Decline, then it could be said that the Insednians were too. She wondered what Ryson might think of an idea like that.
“Yes, some believe they are his actual descendants. Of course, they are rumors, few of many. I would have been more likely to believe them, but the Insednians generate so much fear that rumors are often rampant.” Althala tapped the talisman with her fingers. “If he is one, a civil one, I’m jealous of you, Clea. He may know secrets most passionate learners like me would die for, secrets lost to history. History, as told by the Insednians, has never been recorded.”
“I see.” Clea sighed, flipping the talisman over to find more of the writing. She returned to the picture again. “You havehelped me in a way that you don’t even understand. It’s just, you said if he is civil then you’re jealous, but what if he’s not?” Clea asked as she folded the cloth over the talisman and attempted to return it to Althala.
The old woman stared at it thoughtfully for a while, and with a kind smile, she said, “Please take it with you as a token of my gratitude.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please.” She nudged it back toward her. “It’s been lying around here for a while. It’s not like I can do anything with it.”
Clea thanked her and stored the talisman in her bag.
“To your question, Clea,” Althala replied. “Insednians who aren’t civil make very quick work of Veilin. That, I can guarantee. Your pain, in many ways, is too irresistible for them to delay. The fact that you’re still alive speaks volumes.”
“Comforting,” Clea replied uneasily. “But thank you, Althala.” She clasped one of the old woman’s hands. “You’ve done more than you know.”
Althala seemed to accept her gratitude with great warmth, and their discussion continued on several more minutes until they prepared to rest for the night. By the end of their talk, Clea was relieved to lay down on her cot and sleep, surprised at how tired she was after the healings. She’d treated many people, but certainly not enough to warrant her level of exhaustion.
As she closed her eyes to the tent ceiling in the darkness, she ushered her worries away. One good night of rest and she’d be fine tomorrow.
No nightmares waited for her. Her dreams were void of terrors but altogether strange.
In them, she traveled down through the legs of the cot into the earth and roots of the forest. From there, the roots all connected, speaking, whispering, reaching out to the rest of the woods that seemed to extend on for eternity.
In a single burst, signals traveled through the network, meticulously choosing their path.
Hello, the roots said,I’m here.
†††
Ryson sat in the woods before a fire. He found shapes in the flames like one would in clouds, but somehow, he felt flames fit him better. Clouds always appeared to be light until angered into a storm. Clea now seemed like a cloud to him, perhaps when she was at her best. She was light and airy, and her mood only darkened when the earth needed rain.
Throughout the day, he couldn’t help but notice the contrasts between them. He’d seen her soil her hands with blood as she healed the Kalex. The red color that had long haunted him had darkened her fragile fingers. She soiled her hands to heal, and he’d soiled his to kill. Yet her hand had found his so gently among the crowd, and she’d asked him to stay with her. He wondered how she would treat him if she knew howdifferent they truly were. What would she do if she discovered how many lives he’d destroyed?
