The Land of Helakirtor; Chapter 2

Fain would Dyamatlis flee from these strange lands with all haste. The blood that once roamed her limbs had grown dry, even as her reason prepared to take its flight. The heavy burden of Lachita enfolded her whole spirit, and her vision grew dim amidst the clouds of dark blue mist. Her soul was tossed between joy and guilt and dread; yet he could not free her mind from the chains of doubt nor from the mantle of darkness. Still, he took hold of the final atom of life within him and escaped from the most unhallowed wastes of the North.

Dyamatlis set forth upon her way, bearing the heavy burden of the entire realm upon her shoulders. Had he wrought what was righteous, or was he to be the chief author of a desolation that would bring the end of Helakirtor? He stood now in a state of utter confusion; was he a hero of the light, or a base servant of the darkness, a lowly soul bound to shadows? Should he yield to the anxieties that fettered her mind, or press onward, unheeding of the path? What passion remained unfelt within her breast? Contentment and Doubt, Repentance and Woe; though a fleeting peace touched him for a moment, yet was he utterly forlorn. Yet beneath all these tides of the spirit, another feeling prepared to arise, nourishing itself upon them all. Yea, the spirit of Curiosity began to stir within her inward parts; but as yet, the inner war he waged against her own heart was not at an end.

Lady Dyamatlis felt anew, in the deepest chambers of her heart, every strife and dilemma that had haunted her life’s journey. For since the hour she forsook her noble kindred to follow the footsteps of Lord Morpsulus, she could never bring her soul to know what was truly just. Was this choice a betrayal of her blood and her ancient house? Who was the author of evil, and where did the path of righteousness lie? Ah, wretched Dyamatlis! How wondrous fair are thine eyes in their dark green and misty sorrow. Must the entire burden of Helakirtor be laid upon thee alone? Was this to be the final state and destiny of so beautiful a Lady?

Should she cast this shadowy tome into the furnace of fire and return to the halls of Melehor, or press onward to reach those darkling shores by the morrow? On one hand, she felt a heavy shame before the threshold of her father’s realm; on the other, she was bound in debt to the people of Mare Rumbrum who had opened their arms to her. And what of this ponderous weight upon her back? It had become as a shackle unto her feet. Ah, obstinate Dyamatlis! She would hearken to no counsel once her mind was fixed. Yet, as she drew nigh to the very mother-land of darkness, a trembling haste seized every atom of her being, and Curiosity began to strike against the gates of her reason.

For this was the direst peril of all; if once the seed of Curiosity should bloom within the deep chambers of the heart, it would flare and mount like the Fire of Galadonna, rising ever higher without cease. What trials did this wretched maiden suffer in so brief a span of time? Had she but known, would she ever have ventured upon such a journey? One part of her spirit yearned to unseal this mysterious book, while the other sought to cast it into the flames of destruction. Yet, because the Cry of Tanzigot’s Majesty now echoed throughout every realm, to destroy the volume was no longer a choice to be made. She stilled the tumultuous passions of her soul and continued her way without rest. However darkened the labyrinth of her mind, it hindered her not from murmuring her own secret song.

Ah Dyma, dear Dyma, child of Melehor’s line,
Seven summers gone, now seventh frost doth shine;
Her pale hair like sun-ground wheat and jasmine sweet doth blow,
The ancient wood and elder trees her dreaming soul doth know.

She gazed upon the heavens from her window frame,
One boon she craved of the Dream-Lord’s holy name;
O noble watcher of the wood, tell thy tale,
Bring news of strange Gabarin, the herald of the vale.

Speak not of the forest child to thy mother’s ear,
Lest the whispered stories should all disappear;
Fear not the vines that reach for the light,
Heed not the voice that whispers of night.

Fear not, little Dyma; no ill shall touch thy frame,
The Lord of Dreams shall guard thy holy name;
He is the master of strange Gabarin, that faithful hound,
While he lives, Helakirtor’s story shall ever resound.

As her song reached its close, the other Women of Gaveya breathed a heavy sigh and together they pressed onward upon their pilgrimage. These daughters of Gaveya were no fools; they perceived well the wavering spirit of Dyamatlis, yet for such a troubled soul, no remedy remained in their hands. In one accord, they moved once more to bring Lachita unto the shores of Mare Rubrum. Since the Cry of Majesty now resounded through every corner of the world, the House of Iranarious knew that Lachita, sought through many a weary year, was at last delivered into their grasp. As the tidings spread like fire, not only the folk of Mare Rubrum and Tilis arose, but even the black sorcerers from Perasimonor in the furthest East came forth to meet them. All those who deemed themselves servants of the Fiend took it as their sacred charge to prepare a solemn rite for the arrival of Lachita, whom they beheld as their own holy volume.

At length, Lady Dyamatlis reached the shores of Mare Rubrum alongside her companions. The foremost sorcerers of the dark, gathered from every corner of Helakirtor, stood in readiness for the solemn rite. And as the Lady crossed the threshold of the city, these masters of shadow wove their most majestic enchantments, turning the shining lights of the heavens into a profound and heavy blackness. From the vaults of the sky, sable vapours began to descend on every side, drifting downward like the smoke of a great furnace. These dark fumes sought to hide the face of the Moon; yet the silver light was of such potence that even the most shadowed sorcerers lacked the strength to extinguish it utterly. Thus, the lunar rays filtered through the rolling black clouds, bathing the realm of Mare Rubrum in deep and mournful tones of dark azure.

A wondrous revelry of hues didst unfold as the deepest shades of azure smote the darkened glades; green and blue and black moved in a sublime dance of shadows. Great fires were kindled throughout the land, and thus the spirit of Red joined the rhythmic weaving of these colours. From the hidden depths of the forest, the harts of Toremon had been hunted, and the preparations for a banquet of ancient glory stood complete. No longer did the sable fumes alone mount the air from these unhallowed lands; for now, the white vapours of cauldrons, boiling with rich meats, arose from every quarter, mingling with the dark breath of the night.

