Airel: The Awakening (Airel Saga Book One)

Chapter XXV

Arabia—1250 B.C.

 KREIOS TOUCHED DOWN ON the doorstep with a light crack of static electricity. His old friend Yamanu sat on the front porch of his little shack. It nestled among the undergrowth of a deciduous forest, its roof swaybacked under the weight of years. Not far off, tall corn, ready for harvest, rattled in the cool night breezes. Yamanu sat in a wooden rocking chair smoking a pipe, and probably, Kreios thought, dreaming of the old days in another world. Kreios walked up the three creaky steps, took a seat next to his friend, and sat down without a word.

Kreios took out his own pipe, filled it, and it lit without the assistance of fire. He drew on it slowly, allowing time to savor the sweet, relaxing smoke. It tasted like serenity. It was wholly unlike anything mankind had ever known. He let the smoke roll out of his mouth like a waterfall and curl up on his chest, drifting slowly down, draping him in a cloak. He leaned back to gaze at the stars with his old friend. 

Yamanu was his oldest friend. He was a Shadower. In another age, it was a very useful gift that a few possessed for combating seers, medicine men, and wizards. He could draw a shade over himself, or even a group, into which the enemy was not able to see. 

Kreios had grown up with Yamanu. He could remember when they had learned to fly back home, where the streets were gold. Life under the sun provides such bitterness, and the sweet diminishes day by day.

Every member of the Arch race could fly—or at least, were supposed to. Yamanu had not taken to it as well as the other boys. One day he and Kreios stole to the entrance of the white tower, where only warriors were permitted. Kreios had the appearance of a boy of twelve, Yamanu ten. The doors stood as tall as five men and were over an arm’s length thick, with iron bands running throughout like spider legs holding them together. They heaved the doors open and walked into the darkness, closing them behind them with great effort. Shafts of light illuminated the circling stairway through windows as it led upward beyond them. 

To ascend the white tower just to jump off, just to learn to fly, was rash indeed. It was built as a lookout post for the warriors to use, not as a playground for boys. But some boys were more precocious than others. Some boys had to test everything. And without a doubt, Kreios and Yamanu were engaging in flight practice long before the Old Masters would have permitted. But in Kreios’ chest, there surged the heart of a king. He was not content with the safer jump-offs, where everyone else learned. At the tower’s top, he felt synergy, rightness. 

“Come with me, Yam, if you want to see things for what they really are. You will not be disappointed.” Kreios ran three steps at a time, with Yamanu close behind him. Kreios was not afraid of death. It was a foreigner to them in that age. The only ones who tasted death were characters in children’s tales, stories of the Original War. 

The tower pierced the sky. Even clouds were sometimes dashed against its white stone walls and cleaved in two. It was a beacon, a great statement of daring just to stand upon its battlements amongst the peaks of the mountains El Himself had crowned with glory.

Yamanu stopped short when they reached the top, bursting into the light of the unbroken sky. Since it was his first time, he had not yet seen the expansive view, the breathtaking drop below them. Gusts of wind such as they had never felt, wild and unpredictable, greeted them as the sunlight kissed their faces. 

All that surrounded them was a short parapet, perhaps waist high, with one opening. A platform jutted out into thin air there, both warning and daring them to come closer. The tower was a perfectly circular spire. All that intruded upon the symmetry at the top was the rectangle cut into the floor that admitted the stairway, which, as was agreed upon between them, was a one-way ticket—the only way down from the top was to fly. 

“It is very far to the bottom,” Kreios said. They were both breathing hard. “The wind currents up here will keep us aloft for a little while,” he said, poking Yamanu in the ribs, “even if you do not know how to fly.”

Yamanu looked over the edge and took a step back as a spasm of fear ran its icy fingers up and down his spine. “Are you sure this is safe?” he asked.

“My friend, you and I are as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.” Kreios grinned at him from ear to ear. “The worst that can happen to us is the acquisition of a bruised ego. And trust me, friend, I will not allow you to forget it if you fail to catch these wind currents.” He slapped Yamanu on the back powerfully.

He walked forward to the opening in the wall in front of him. As soon as he went out past it, the unpredictable gusts turned violent. A weaker boy would have been tossed in an instant, but Kreios was not weak. He took another deliberate step toward the end of the platform, stopping two steps from the end. He looked over his shoulder at Yamanu, who had been putting on a brave face. But Kreios was intrepid, and his expression had become mischievous and daring. He looked forward, ran the last two steps, and jumped with his arms out like a bird.

Yamanu of course followed him, and learned to fly that day. It was an age ago.

But even now, here, on this porch in front of this little shack, Yamanu did not look his age. Though his beard was full and white and his head was so bald that it gleamed in the moonlight, he was lean, strong, and young. Just as when he was a child, a dark aura hovered around him.

A shadow.

“I have been waiting for this day,” Yamanu said, breaking the silence. Both of them still looked ahead and above at the stars, not at one another. “You come with haste.” Then he turned to regard his old friend. “I know why.” Yamanu took a long drag from his pipe and then looked back up to the heavens.

“Do you indeed?” Kreios looked at him. “And already.” He puffed his pipe.

“Indeed I do. And I see you’ve found your old plaything, the Sword of Light.” Yamanu smiled broadly.

Kreios set his pipe on the rail of the porch. “My daughter is in great danger, old friend. We must take her to the mountains of Ke’elei.”

Yamanu turned, looking on him with wonder. “The City of Refuge.” He sighed. “This is more than I imagined.” He paused again and looked at the ground. The smoke had pooled at his feet, fusing itself to the shadow that clung to him always, in symbiosis. “Tell me … is it true that your wife is dead?”

Kreios had to take a moment. His hands were trembling as he nodded. “It is true.”

Yamanu reached a hand to Kreios’ shoulder, touching him affectionately. The tears around his eyes mingled with a furrowed brow. “I am sorry, my old friend. She was everything to you.”

There was only a moment more of silence and consideration until a fire was lit within the eyes of the Shadower and his decision was made. He stood. “We must go.” He descended the rickety steps and began pacing briskly in a little circle, his nervous energy spilling over. “I can feel your urgency,” he said, then paused, looking to the east. “With that easterly wind, I fear the Seer is closer than you might have guessed.”

Kreios stood and came close.

Yamanu moved behind him quickly and spoke in a whisper, “I will fight with you to the death, my friend.”

“We must be careful, old friend. We fly to the headwaters of the Two Rivers, and you know—”

“—That it is easy for an angel to drown, yes, I do. But my dear Kreios, from here forward, if we meet the Brotherhood in battle, we might just as well hazard a flight over one of the great oceans. That would be safer. But we do not engage in war because we think it is safe.”

Kreios smiled, blood thirst in his eyes. “No, indeed. Peace is not a thing that is kept. It is a thing that is made.”