Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The Unspeakable Words, Chapter 4 - Cirrus

"Do not tarry," Cirrus remembered telling Oran. "The glyphs will sap my strength."

It was the first time he had taken Oran on an assignment from Port Shorishal. The undead spirit of Necromancer Caona was trying to take form and rise again. Cirrus and young Horus were standing among a sea of decaying corpses in the antechamber of her burial chamber. The light from distorted magic illuminated the room in blue light. He lamented that he would have to stay behind; neither Horus nor Oran yet had the study to keep the seals of imprisonment from locking them in the tomb forever.

"We'll be swift," said Oran, trying to mask his fear.

He was with the Elder Knight, Sir Tristane, a prickly fellow who knew his way around a fight. Eloise Glass, the surprising girl from Hedgemont was there as his squire. Horus and Cirrus were a second line of defense should Caona best them and walk out wearing one of their skins.

Cirrus tapped his staff against the floor.

"Sha gra lun," he said in Arcaén. The circular seal turned clockwise on the stone slab. The door slid upwards into the ceiling and revealed a dark tunnel. Oran, Tristane, and Eloise disappeared inside. Cirrus focused on holding up the door. Doing so required consistent eye contact. Exerting such force from behind his irises gave him an immediate headache.

"Can I lend you my strength?" asked Horus.

"No. You may need it should these corpses arise."

It was a real possibility. Caona's influence was able to extend all the way to the town of Green Marsh; animating a few corpses mere stretches away was a fraction of that power. Horus held his hand out on guard. Cirrus hoped Horus's flames were hot enough to burn the mushy flesh of decaying bodies.

"Sir Tristane will protect Oran, won't he?" Horus asked. It was common practice for Horus to show care for his fellow apprentice only when his rival was out of earshot. Cirrus wished he had a more comforting response.

During their travel through the swamp to Caona's resting place, they had encountered a rare beast called an omenaiad. It took the form of a beautiful woman and cursed the souls of travelers to perish before their intended destinations. Cirrus had banished the omenaiad, but not before poor Tristane was cursed with its mark. The mark was invisible to the untrained eye, but any student of palmistry would have noticed the new "x"-shaped wrinkle crossing Tristane's lifeline. The curse of an omenaiad was powerful and absolute. There was nothing Cirrus could have done.

"No," he said to Horus. "Tristane will die. The omenaiad saw to that."

Worry flashed across Horus's face.

"But Oran-"

"He will prevail," said Cirrus. He's a powerful mage. I have faith in his abilities, Horus. So should you."

Horus's worry made way for jealousy in what he interpreted as a comparative statement. But Cirrus never wished for rivalry between his apprentices, only mutual respect. When Oran and Eloise reemerged, triumphant over the powerful spirit, they made him proud.

He knew Eloise would feel wary about facing a semblance of Caona again. The dead necromancer certainly left a trail of persistent power as she was stomped into her grave. He had never read very much on the woman and what had led her down a dark path; he preferred not to dwell on the failures of the past.

The cleric named Narah carried a staff topped with a plain white crystal. She took Cirrus, Bryn, and Eloise down a path behind Neith Temple. Gravel made way for a cramped staircase overgrown with blackberry vines that snagged on Cirrus's robes as he passed. Behind the temple was a grass-covered landing that overlooked the trickle of a small waterfall cascading into a narrow gorge.