The Arkanist

Chapter One: Dying Light

ACT I

Chapter One: Dying Light

 Paling, 3045

 

            Hale had never seen the sun. 

            He'd heard of it, of course. Everybody had. Yet he'd been born after the Fall, after the world had gone dark, after the ash. His father had seen the sun, long ago, in a different time. Now, he was dead.

            Hale looked to the horizon with dark eyes, blades of scarlet painted across the sky in velvety streaks. Behind him, ash fell upon the grave, pale against the turned earth. He wiped a single tear from his cheek. The pain was still fresh, still raw. You are in a better place, he whispered. I hope.

            He turned back to the patch of turned earth and kneeled. The gods were all dead. They had been dead for fifty years. There was no one to pray to, no words to say, no songs to recite. The red light, the dying light, as it had been so called, shone palely upon the granite slab and faded. Night was upon the world once again. It so often was.

            Hale rose slowly, painfully, biting at his lower lip. He had known the man his entire life, up until the moment he had died in his arms. He'd watched his eyes widen, watched the breath spill from his lips and heard his last words. He remembered them clear as red flame. "The book," he had said, faint at first, a wheezing cough, nothing more. "Take it to the college. Take up the cowl. It's all I have left of me. It is my life." He had faltered slightly, then continued. "You will make a fine bard, someday, I am sure, my son."

            A lump formed in Hale's throat as he swept his hand over the book. He'd seen his father working on it in the night, seen his lantern ablaze through the darkness. Upon the leather covering, emblazoned with gilded letter, it read plainly: The Arkanist.

            I will not fail you, father, Hale promised the patch of earth. Never.

            By the time Hale had recovered his senses, it was the dead of night. The dying light had died and the sky had been smeared black as soot, thick clouds of ash hanging above in a sinister shroud. It was not bitterly cold, but cold enough to tingle the skin so that tiny bumps prickled the flesh and sent a chill down the spin. It was dark however, incredibly deep and resounding, absolute. In the Evernight, or so the free folk had begun to call it, the days were short and the nights long, and in winter, all light is forgotten.

            It had been fifty years since the Fall, since the gods had all died, and still their remnants, the ash, fell from the sky. Trees had died, plants had perished, light had faded, the sun had been lost, and the world had gone dark.

            Nobody knew if it would ever end. They feared death. They feared life.

            Hale dug through his small, linen knapsack and pulled out an iron lantern, oil-burning. He set it down on the ashen ground and let the wan light pool upon the earth, drenching his hands in warmth, its glow weak and pallid, sickly upon the grey. That was all. He could not see the road or even the trees beside him, reaching into the darkness like ghosts. He could only see his hands, the lines across his palms deep and stark against his pale flesh.

            He'd have to wait until morning to continue. He had no other choice. He laid his head upon a smoothed rock and closed his eyes, the wind whispering in his ears. His stomach grumbled things, but he did not eat. His mouth bled, but he did not drink. The blood reminded him of what had happened. The blood reminded Hale that his father had died.