Ferrian's Winter

Friends no longer far apart

Yet darker worries taint the heart.

The ceiling was breathtakingly blue, with just a hint of pale gold, and incongruously smooth. It was also a long, long way off.

Ferrian stared up at it uncomprehendingly. It should have been black. A vast, stale, inky nothingness; a dead, forgotten space laced with awful magic inside a confounding, horrifying Pyramid.

It should have been his tomb.

Where was he? In his Sword? In some kind of afterlife? Or had he in fact, changed reality in some monumental way?

He remembered the fight with the Muron-serpent, remembered picking up his Sword to help Mekka, remembered the awesome Godlike power that came with it, remembered…

He clamped his physical eyes closed, and his mind's-eye as well.

He didn't want to remember.

For awhile he simply lay there, on his back, trying not to think, to just exist. A warm breeze caressed his cheek and shifted his hair across his face. There was a smell of sand and something reptilian, and an icy coolness emanated from somewhere close by, biting through the warmth.

Something reptilian?

Opening his eyes, Ferrian turned his head to the side.

The White Dragon loomed there, her scales dazzling and streaked with rainbow colours in the sunlight. A great paw sheltered Ferrian: he was tucked in between two of her huge, glassy claws.

Raising himself to his elbows, he shuffled out from under them, then froze.

Someone else was lying beside him.

It was a young lady, her long dark hair partially plaited, the rest falling loose about her face. She was wearing a white shirt with lacy sleeves, dark blue riding pants and leather boots. Her skin was a soft, warm brown colour, one slender hand resting upon her chest, touching a deep blue sapphire gemstone that lay there upon a silver chain.

Ferrian stared at her for a long moment, astonished by the unexpected sight.

An almost-forgotten memory flooded back:

A half-drowned and dishevelled noblewoman, accompanied by a worried-looking red Centaur, dripping and shivering on the porch outside the front doors…

His eyes widened. Lady Araynia! The noblewoman who had come to Castle Whiteshadow seeking his help! He had promised her he would travel to Crystaltina to rid the city of demon-wraiths and find her family. And her kind, servant chef Luca…

Luca…

The young Centaur lying dead in the hallway behind the kitchen, blood pooling on the white stones…

Something slammed into Ferrian's back, startling him near to death. Instinctively, he lashed out with his arm, releasing a wave of force, frost and wind that swept the sand into an explosive cloud for several yards behind him.

There came a frightened squeal.

At once he made a slashing motion with his other arm, choking off his magic, and scrambled to his feet. Amid the haze of dust and glittering ice particles, a small bundle of white and orange-tipped feathers lay curled on the ground, covered in frost.

"Li?!" Ferrian gasped in disbelieving recognition. "Oh my god, Li!"

He rushed towards the Angel girl, gathering her into his arms. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to… Li, are you all right?!"

The girl unfolded herself cautiously. She looked up at him with huge copper eyes and nodded.

Ferrian's heart was in his throat. All his blood seemed to have left him. He hugged her. "Gods, Li! What are you doing here?"

She was trembling, but hugged him back. "Looking for you!" She sniffed into his shoulder. "I'm sorry for running away in the forest. I shouldn't have run away. I should have stayed with you!"

Ferrian shook his head. "It's okay. It's for the best that you didn't." He took a relieved, shaky breath and let it out again. "Gods, I'm so glad you're alright…"

Someone came running towards him, someone that flashed in the sunlight. Ferrian looked up to see an Angel soldier with light brown wings, fancy silvertine armour and a white and silver jacket, and bearing a long silver spear.

"Li!" the soldier cried. "What happened? Are you hurt?!"

Li pulled away from Ferrian, wiping at her nose. Her reddish hair and feathers were still dusted with frost, but it was melting rapidly. "I'm alright," she replied bravely, though didn't look it.

"It's my fault," Ferrian apologised, wracked with guilt, and swallowed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted like that."

The soldier helped Li up, then held out a hand to Ferrian, who took it. "Li got a little carried away in her enthusiasm," the soldier said. He ruffled her hair with a silver-gauntleted hand. "And forgot someone was a sorcerer."

Li looked at her feet.

Ferrian regarded the Angel with an awkward sense that he had met the man somewhere before. "Thanks, uh…?"

"Lieutenant Tander," he reminded Ferrian.

The soldier I saved from a silvertine wraith in the forest, in Arkana… He nodded in remembrance. "Thanks, Lieutenant, for taking care of Li. You kept your word."

Tander gave him a smile. "Don't mention it."

Ferrian returned the smile. He found himself liking Tander.

Looking around, Ferrian saw that he was standing in a desert, with white sand spread out to a shimmering horizon. The sun was newly risen, but already a pale, hot ball. He was beginning to sweat despite the cold air radiating from the Dragon.

The Black Pyramid blocked out most of the sky to the west, suspended there motionless; a weird, hellish triangular construction that somehow looked even more sinister and wrong in broad daylight, with the sun's light creating a maze out of its massive nest of shards, and gleaming strangely upon its polished sides. There was no sign of the giant blue eye.

