Here I am, standing at the beginning of the end.
With a slow
breath, Blue stilled the worm rustling in his soul. For one of his training it
was an easy enough feat. His was a spirit not permitted to shrink in fear, dance
in ecstasy, or wallow in sadness. The world was a transitory place, as were the
emotions it invoked. The path of the Night’s Herald might have seemed
difficult to some, but for Blue it bought peace and comfort, especially in times
of need- times like now.
He was the lone caretaker of the tiny temple on the hill. Years ago, when
he’d arrived, it had bustled with the activity of about a dozen young acolytes
and their master. Now, the dormers stood empty and unused. The only human sounds
were those he made himself, or those that drifted up from the sports grounds on
windless days. Visitors were few and easily satisfied. For Blue, life couldn’t
be more perfect or serene.
And now it would end. He reminded himself that he knew this day was
coming for a long time. Nothing could remain static in a living world, no matter
how much love one had for one’s life. Yet Blue had known in more concrete ways
as well. He’d been told.
It had happened years ago, and far away.
He was born in a small country temple, the only child of its keepers.
Blessed with parents who both adored and nurtured him, his early childhood was
peaceful and happy. He was ten years old when he moved to the temple of his
master. For a country boy to be taken to a city temple was a great honor, so his
loving parents parted with him willingly.
Blue arrived at the temple as a quiet and studious little boy who found
peace in his meditations and joy in his chores. His silence made him few friends
among the others, but he seemed not to notice. For years the master had been
searching for someone to inherit the temple. He found a worthy soul in Blue.
The master died in Blue’s sixteenth year of life, and soon after, the
other acolytes at the temple left to seek their fortunes. In the peace of the
empty grounds, he would pace silently, his curious mind working out question
after question. He wondered where his master was. Did his soul truly achieve the
status of Holy Dead? Did he wander Elysium and bask in the light of the gods?
Blue decided to find out. Every Night’s Herald had the power to
“send” their souls. Through ritual and deep meditation, the spirit could be
coaxed from the body and sent to roam any of the other Nine Planes. While this
was not without its dangers, he’d found this form of travel irresistible and
undertook such journeys frequently.
Once in Elysium, he scoured the landscape for any sign of his master. The
place was truly a heaven, filled with delights. His sojourn there was long. He
spent many days wandering the land, until an accident both serendipitous and
tragic occurred.
Blue was somehow able to locate the Palace of the Gods. A sacred place,
it was both majestic and imposing. Human souls were forbidden to tread its
grounds. It was long believed to be completely hidden from the view of mortal
spirits. None had claimed to see it for thousands of years, but there it was-
casting its shadow upon him like an aged mountain peak. So terribly curious was
Blue that he simply had to enter, to spy on the gods and goddesses in all their
cold glory.
He was caught of course. Summoned before the Lords of Justice, he waited
in his calm way, sure of a harsh sentence. However, the deliberations took a
strange turn when the Lords began to mention “his case”. An old man
was called to the court, and spoke in whispers to the assembled judges. After
some time, it was decided that Blue should not face execution.
“We’d love to rend you to pieces,” one of the Lords informed him
darkly, “but your situation is… unique. We’ve been persuaded to let you
live, but not without your punishment. Rest assured, it will come in the form of
torture.”
While the Lords argued of his sentence, Blue turned coolly to the aged
man beside him.
“Who are you?” he queried.
“Ah, but you are Diasminian. Every one of your people knows my name.”
“We know many names.”
“Mine was called long before many of the others. I am Qa Haran.”
Blue was silent then, and returned to patiently awaiting his penalty. He
wondered at the events which had unfolded. What could be so important in his
life that would prompt pardon from the gods and defense from the legendary
Ancient One? He’d know someday, he realized. It wasn’t worth worrying over
now. The answers would come in due time.
Soon after, he was called forward to receive his sentence.
“I ‘saw’ you. I’ve been seeing all of this for years,” Blue
explained to his guest. “At night I’m given pictures of what’s to come,
knowledge in drips, like water off a leaf.”
“How is that a punishment?” Harata wondered aloud. “Isn’t it more
of a gift?”
“I don’t know how it ends,” the Night’s Herald said softly. “I
have no idea who most of the faces belong to. And I’ve seen… violent
things.”
Harata looked wearily into the cup of tea he was drinking. They were
seated in Blue’s quarters on the temple grounds, the soft light of candles
etching out shadows. Apparently, the Night’s Herald shunned electricity along
with the remainder of worldly trivialities. The place was rustic and simple,
another culture’s spin on the “no-frills” life Harata had experienced in
the Otherlands. It had a warm, homey comfort to it, but this was lost on the
newly anointed Clanless, who sat on the matted floor at a loss for words.
None of this made any sense. What was that terrible feeling he’d had
outside? The compulsions, the dream, that searing pain- nothing seemed to have
purpose. If fate truly wanted him as a hero, why did his Task bring nothing but
questions and agony? Then there was
the Night’s Herald. How could he believe such a tale? Travel to other Planes,
gods as judges, frivolous punishments, Qa Haran- it seemed improbable- if not
downright impossible. On the other hand, who would believe his own tale of the
dream? Harata’s head was spinning, as if in sympathy to his still sea-bound
body.
Why is this happening to me? He looked at Blue, wondering if the
Champion of the Night’s Herald felt the same hopelessness. He was a young man,
close in age to Harata. It was disconcerting, the way he could sit perfectly
still. Like others of his Clan, Blue wore traditional garb. His clothes were
homespun and rough-looking- a white robe tucked into long, deeply pleated pants
of night-blue fabric.
It was difficult to make out his features in the dim light, but there was
an overwhelming calm to them which reminded Harata of a light rain drizzling
over a forest. His eyes showed nothing of emotion, glinting bright blue in the
firelight, pricks of red dancing on their surface. His glossy hair was raven
black, save for one electric blue stripe running down the right side of his
head. He seemed to be of slightly stocky build, perhaps from years of heavy
chores.
“You said you felt that… feeling… before. Around ‘one of us’.
Have you seen them- the other Champions?”
“At times I’ve caught a glimpse of one or two, I think. It’s hard
to say. Mostly, we just know when there’s another around.”
“Are they all here? In Mianuus?”
“I don’t think so. That seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”
Harata was about to reply, when Blue turned suddenly toward the door.
Within half a breath, there came a pounding upon its surface.
“Police. Open up.”
