Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Tomb of the Three-winged Crow

“Some say she was a monster. Some say she was simply wise. They all agreed on one thing, however—she was never wrong.”

—Turnus Hibernon, On the Prophet Morene

High above the City of Twilight, sailing atop a sea of clouds was a castle.

It wasn’t particularly large, with no battlements or moats or any of the other defensive features one would come to expect of such a stronghold, yet it exuded an air of mysticism—of estrangement and otherworldliness, as if it weren’t quite part of the realm of man. It was made of several black towers piercing the sky, a cluster of uneven pillars capped with pointed tips, layer upon layer of soulless windows staring from the walls. The whole fortress lay upon a floating chunk of earth that looked as if it had been ripped out of the ground below.

One of the towers rose high above the rest, a spire of obsidian black. Unlike the others it wasn’t tipped with a conical roof—instead it was an open rooftop, a circle of stone surrounded by a low parapet, a pool of silvery light at its centre. The light was like water, formless and still. A mirror of glass.

It was into this pool that the sparrow dived, breaking the surface into a thousand shards.

The light stretched deep into the tower, a path of radiance that slashed through the darkness. At the end of the path was a chamber—a council of sorts, seven seats arranged in a circle. The sparrow fell, and when it hit the ground Talberon was in its place, bloodied and bruised.

His beard was tangled and charred in places, his face marred by black bruises. The Druid’s robes looked like they’d been sliced by a thousand whips. They hung loosely off his body, his skin red and bleeding beneath, his leaf-green cloak matted and blood-stained like the pelt of a wounded animal. He twitched and rolled over weakly, leaving a trail of red behind him.

Talberon lay in the centre of the hall, panting, blood still oozing from his wounds. Though he looked bad, most of the damage he’d sustained had been to his Spirit. The Apocalypse Knight’s attacks had wounded it directly, which was much worse than wounding the flesh. On the other hand, it also meant that he could recover faster with the right resources.

Talberon groaned as the light tickled his skin, granting him relief from his pain. The battle had been long, the journey longer, and he was utterly exhausted. The Knight was strong, frighteningly so, and it was daunting to think that there were thirteen of them out there. He looked around the empty chambers at each seat and felt a sense of dread rise within him. There had been seven of them in the flying fortress, back when the Skyward Circle had prospered. Now there were only three—and that was assuming Keldan and Elspeth were still alive. He had a bad feeling about them.

As the light restored his Spirit, Talberon brought the book from his robes and undid the sparrow-shaped lock. He browsed through the entries, flipping through to the most recent one. The Archive was a shared store of knowledge between the Druids of the Skyward Circle. Each Druid carried with them an individual tome they could use to access and update that knowledge. Keldan had last updated his over a week ago, Elspeth even further before then.

14th Winterheart, 334, 4A

Passed the town of Adeir with Alend. Witnessed its destruction at the hands of bandits. Updated entry for Adeir.

—Talberon

16th Winterheart, 334, 4A

Arrived at Caerlon. Much like the rest of the world, the town is suffering at the hands of the Great Winter. Alend is still with me at this time, and appears to have almost recovered from his injuries. Updated entry for Caerlon.

—Talberon

17th Winterheart, 334, 4A

Met with and agreed to accompany a group of travellers from Felhaven. They consist of Ein Thoren (Alend’s adopted son), Evaine Tamelyn (a shepherdess), Merrill Sutherland (son of a butcher turned Faceless—unsure whether or not he is aware of this, will have to keep an eye on him), Garax (village storyteller—very curious circumstances surrounding him, especially the things he knows, though I believe him to be on our side) and Rhinne (a dragon in human form who seeks to recover the Dragonstone. She is adamant that the High King possesses it, and believes we helped in stealing it from them. I haven’t a clue whether any of it is true).

The village children—Ein, Evaine and Merrill—appear to be Fateweavers. Ein claims to have seen the Oathbreaker himself during a visit to Astreal. He and Evaine have also exhibited symptoms of possessing Wyrd—Ein’s of Lady Reyalin the Stormdancer, and Evaine’s unknown. I will see if I can find time to instruct them.

—Talberon

The entries went further back, all the way to Talberon’s first days as an Initiate several millennia ago. He flipped over to where the other Druids had left their notes.

1st Winterheart, 334, 4A

We near the Summit of the World. The mountain is eerily quiet, and I am hopeful something has happened to the World-Eater. Tomorrow I will scout the situation and hopefully rescue the girl without prompting any confrontation.

