A Chronicle of Lies - The Dark Sculptor Chapter 1: Ayrlon Weeps.
Thalârin Cyos, the leader of the city of Meldohv Syredel, bowed his head in silence. His hands were clasped under his snout and his wings were tucked behind his back. In front of him was a platter of pastries, but he had lost his appetite. So, instead, he sat and waited, listening to the quiet brick and ancient stone.
He was deep underground, in the underbelly of the cityâs archives. The floors far above, connected by a central lift, were full of ancient tomes, books, and weathered scrolls. Lost peoples, dead cultures, and scattered knowledge lived on in those dusty shelves and cobwebbed bindings. It was a treasury filled with lore. Scholars riffled through pages and lost themselves in old transcriptions. But down here, there was only silence.
The table Thal'rin sat at was small, basic, and it resided in the middle of a large archway carved into the stone. A crystal lantern, hanging above, cast his scales in its blue light. Blue signified danger. It meant that the winding vaulted hallway at his back led to a place filled with dark and unknown lore. It led to the Runite Vault. Only a handful of people were allowed access, for many of the objects within were either cursed or malefic.
As he sat and waited, his ears twitched. Somebody had activated the lift. The mechanisms rattled to life and its carriage, a cage formed of wrought metal, slowly rose into the ceiling above. It ascended into the shaft, drifted into the distance until the silence fell once more. Thalârin was alone, alone with his thoughts to haunt him. He was Meldohvâs protector, yet he was afraid.
A few minutes later, he heard the lift returning, chains rumbling. He got to his feet and held his hands behind his back. The carriage descended into view, carrying in it two occupants. One was the head tuhli of the archives, Master Arlock. He was a seasoned historian whose experience was etched on his weathered snout. Standing beside him was a youth with a tussled mane, shifting from foot to foot. When the lift came to a stop, Arlock lifted the latch and opened the gate. The youth, straightening his posture, followed behind him.
âMaster Arlock,â Thalârin said.
âHigh Channeler.â Arlock folded his wings in front of his chest, a sign of respect.
âAnd you must be Salish Rahkeel,â Thalârin said to the young man standing beside him.
âY-yes, High Channeler,â Salish said. Emulating Arlock, he too, folded his wings in front of his chest. Thalârin returned the gesture. Salish was both nervous and fidgety. His clothes, like his mane, were disheveled and there were ink smears marking his garments. Thalârin had seen this look many times. Young scribes were messy, always getting ink all over their garments as they wrote.
The nervousness was also familiar. Thalârin had power. The people of Admoran made him into a legend because of it. In Salish's eyes, he was a man who could destroy entire armies. So, Salish kept avoiding his gaze. Thalârin wished he could have this meeting inside his home, where he could put the young man at ease and shatter any illusions he had, dismantle any myths.
âI am sorry for awakening you at this hour,â Thal'rin said, âYou must have questions.â
He could see the unspoken inquiries in Salishâs eyes. From what Thalârin had heard, the young man was a passionate historian. He knew where he was standing and knew he wasnât supposed to be here. However, Salish didnât say anything.
âHere, come over here, have a seat.â Thalârin invited him to the table and sat down in his chair. Salish hesitated, then he approached, pulled out a chair, and sat across from Thalârin.
âMaster Arlock,â Thalârin said, âcan you go get the vault ready for us?â
Arlock nodded, then headed down the hallway. Salish watched him leave. He pulled an inkstone from his pocket and began to fidget with it. Then, when he realized what he was doing, he put the utensil back in his pocket and wiped his hands on his clothes, embarrassed.
âAre you hungry?â Thalârin pushed the platter of pastries toward Salish with a wing. âI bought these from a baker down the road. They have scrat meat in them, if you can believe it. They arenât bad.â
Salish raised a hand, paused, then selected a pastry, and gave it a try.
âIâve been told you are a bright young man,â Thalârin said, âone of the smartest pupils the masters have ever seen. You have an uncommon passion for diving into our past.â
His words reverberated into the hallway before dying into silence. At first, Salish didnât know how to react to the compliment. It took a moment or two to receive his response.
