The Tragedy of Ravan the Great

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Southern Arts

Screams, howls, and various screeching continued beyond the heavy Temple doors. Ravan stood there for a long moment, pressed against the door, feeling as though only he could keep it shut against the soul-hunting creatures beyond. He breathed a deep, stabilizing breath and slid down the door beside Zair on the floor, who was hyperventilating.

            "Steady your breathing, Zair," said Ravan. "Before you lose consciousness."

            "He's dead," said Zair. "Adrian's dead! What am I going to do?"

            "We can still finish this mission."

            Zair jumped to his feet. "No, you don't understand! How do I face the Northern Council after this? This was my fault!"

            "They knew the risks involved."

            "Adrian fell on the first night! And it was my fault! I can't stand before the Council and explain this to them, I can't!"

            "Who said they have to know how it happened?" Ravan asked. "Change the story to one that leaves you mostly out of the picture. You have plenty of time to come up with something."

            Zair nervously scratched his sandy blonde hair. "Yeah, right. All right."

            Ravan stood and replaced the hood of his silver cloak over his head. "Good. Now, since we're here, we might as well find some of those Southern Arts writings and see what they're about."

            Zair appeared to take some time to process what Ravan was saying before he nodded in agreement. "We best be discreet, though. The monks reside in the Temple."

            "Nothing can be easy. Lead the way."

            Ravan followed Zair through the marble Temple with its soapstone columns and cathedral ceilings. They kept away from the flickering torchlight, which was dim and allowed for more shadows in which to take cover if necessary. Still the light effectively illuminated the portraits and stained glass which depicted various religious figures celebrated and worshipped by the Southern Elves.

            "What's so special about these people?" Ravan whispered.

            "They're patron saints," Zair answered. "You have Saint Zerwick of Mond the patron saint of blood, Ilya of Flor du Cloven the patron saint of time, Vict of Lein the patron saint of necromancy, and Dul of Han." Zair gestured to the largest portrait. "The savior. The one who started it all. Also said to have become the first dullahan, thus the name."

            Ravan didn't reply for a moment. He had recognized the name of Ilya of Flor du Cloven. "How recently were these elves named saints?"

            "A couple centuries ago," said Zair.

            "And Ilya is still alive?"

            "Where did you hear that?" Zair asked.

            "The keeper of the time hex shop told me he lives in Arcor now."

            "Well, that's only lore. I'm surprised anyone is sharing that as undeniable fact. Anyway, let's keep moving."

            "It's silent like a cemetery in here," Ravan whispered after a moment. "Are you certain we're at risk of being discovered by the monks?"

            "One can't be too careful," Zair replied.

            "Where do they sleep?" Ravan asked.