—Keldan

1st Winterheart, 334, 4A

My journey continues. I’ll be forced into avian forme in order to stay safe and cover ground, so you might not hear back from me for some time. I only wish I had more to say, but time spent writing is time that could be spent flying.

—Elspeth

2nd Winterheart, 334, 4A

Edric is dead. The World-Eater is real, and the legends do it no justice.

There must be another way. That girl cannot be the last of the Lachess’s. Give up on rescuing her from the mountain, for it is an impossible task.

The death of the Kingsblade also presents us a problem. I understand that Edric had a brother who is now in hiding. You must find him and his children if he has any, for they are now the last of the Thorens.

I will try and escape the mountain, but I have been grievously wounded. If you do not hear from me again, assume the worst.

—Keldan

That had been Keldan’s last entry. Something had obviously happened at the Summit of the World, and they’d failed to secure the girl. A short while later, a rescue team had come across Edric’s sword, his ring, and a book with a hawk-shaped lock—Keldan’s copy of the Archive—at the base of the mountain, along with the corpses of half the party. Talberon had consulted the shade of Morene and then left for Felhaven immediately after.

The Druid rolled over onto his back, feeling the strength return to his body. Morene’s Perch had been built upon a Spirit Font, a well of energy that could be drawn upon by Songweavers to fuel their magic. It was the source of energy that kept the castle afloat, and it had been concentrated into the beam of light that was now shining down upon his body. He took out a quill from his robes and scrawled an entry into the Archive, even if there would probably be no one to see it.

19th Winterheart, 334, 4A

Two days ago I fought an Apocalypse Knight under the light of a full moon, buying time for Alend and the Fateweavers to run away. I grievously wounded the Knight, but suffered severe injuries myself.

I have only just made it back to Morene’s Perch after a gruelling two day flight upon bleeding wings. As I recover, I will visit Astreal and try to discern the whereabouts of Alend and the Fateweavers.

I expect I will have to visit the Three-winged Crow once more, for the last time. I pray I will walk away knowing what to do.

—Talberon

He exhaled and closed the book, then tucked it into his robes. As his heart settled in his chest and warmth flooded his veins, Talberon closed his eyes and dreamed.

In his dream he was a bird again, and he was flying. Soaring on the Winds of Fate, riding them higher and higher above the chamber, through the Spirit Font and into the open sky, higher still. Morene’s Perch became a speck beneath him, and then it was swallowed in a sea of clouds. The air grew dark and cold. Soon, he’d broken through the atmosphere and was drifting among the stars.

A wave of voices assailed him, but he blocked them off. Talberon had ventured across Astreal enough times to be able to hold his form without too much effort. He now glided through the cosmos, riding the wind rather than fighting it, watching the stars shoot below him. Fragments of people and places, thoughts and feelings drifted past him like an ocean current. He listened with half an ear, dismissing those he had no interest in, latching onto those that might lead him to the information he needed.

He followed the threads one by one, like the strands of a great spider web. He followed each thought until it touched on another, then he switched. He did this a handful of times until he’d found the strand he was looking for and then he traced that one until it broke away from the rest.

The world around him shifted. He saw Aldoran and its magenta trees. He spotted Rhinne on the streets, talking to Garax. He dived deeper, flying through the roof of an inn. Ein was there, swinging his sword, working up a sweat. He followed the boy’s thoughts to Evaine and Merrill, who rushed hastily through the city, and then to thoughts of Alend. He flew into Uldan Keep, dark and brooding, through its rooms and hallways, staying as small as he possibly could. The Oathbreaker’s presence was a constant pressure atop his skull, a heavy weight that threatened to crush everything.

He followed the starlit road into the dungeons. There he was—Alend Thoren, chained to a dark cell, watched by a pair of guards. Shoulders drooping, face lined with concern, head lowered. Broken.

But alive.

Talberon flapped his wings and withdrew from the dream. The sensation was like lifting his head from a pool of water. He opened his eyes to the empty council—everything was exactly as it’d been before he’d slept, though the light filtering down was a different shade of gold. It was the gold of late afternoon.

He stood up, flexing his limbs. His Spirit was back at full strength. Most of his wounds had clotted, though he was still bleeding in some places. His muscles were sore and his joints ached. He was incredibly tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for an entire week, but there were things that needed to be done. That was his duty.

As a Druid of the Skyward Circle, he was responsible for maintaining the peace in Faengard. Much had changed since he’d been an Initiate. He’d seen things, darker sides of humanity that had forever scarred him, but he couldn’t lose sight of himself. He couldn’t forget the ideals he’d once held as a dewy-eyed boy all those years ago, the reasons he did what he did. If he didn’t act, who would?

