Chapter 12: The Man Who Would Burn The World

Chapter 12

“Now, girl, speak.”

Malachai sat, leaning carelessly in his chair, shrouded in darkness. A dim, smoldering glow pulsing gently from just below his lips cast a faint light across his face. But the thin wisps of smoke curling around him veiled his expression, leaving Fia unsure of his intentions.

Outside the pavilion, the low murmur of soldiers drifted through the air, hushed whispers, rattling plate, the echo of a hammer striking an anvil. She sat across from him, fingers twitching against the worn wood as Malachai studied the golden spheres.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” she replied, fidgeting nervously. The Rebel King did not have a reputation for being a patient man.

“You can start by explaining how you came to possess this charm.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’ll need to do better than that.” His words were slow and resonant. He did not seem like the man the stories had described.

“It was given to me… by a friend.”

“A very generous friend. For what purpose?” He pressed his fingers together, cracking at his knuckles.

“I would assume that it is similar in purpose to the one around your neck.” She paused, “Though, I am surprised to learn that there is more than one.”

“If indeed there truly are,” the low voice rumbled. “It is strange indeed; they are identical, and yet yours burns while mine is still quite cool. Where does it lead you?”

“I am not sure,” she confessed.

“Mine points to Orent.”

“And where did you get yours, sir?”

“Bold,” he chuckled, “You are bold, aren’t you? Tell me why I would impart such valuable information to a prisoner?” He continued to laugh, stroking his beard. “And yet, if you are an agent of Thalazan, then you already know the answers, and if you aren’t, it does not seem likely that it would mean anything to you at all.”

“Perhaps we both have information that could be of use to the other.” She did not know how, but the compass had burned in his presence. Some of the God King’s treasure was held in this camp.

Malachai strummed his fingers along the table's edge. “What can you offer me?”

“I… I am from Orent. Surely you could find some use for my knowledge of the city.”

He regarded her thoughtfully, dark eyes searching her face. “The gates are shut,” he muttered. “Are the walls so weak that a mere child could I simply waltz through their defenses?”

“There is more than one way to enter the city.”

“Is there now?” Malachai leaned in, his shadow swallowing the space between them. ‘And you would lead me to this hidden entrance?”

“I-I could,” she stammered. “For a price.”

“But what would I find there?” He smiled, eyes glimmering. “Hundreds of the city’s finest magi? Or perhaps the personal retinue of Thalazan himself. Do you think I would change my long-laid plans on the advice of a young girl who is more than likely some spy?”

“I am not a spy!”

“Then you have nothing to offer me.” He lifted the golden sphere from the table, running his fingers along its curves. “This path was not chosen lightly, girl. And it is too late to stray from it.”

He rolled the disc in his palm, and the rings began to turn, spinning around an orb in its center. “You called this a compass, an apt name, for it has guided me since I was a boy… But it is not just a compass.” Malachai closed his fist, the rings aligning along his fingers to form a curious pattern. “It is a key.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“A key to what?”

“Everything.”

A breeze lifted the pavilion flap, filling the room with the scent of dust and sweat. The clamor of soldiers had thinned, and all she could hear was the soft whistle of Freya, a melancholy tune dancing on the wind.

Suddenly, a thin seam of light split the space behind Malachai. The air shivered as it bent around the jagged mirage. And then, slowly, it began to tear, the colors of a distant room bleeding into the tent in a swirling golden vortex.

Out of the light stepped a man clad in white. His hair was long and grey, thinning just a bit on the top. And between the lines of his face was pencil mustache that looked as though it had been drawn on. His eyes were gentle and deep, like two wells of still dark waters. Fia’s heart sank as she saw him.

“Ah, Albrecht,” Malachai’s deep voice boomed. “Good of you to join us. What news?”

“The city has been prepared for your arrival,” the Magistari replied, taking a seat at the table.

His eyes landed on her. “Fia!?” He shot to his feet. “What in the gods— what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Fia demanded, head spinning.

“So, you know each other?” Malachai smiled. “Good. That will save time on introductions.”