âI-I do,â he said, âI...Iâve been told I study too much. That I should sleep more.â
âSleep more?â Thalârin repeated.
âI stay up late. Reading, studying, transcribing. Even when I lay down, my mind is still thinking. It wonât let me sleep.â
Thalârin grinned. He knew the feeling all too well.
âDid you ever think youâd be invited to eat pastries with the diac of Meldohv Syredel on the doorstep of the Runite Vault?â
âN-no. Is that why Iâm here?â
âNo Salish," Thal'rin scoffed, "thatâs not why youâre here. That was a joke.â
âOh...â Salish was flustered. âThen why...I mean, Lord Thalârin, why am I here?â
âJust âThalârinâ will do, Salish. Those who work with me know I prefer to be called by my name. Formality has its place, but âHigh Channelerâ and âLordâ are just titles. Theyâre roles I serve. Iâm just an old fool, like any other old fool.â
âYes...Thalârin,â Salish said, âWhy am I here? This...â He looked around in disbelief. âItâs been my dream to see the Runite Vault, but I'm notâŠI don't have the rank. IâŠ" His words got away from him.
âYouâre here because we could use your help, Salish.â
âMy help?â he asked, âWith what?â
Thalârin folded his hands on the table. âBefore I elaborate, I want to verify...Master Arlock had you swear an oath to secrecy before he brought you here, is this correct?â
âHe did, Lord...I mean, âThalârinâ,â Salish said, âHe said that I was needed. He couldnât tell me why. He just had me swear an oath to secrecy, then he brought me here."
âI am going to give you a second chance,â Thalârin said, âYou were woken up in the middle of the night, you were tired. That oath is not binding. Now that you're awake, I want to ask you to take it again."
"There is an object in my pocket," Thal'rin continued, "taken from the vault behind me. When I show it to you, your life will change. But I will only do so if you reaffirm your oath to secrecy. You cannot share what you see with anybody, except for those we, that is, Master Arlock and I, deem necessary.â
As he spoke, he gauged the young scribeâs reaction.
âThe alternative, is that you turn away. Go back to your studies. I wouldnât judge you for it. What I have to reveal will be a heavy burden. It will be a difficult secret to keep for a young man like yourself. If you noticed a solemnness among your superiors, the object I am talking about is the reason for it.â
Salish chewed on the decision. âMay I have more time to think about it?â
âI am afraid not, Salish. The decision has to be made now.â
âThen...then I reaffirm my oath. Whatever you show me, I wonât tell anybody.â
Thalârin sighed. Part of him was hoping Salish would turn away. He was too young, younger than his sons. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a necklace with a medallion hanging from it. He placed it on the table for Salish to see. The medallion was a simple stone disk with a depiction of an eye on it. Dark tears wept from its lids.
âGo ahead,â Thalârin said, âTake it.â
Salish reached forward, but then he froze. Recognition blazed in his eyes. Thalârin waited patiently as the scribe processed what he was seeing. Finally, he picked up the medallion with trembling hands and turned it over, inspecting it. Half-formed words appeared on his lips.
âI take it you know what that is?â Thalârin asked.
â...Yes.â Salish put the medallion back down and pushed it away. He stared at the table. âThat...thatâs not a replica?â
âI wish it was, Salish.â
âBut, I thought it was impossible to remove from Ayrlonâs neck.â
âYou are correct, it is impossible. Thieves, rulers, craftsman, many have tried to remove it. All have failed. And yet, there it is,â Thalârin gestured to the medallion, âA keeper found it on the ground beneath Ayrlonâs statue last night. We donât know how long it had been there.â
âThen...â Thalârin could see Salish processing what this meant. âAyrlon is weeping? Her tear is alight?â
âYes, Ayrlon weeps.â A hush filled the cavernous hallway. Thal'rin could almost feel the weight of the stone surrounding them, clenching as he said those words. The dead air felt heavy in his lungs. He took the medallion and tucked it into his pocket. Salish looked empty. His hands gripped the table as if he meant to rip chunks from it.