Suppressing a shudder, Ferrian's gaze fell to the sand below, where he spotted the remains of a campfire, with two figures lying beside it; one was a young teenage boy with a red bandanna tied round his hair, the other a heap of black feathers…

"Mekka!" he started forward.

Tander put a hand on his shoulder. "He is fine," he assured Ferrian. "Just sleeping. He has been talking all night." He raised an eyebrow. "It was quite a tale."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Yeah, Ferrian thought, feeling cold to the bottom of his gut. Quite a tale.

Tander stepped to the side and picked something up off the ground, and held it out to Ferrian.

Ferrian leapt backwards as though the Angel had offered him a severed leg, earning surprised looks from the Lieutenant and Li.

"It is… your Sword," Tander said, looking confused.

Ferrian's heart raced at the sight of his own weapon in its worn grey scabbard, the glimpse of black leering from the hilt twisting his stomach into a knot. "Just… leave it there on the sand," he managed in a tight voice. "The… Dragon will guard it."

Then he walked away.

He couldn't bear to look at it.

Ben would not stop talking. From the moment of his waking, the boy assailed Ferrian with an excited retelling of his own story, starting from the day that Ferrian had left Castle Whiteshadow. When he got to Meadrun, Li joined in with her own experiences – with many interjections and diversions from Tander's point of view – and the whole thing became muddled and lost direction, until Ferrian no longer knew what had happened to whom.

He was not really paying attention in any case, and had forgotten to drink his tea, staring down at his reflection in the cup set in the sand before him, at his own silver eyes staring back while voices drifted around him like echoes of noisy birds in distant trees.

The feeling of his Sword cleaving the head off the Muron-serpent, of destroying it piece by piece, systematically, every version of it, in every reality, until it was utterly gone…

A black-winged ghost flitting about, a trivial annoyance, like a moth, that also needed to be removed from existence…

The sword coming down…

Ferrian no longer recognised the silver eyes; they were becoming warped and demonic the longer he looked at them, mocking him like a wraith, so he quickly turned his gaze to the fire instead, losing himself in its mindless, shifting dance.

Lieutenant Tander was perceptive. He interrupted the storytelling – which had become an unnecessarily detailed, gruesome description of wraiths – to suggest that the kids go and pick through the pile of discarded silks for any clothing they might like, or anything that might fit Ferrian, whose own outfit was a little worse for wear.

Li was cheered by the suggestion, gleefully dragging a less-than-rapt Ben along with her.

When they were gone, Ferrian gave Tander a weak smile of gratitude. The Angel handed him a small piece of hard cheese to nibble on, explaining that they hadn't much in the way of provisions or water left, and would need to move on soon.

Later, Sergeant Flint came over and greeted him with a handshake. Some pleasantries were exchanged, a joke or two, but the Freeroamer seemed also not in the mood for talking, and quickly wandered off to lean against the Dragon's tail and smoke.

Ferrian wondered distantly when it was that Flint had started smoking, and why he was carrying such a small crossbow around.

Commander Reeves and another Legionnaire by the name of Nix had holed themselves up inside a blue-painted wagon and had not come out to meet Ferrian or Mekka, not even to make scathing remarks.

Ferrian was honestly relieved, as the last thing he felt like at that moment was another encounter with Reeves.

Mekka discovered his sorcerer friend sitting with his back to the Dragon's pearly side, close to where Lady Araynia lay sleeping in the sand, protected by the Dragon's claws.

"I need to talk to her," Ferrian muttered as the black-winged Angel approached. His quicksilver eyes were bright, his jaw hard as he stared at the Lady. "I need to know how the hell she can use the Sword of Healing, or healing magic at all."

He looked away, swallowing, and a long, uncomfortable moment passed in which he said nothing. "Tander told me something," he said finally. "He told me that shortly after his group found the White Dragon and the others here in the desert, that Flint was shot by the Bladeshifters and almost died. He said that Araynia used her pendant to save Flint's life, and… he saw a strange apparition."

Mekka nodded, leaning his shoulder against the Dragon. "They all did, apparently." He shook his head. "But no one seems inclined to discuss it, except for the boy, who thinks it is the most marvellous thing he has ever seen." He paused. "Tander was mystified and troubled; I think he thinks it may have been a wraith. I tried broaching the subject with Flint, but he pretended not to hear me."

"If it was a wraith, everyone would be dead."

Mekka nodded. "I dare say only the Lady can tell you what happened."

Ferrian stared at her. "I wish she would wake up."

The Angel folded his arms. "Ferrian, you could wake her any time you please."

Ferrian looked away again, his face pale.

Mekka didn't push the matter. He knew that his friend desperately wanted answers, but was equally frightened of what those answers might be.

Speaking of things Ferrian was terrified of…

Mekka unhooked the Sword of Mirrors from his shoulder, and held it out.

Ferrian glanced at it and quickly looked away again, fear racing through his eyes. "Take it away, Mekka; I don't want it any more! Go and bury it in the desert!"

