The Arkanist

The Temple of Qvas

 Chapter 1

The Temple of Qvas

The night was dark, and so too was Visir’s heart when he murdered his brother.  He looked down at his pale hands, remembering the cold red blood, the tears mixed into his flush flesh. It was hard for him to remember, he found, his eyes flashing red with the painful memories. His stiff grey eyes flicked away the silvery glimmer of a tear as he thought back, gazing out his window, the night sky black as pitch. The mists shimmered crimson as it hung in the sky and a hissing wind flapped at the jade silk curtains, where inside waxen candles shivered, and threw dancing light against the stonewalls and carpeted floor.

The city of Jaahon, cradled before the Endless Sea and the rocky Hills of Aarha, was alit darkly with shuddering torches, writhing in the chill winds. It was his home, for now. Slithering through the tightly built sandstone buildings and towers, a thin band of ribbon glistened like silver with glints of red that sparkled off the glassy surface. Following the path of the river, Visir saw the water flow into the great black sea, where the placid water licked with a crimson flame from the defeated red moon as it was eaten by the stark horizon.

His manor, settled in the heart of Jaahon was that of the late Lord Vhazzan, who had ruled the city for over sixty years. Though he had been unexpectedly assassinated just three months before, to the shock of the people. It was Visir who killed him. The plan had gone smoothly, and Visir had snuck in past the guards and slit his throat. The day after, he had taken control of the city, and declared his lordship of Jaahon. It was the first piece of the puzzle in a grander plan, one so bold it would leave the whole of the realm speechless.

A single thud at the wooden door sounded from behind Visir. Without a glance back, he ordered, “You are free to enter, Ior. May I trust that you bring good tidings?” Following his command, the door moaned ajar, where there squeezed a man garbed in velvet robes of deep purple that tied with leather strings along the chest. His long face was splashed with flickering candle light as he entered and his green eyes glowed pale. His head was bare and shaved, tattooed with strange symbols and arrows of deep red ink.

Visir turned sharp, his regal face shaded in the ruddy candlelight. “You may speak, my squire. Pray that they are decorous words that flow from your mouth.”

Ior’s face fell. It was slight, something many others would neglect, but Visir’s eyes read it true. “The Lord Ioden wishes to meet with you in the Temple of Qvas,” said Ior. “Upon the Hill of Venya, my lord.”

“And why does Lord Ioden wish to meet with me?” asked Visir, incredulous. “It is rather late, is it not?”

“He would not say, my lord,” said Ior. “He said only that he must meet with you urgently. Though he would not say why, my lord. I spoke briefly with his lordship, and his voice seemed pained and feeble, my lord.” He paid particular detail to the titles. His previous master had whipped him across the back for forgetting them when he spoke.

“Then at once, I must be away,” said Visir. “Ior, fetch me my travel cloak over by the door, and my blade.” As Visir threw his large cloak over his head, he watched the night, ash trickling through the thick air. He fingered the pommel of his ancient sword, Frostbite, the steel glowing through the dark with the glints of candlelight as it caressed the hilt.

“Would you like me to escort you, my lord?” asked Ior, opening the door with a creak. “The streets are rather dark at this hour in this everlasting night. One can never be safe in these times, if you would trust, my lord.”

“There is no need, Ior,” calmed Visir. “I shall walk myself to the temple. Though when I am gone, see that you stand guard at the door.”

“Why, my lord?” asked Ior.