But Albrecht did not seem to hear him. His eyes were focused on Fia, a storm rising from their depths

“Girl, did your sister send you?” He asked in a hushed whisper.

“Sophie?”

“She was caught just outside of camp. I haven’t decided what to do with her yet. Perhaps you could advise me?”

“Fia is no threat to you.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, but I can hardly let her go.”

“No, no you cannot,” the old man agreed.

“Albrecht!?”

He exhaled slowly, hands nervously gripping at his arms as his nails dug into the flesh just below his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Fia.” His voice trembled. “I don’t know how you got caught up in this, but you’re safer here.”

“You…you’re helping them,” she said softly. “You’re the reason they…” The loop, Lina, Sophie… the faces of so many friends, all lost, flashed before her eyes… because of Albrecht?

“There is so much you don’t understand.”

“All the people…they’re going to die…”

“No, Fia!” but he could not even meet her eyes. “The people of Orent will not suffer. Malachai has given me his word. They will make straight for the palace.”

“But what of those who block their path?”

“I cannot save everyone,” Malachai interrupted. “Least of all those that would oppose me. Sacrifices must be made, and I will do what must be done—no matter the cost.”

“Malachai!”

“Silence! Do not forget it was you who sought me out. All—”

“Sir!” Light streamed through the heavy drapes of the pavilion as a high-pitched voice called from outside. And the sounds of war followed.

Bellowing horns cut through the camp like a blade, and the men stiffened, their words swallowed by the call of battle.

Malachai turned to Albrecht, and the old man nodded slowly.

“So, it has begun.”

“Sir?” The voice called again.

“Come in, Freya.”

Outside, horns continued to blare, raising the alarm, but inside, Malachai remained calm, undisturbed by the approaching storm.

The pale sorceress stepped slowly through the curtains. “Sir, a battalion of magi has been spotted on the far side of the river. What are—”

She trailed off as her eyes focused on Albrecht, her face melting into a scowl at his presence.

“What is that old fool doing here?” She demanded, voice rising to a shriek.

“Do not worry, Freya,” replied Albrecht cooly. “I am just leaving.”

Golden light began to drip from the air as the blurred image of a palace bedroom took form. “Malachai,” his words were quiet yet firm, “Wait for my signal.”

The two men clasped forearms, their grips firm, pulling into an embrace. And Malachai nodded. It was a brief exchange, and yet when they parted, Fia thought she could see tears in the shadows of their eyes.

“Do not fear, old friend,” He murmured. “We will see this through. Together. Now go.”

Albrecht turned, “First. Give me a moment with the girl.”

“Very well.” Malachai beckoned to Freya and together they stepped out of the dimly light pavilion into the midday sun.

When they were gone, Albrecht finally spoke, “Fia, listen to me. You must stay with Malachai. I will send your sister to meet you, but above all, Malachai cannot—he must not— enter the palace alone.” The Magistar spoke quickly, words hushed, each one tumbling over the next in a vain attempt to say all that needed telling. “Do you understand?”

“No,” she cried. “Albrecht, what is happening? Why are you doing this?”

“There is no time, Fia! Please.” His voice was raw, barely more than a whisper, hoarse with desperation and regret. Sweat beaded at his temple, and the lines in his face were drawn so tight that it seemed they might rip apart at any moment. His eyes begged her to understand, to forgive him, but she could not. Albrecht had been a mentor, a friend, but now all she could see was a traitor. The man who would burn the world.

Outside the tent, the sounds of preparation had reached a fevered pitch. Men call out, barking commands, horses stamping and snorting in fearful anticipation, the rattle of steel echoing through the valley.

Fia jerked her head, shaking it back and forth, and Albrecht’s shoulders fell, defeated. He reached out, taking her hands in one final attempt to sway her. He pulled her close. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Find Sophie.”

Then he turned and fled through the golden pathway, vanishing into the light as the gates closed behind him.

Fia stood frozen in the dark pavilion, her breath unsteady. This was all his fault.

And outside, the horns screamed again.

Cycle: Timor 3-2