"Ferrian…"

"I mean it! I don't need that Sword anyway, I've got magic enough already…"

"Ferrian," Mekka's gaze was hard. "Your Winter won't protect you from demon-wraiths."

The young sorcerer turned a blazing, icy glare on him. "That Sword won't protect me from myself!"

Their gazes remained locked for a long, painful moment. Finally, the Angel sighed. He settled himself on the ground beside Ferrian with his back to the Dragon and the Sword resting across his knees. The sun had fallen low behind the Pyramid now, which provided a long, angular swatch of deep shade which eased the sweltering heat of the day. The sky was turning pink and orange as another day came to an end.

His eyes came to rest upon the blue wagon, an imperious bastion of silence out on the sands some hundred yards away.

Mekka frowned to himself. It was unlike Reeves not to make an appearance. Undoubtedly, the arrival of the Black Pyramid – and his worst enemy seemingly in control of it – had shaken the Wing Commander to the core of his perfect white feathers, but his Lieutenant was handling the situation with admirable grace. Was Reeves plotting something in there, or just seething in private?

Mekka considered whether he should go and confront the damned man himself, then wondered what that would actually accomplish, other than a fight. He didn't want to provoke the Watcher into attacking anyone else.

Better that he stay well away from Reeves.

He looked down at the battered scabbard on his knees, at its curling silver inlay, mostly worn away. A deceptively prosaic sheath for a weapon so monstrous…

"Do you want to talk about what happened in the Pyramid?" he asked softly.

Ferrian was silent for a very long moment. Neither of them looked at each other. At last, Ferrian replied: "I tried to kill you." He hesitated. "Worse than that: I wanted to kill you!"

Mekka raised an ironic eyebrow. "Believe it or not, I know what that feels like."

Ferrian looked at him, finally. "What if it happens again, Mekka? What if I attack someone that I care about? Ben, or Li, or…" He leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. "I would never forgive myself…"

No, Mekka thought with resigned sadness. You would not. I have not. You just go on living with the scars, as though a part of you is permanently crippled. And no amount of healing magic can ever take them away, they just become a part of who you are, forever.

He turned the Sword over in his gloved hands. "Hmmm," he murmured. "This Sword is too powerful. Perhaps there's a way to remove the dagger…"

"I've tried," Ferrian replied morosely. "Many times. So did Arzath. Neither of us could figure out how to get it out."

Mekka stared at the Sword. "Did Lord Arzath understand what this weapon was capable of?"

Ferrian was quiet for a moment. "I… don't know. I don't think so. I doubt he would have given me the Sword if he thought it would turn me into a… a god." He hugged himself, as though cold. "He left it in his old workshop in the Muron's eyrie, telling me I wasn't to touch it again until I understood it." He sighed. "But he didn't understand it! He only wanted something that would overpower Requar, to break his shield, to end their stalemate. Arzath was looking for revenge, not to change the world."

"This Sword can change the world?"

Ferrian's look was haunted. "I don't think I've even seen a fraction of its potential," he said, and swallowed. "And I don't want to!"

They fell silent again. Mekka regarded the Sword contemplatively. "Well," he said finally. "It is a fine silvertine blade. Perhaps I will keep it for myself…"

"Mekka, no!" Ferrian looked aghast.

The Angel snorted. "What do you think is going to happen? The dagger leaps out of the hilt into my hand? Or it stabs me in my sleep?"

The look on his friend's face suggested that those things weren't outside the realm of possibility.

All of a sudden, Ferrian lunged forward and snatched the weapon out of Mekka's hands. "Gods damn you, Mekka!"

The Angel leaned back against the Dragon, folding his arms and smirking. "Just be careful with it from now on," he advised. "Only use it when you absolutely must."

"Thanks for that incredibly wise piece of advice," Ferrian retorted petulantly.

"You're welcome."

They sat in silence, Mekka companionably, Ferrian sulking, watching the sunset grow more spectacular by the second. The Pyramid cut a deep, sharp-edged gouge into it. A few yards to their right, still sheltered by the Dragon's claws, Lady Araynia stirred.

Ferrian froze like one of the Watcher's petrified monsters, so Mekka climbed to his feet, went over and offered her his half-empty waterskin, introducing himself in the process.

As he was doing so, he caught sight of activity over by the wagon.

Tander came running out from behind it and took to the air, heading towards the Dragon at great speed.

Mekka rose to his feet as the Legionnaire landed hard before them, sending up a spray of sand, running a few steps before coming to a halt, wings outspread to keep from overbalancing in his haste. His armour threw off red sparks in the dying sun.

"Tander," Mekka said, hurrying over, alarmed at the other Angel's breathless look of panic. "What's wrong?"

"It is… Reeves," he gasped, wide-eyed, "he's missing! I… cannot find him anywhere! And…" he held out out a shaking hand.

In his gauntleted grip was a wad of paper, ripped and torn, covered in strange writing. The Angel released his fingers and the pages slipped from them, fluttering to the ground, skipping across the sand and against Mekka's boots like papery critters set free.

"His book…" Tander choked on a sob. "He has destroyed it!!"