The faithful servants of Darkness welcomed the treasure they had awaited through the rolling centuries, in a manner well-suited to their shadowed souls. The revelries were of such magnificence that the very air seemed heavy with grandeur. Beside the House of Iranarious, the members of the Council of Chenosa took their station; for the aged and wise magi of the Council well understood that a power so vast was too great a burden to be left solely in the hands of the Iranarious line. Lord Morpsulus, wishing that no shadow should fall upon the glory of this day, gave commandment to his entire house that they should treat the Elders with all due reverence. Thus, the venerable masters of the Council walked as the chosen guests of honour, and all who beheld them offered a salute of profound and heartfelt homage.

Lady Dyamatlis moved through the midst of the greeting throng and stood before Lord Morpsulus, delivering the ancient volume into the hands of her Lord. The House of Iranarious bore themselves with a temperance ne’er before witnessed; it was as if, together with Lachita, a hallowed stillness had fallen upon their restless spirits. Once Lord Morpsulus had received Lachita into his grasp, he rendered the prize unto Belabirdor, the sire and most venerable master of the Council of Chenosa.

The Sage Belabirdor had in seasons past pronounced many a judgment to the detriment of the House of Iranarious. Notwithstanding, Lord Morpsulus yielded Lachita into his palms without a shadow of wavering. For even the prideful Iranarious perceived that their own wisdom was but folly before the mysteries bound within that ancient tome. None among the dark magi of Chenosa had wished for this volume to be unearthed; they understood too well how Lachita might become a dire engine of destruction in hands unguided by restraint. Upon receiving the prize, the wise Belabirdor commenced an oration of such gravity that it should ne’er be erased from the halls of remembrance.

O ye long-suffering and faithful servants of Mare Rubrum! It is known to every soul among you that in this realm, no man hath need of a master. I speak to you this day not as a sovereign or a lord, but as a fellow son of this red earth, for which we have laid down our lives without hesitation, and shall do so yet again. The sole purpose of the order we have built through the weary centuries was to raise a sanctuary where the persecuted magi of Helakirtor, the Daughters of Gaveya, and all those made the scapegoats of the King’s blindness might at last find peace. To establish a dwelling that these luckless outcasts might call home… Yea, my dear children, did they not brand us thus? Accursed monsters, ill-omened wizards, slayers of babes; these are but a few of the cruel names they have bound upon our brows.

Ye know well, my children, how oft we stood accused of deeds we never wrought. From realm to realm were we driven like chaff before the wind; wheresoe’er our weary feet did tread, we were met with dire torments and manifold scorns. Yet out of the ashes of our sorrow, we gathered our scattered remnants to raise the foundations of Mare Rubrum. Contrary to the venomous slanders cast upon our name, we consecrated our very lives to the preservation of all Helakirtor; but alas, it was ne’er within their power to perceive our truth. For unto eyes that know not how to see, no sign nor wonder shall ever suffice.

A corrupt king swaying his rod o’er all the realms, noble houses turned to theatres of vanity and folly, wars of blood that know no end, and a multitude pining in want and desolation… Is this the peace of Helakirtor? And are we the disturbers of this hollow rest? Nay, contrary to their bitter slanders, we are far beyond the frantic monsters they proclaim; we are the beholders of the Unseen, the criers of those truths which the fearful dare not whisper, who falter not to rise against the yoke of tyranny. We are the folk of Mare Rubrum, whose hearts are girt with sacred courage.

Doth memory still hold the image of Iranarious, the mightiest Lord o’er all the wide domains? The bitter oppressions he endured, can they ever be washed from the halls of our minds? There was a time when he and his house stood as the very pillars of Helakirtor; even King Talamondis himself would not venture upon a path of weight without seeking the counsel of that noble head. Yet, recall the torments he bore for the sake of mercy, for granting sanctuary to two desolate women who fled to his gates! And such a passing! A death so fraught with anguish, who among the sons of men could merit such a portion? What mortal soul could be so steeped in malice as to deserve a doom so dire? Who, in the blindness of their pride, could give the command to consume babes and their progenitors in the living flame, before the very eyes of their gathered kin? Is it Mare Rubrum that is the den of iniquity, or the golden citadel of the King? Speak now, ye shadowed outcasts of the night!

And the Darkness, speaking with a single voice, cried out: “Mare Rubrum! Mare Rubrum! Mare Rubrum!”

O ye shadowed outcasts, I swear by the lunar light that we are far more than what we seem. Drawing might from the valour of our hearts, I seek to set forth upon a pilgrimage with you to reclaim our rightful heritage and to build anew the peace of Helakirtor. I cannot assure any among you a sure victory at the close of this journey, yet I do vow a struggle of honour and a path of glory unto death itself. I promise to preserve the sacred memory of Iranarious and of all our kindred who suffered beneath the yoke of injustice. Most of all, I covenant an order for the ages to come, where no soul shall be scorned for being strange, and no wanderer shall be cast out for refusing to be bound by the hollow edicts of the oppressor.

Yea, in this domain, no soul hath need of a Lord or a master; yet since a Lord is found among us, I desire to crown him with the highest of honours. Lord Morpsulus, son of Iranarious and Valader, the sole heir of his house; before the eyes of all the realm, I vow to illuminate for thee every path that Lachita shall reveal unto my sight, and I proclaim thee Commander of the Legions of Mare Rubrum in this new war that may endure for many a weary year. Every judgment and every penalty we of the Council of Chenosa have laid upon thee and thy house in the seasons past, I do now utterly absolve.