âWe will need all the help we can get," Thal'rin said, "including yours.â
âMy help...â Salish repeated.
âYou are young,â Thalârin said, âYour mind is fresh. You think of things the masters havenât conceived of. Iâve been told youâve caused some of them to reconsider old ideologies in a new light. Iâm afraid us old coots can get trapped in our own paradigms, so that is an impressive feat.â
Thalârin could see that Salish wasnât hearing him. He was still staring at the table, gripping its edges.
âSalish,â Thalârin said softly, âlook at me.â Salish's eyes drifted upward until he met the High Channeler's gaze. âI know this news is dire. But we are strong.â
âWhat...what color is it?â Salish asked, âWhat color is her light?â
âIt is not an easy light to describe. Which is why I brought you here. I want you to see it for yourself.â
âYouâre letting me into the vault?â
âWith supervision,â Thalârin said.
At that moment, he heard footsteps. Arlock was returning. Thalârin got up and stretched his wings. A few bones popped.
âHe has reaffirmed his oath?â Arlock asked.
âHe has,â Thalârin said. Then he turned to Salish. âShall we go and see Ayrlon?â
Salish got up. There was a slight stutter in his step, but he followed. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway leading to the Runite Vault.
âWhat can you tell me about Ayrlon and her tear?â Thal'rin asked. It was a simple question. Every historian knew about Ayrlon and most would feel condescended to if asked such a question. But Thalârin could tell Salish was dumbstruck. Terror was taking root. He needed to get the young scribe talking.
âJust... âThalârinâ, Salish. Remember, Iâm just a man.â
âWhat can you tell me about Ayrlon?â
Their voices reverberated with a throaty, cavernous inflection.
âWell...we donât know who created her,â Salish said, âbut we know her tear is an omen. Most of the time, it's dark. But when it glows...â
Salish trailed off when they passed a study filled with books and trinkets.
âGo on, Salish,â Thalârin said.
âWhen it glows, it's a warning,â Salish continued, âThe jewel is warning us about impending disaster. The color that the tear glows with is a hint. It glowed blue before the outbreak of The Sapphire Plague. Orange right before fires spread across Admoran and destroyed hundreds of villages and devastated crops, sending us into a famine. When the calactics infested our waters, it was glowing with a gray light. And for the bark reavers, it glowed green.â
âShe foretells catastrophe,â Thalârin said.
âYes. W-when I was a child my mother would threaten me and my brothers if we made trouble. She said Ayrlon will weep over the consequences.â
Thalârin grinned. He had heard his wife make similar threats toward his sons.
âAnd the medallion?â he said.
âIt can only be removed when sheâs weeping,â Salish said, âMany think that whoever created her, wanted it to be removed so it could be shown to all nations and unite them against the threat.â
They came upon an alcove. Set in its center was a massive door. Arlock raised a ring on his finger and tapped the wall with it a few times. The door grumbled to life and opened. The Runite Vault seemed to yawn before them, releasing stale air from its depths.
âRemember Salish,â Arlock said, âdo not touch anything. Keep your wings tucked in and mind your tail.â
They stepped inside. Salish pulled in his wings and kept his arms close to his sides. The Runite Vault was cavernous, but it was packed with dark and dubious artifacts, furniture, and books; items whose dark lore warranted isolation. They navigated through forests of cursed cabinets and troubled trinkets. Salish turned his snout left and right, questions brewing in his eyes.
There was something else in the air, a silent thrumming, a pulse that worked its way into Thalârinâs skin. His scales quivered and his flesh felt like it was recoiling. It was an uncomfortable, grotesque sensation and it was growing stronger as they made their approach to Ayrlonâs statue. Salish felt it too, apparently. He kept rubbing his arms. No doubt he had read about this phenomenon and its association with Ayrlonâs weeping. They were approaching unknowable knowledge.
Ayrlon resided near the middle of the vault, isolated in her own open space from all the other objects. They approached the grieving statue. She was on her knees, frozen in perpetual weeping, pounding the ground with one hand. The other reached toward her head, which was hidden from view by a bag. Arlock had covered her head to hide the tear from view. Sorrow and terror strained her body. Pain permeated every angle, every curve. Thalârin nodded to Arlock. The master approached the statue and removed the bag. Salish gasped.
Ayrlonâs snout was buried in her hand as she keened, a single glass tear wept from between her fingers. It was neither orange, green, blue or gray. The white light pouring from it thrummed and pulsed, radiating with a blinding brightness. But whatever the light touched was cast in a darkness that flickered and throbbed. The tear blackened the three of them.
âItâs not like the light of a fire, is it, Salish?â Thalârin said, after giving the scribe a moment to process it. âYou sit next to a fire, and youâre cast in the light emitted by its orange flames. And yet... Ayrlonâs tear shines with a brilliant white light. However, its subjects reflect only darkness, as if she radiates shadows instead of light.â
As her emanations thrummed against Thalârinâs flesh, the light ebbed and pulsed. The darkness it radiated matched its fluctuating rhythm. It was a chiaroscuro of conflicts. It was unnatural, it defied reason.
âThroughout history, Ayrlonâs tear is not the only warning we had,â he said, âThere were other signs. The fires you spoke of were preceded by a severe widespread drought. For years, the calactics slowly came up from the depths of Xytanâs Maw before they hatched. The Sapphire Plague first manifested itself in crawns before it infected us. The seeds of tragedy were already there. If we were only looking, we would not have needed her light to warn us.â
He turned to Salish, who was transfixed by the light. His snout was limned in shadows.
âSalish, it has been five-hundred years since she last wept.â Salishâs eyes were glued to the tear, but he pulled away to look at Thalârin. âNever before has a light like this been documented. We need to find out what it means. The masters of the archives will be working in conjunction with the shandan and very select kiolai, who will be scouting Admoran, looking for the signs of the disaster this odd light foretells.â
âBut Iâm just...Iâm just...â
âJust an apprentice? A student?â Arlock said.
âWe need fresh eyes, Salish,â Thalârin said, âAs of tonight, youâre no longer a student. You will be working alongside the masters to see if you can find a pattern, any indication of calamity. We need to see if there is anything going on in our land. We need insight like yours.â
Salish looked back at the tear and nodded. Arlock put the bag back over Ayrlonâs head, dousing the light. A few shadows bled out from its opening.
âYou will start tomorrow,â Thalârin said, âget some sleep.â
Later that night when Thalârin returned to his home, he wandered its halls. His beloved abode, which used to echo the laughter of his sons, now seemed threatened. He had hoped his sons would have children of their own to bring here and fill his home with children's laughter once more. Perhaps they would, but for now, an uncertain future loomed over all of Admoran.
He navigated the corridors until he came upon a special chamber. He opened the door and stepped into silence. The designs which bound the chamber in secrecy would prevent any sound from escaping. Here, he could meditate as he listened to the trickle of water that poured from a spigot in the wall, cascading down a small cairn before trickling away into a hand-made creek in the floor. He closed the door and walked slowly into the middle of the room where a circle of pillows resided on the floor.
Thal'rin had known true terror and helplessness. He had come face to face with his own inadequacy when he had earned his legacy as Meldohv Syredel's protector. He became a myth across the continent. The people of the land called him powerful. Some even went so far as to call him a walking army. He supposed only a man who faced the creature he had faced would see the truth: that he was small and inadequate. This recognition, not any self-earned prowess, was what enabled his victory.
They did not know he still had nightmares about that day, when he confronted a primal force older than civilization itself, capable of rending cities. Thousands had been killed, and yet Ayrlon had not wept for that clash. Her tear had remained dormant.
But now, she weeps. Far worse things were coming, things that made that encounter pale by comparison.
Thalârin, the leader of Meldohv Syredel, fell to his knees and felt a scream building in his lungs. He allowed himself to surrender to the fear for a few moments. But all that escaped was a choked whimper and a gasp. He wrested himself back under control. He had work to do.
(If this story piques your interest, check it out on Amazon! https://www.amazon.com/Chronicle-Lies-Sculptor-Fantasy-Isekai/dp/B0DMT4HLT2?ie=UTF8)
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