No one, Talberon thought. That was even moreso true now, with Elspeth and Keldan missing.

The Druid left the chamber, wandering through the empty hallways. It hadn’t always been this way—Morene’s Perch had once been bustling with activity, full of Druids and Initiates, back when ranks had meant something and the world had been at peace. Back when Morene had been alive, several ages ago, when there had been a need to elect Archdruids.

Then the relicts had attacked. The Circle had fought alongside Aedrasil herself and the Alliance, the Archdruids lending their strength to the Protector to cast the Sealing. Of the original seven, only Morene herself had survived. That had been the beginning of the end.

Most of them had left after the Great War. They were afraid of what being a Druid entailed, and the Skyward Circle had no desire to take in those who weren’t willing to fully commit to the cause. Talberon had been one of the few who stayed behind.

When Morene died during the Age of Legends, the Druids lost what little influence they had left. Without her, they were just long-lived Songweavers and historians who could turn into birds. The amount of Initiates they recruited slowed to a halt, all while the Circle continued to grow smaller. The Druids died one by one whether it was by battle or otherwise.

When the Age of Magic began, there’d been seven of them left, removing the need for the Archdruid rank. When it ended and the current age began, only Talberon, Elspeth and Keldan remained. He supposed he should be thankful the High King listened to them at all, even if it was because of Morene and her reputation than anything else.

Talberon came to the lowest floor of the castle and stopped. The door to Morene’s tomb always unsettled him, even though he’d been there more times than he could remember. Perhaps it was the fact that it lay below the lowest floor, in a place where there should only have been open sky. Or maybe it was the blue flames that burst to life by themselves, flames that never seemed to dim or go out. There were many mysteries surrounding the Three-winged Crow, most of which she’d taken to the grave with her.

And now, even when she was dead, the amount of mysteries only grew.

Talberon descended the staircase, following the trail of flickering flames. He avoided staring into them—they reminded him of gravestones in a burial ground, watching him from the darkness. Sometimes he heard voices. One time he thought he saw a face in the fire, so frightening he’d nearly tripped and fallen. That was the last time he’d dared to look.

He descended for what surely must have been ten or twenty floors, even though there was no way Morene’s Perch stretched that low. At one point the walls fell away into nothingness, empty space, an endless hole. The steps beneath him were no more than flimsy slabs of floating stone. His only light came from the blue fires. Even though he could fly, the void—and what lay below, if anything—scared him.

He reached the bottom at last, a round platform that lay suspended in the air like everything else. There was a pool filled with black water in the middle, about the size of a small room in diameter. If it weren’t for the flickering reflections on its surface, it could have been a bottomless pit.

Talberon approached the water and sang her name. “Morene Gylfaginor.”

The water flickered. A single ripple spread across the centre.

“Morene Gylfaginor,” he called again, and then a third time, “Morene Gylfaginor, heed my summons.”

The water began to froth. It bubbled and burst, sending angry waves out towards the edges. A head rose from the surface, the head of an ageless woman with flint eyes and a crooked nose. She wasn’t pretty or ugly and she didn’t have any wrinkles, but she had about her an air of wisdom like a hallowed book. Her black hair was ragged and hung limply on either side of her face. She wore a cowl in the likeness of a crow’s head, with two beady black eyes and a hooked beak open in a harsh cry.

The woman continued to rise until she was standing atop the pool, arms by her sides. A black cloak covered her entire body. She was surprisingly small, no taller than an adolescent girl, yet the air was electrifying in her presence. Three feathered wings hung loosely from her shoulder-blades, two on the left, one on the right.

“Talberon the Sparrow,” she spoke. “I hope you’ve thought long and hard about your predicament, for this will be the last time I can manifest in this world.”

Talberon swallowed. Even as she spoke, Morene’s shade flickered like a weak candle-flame. Time after time the Druids had called upon her to aid with their struggles. He wasn’t quite sure how it all worked, but it seemed that she lost a bit of power every time she was summoned. After the Age of Magic, Talberon and the remaining members of the Skyward Circle had agreed they would only consult Morene as a last resort, lest she disappear forever.

If now wasn’t the time, he didn’t know when was.

“Prophet Morene,” Talberon began, bending down on one knee. “I come to you for your guidance. The events prophesied in the Codex Gylfaginor have finally begun. The Great Winter reaches its third year, and relicts once again find their way to our world. Aedrasil wilts, and only with the blood of the Three Kings to which she sowed her seeds can she be restored.”

Morene nodded. The edges of her cloak flickered, as if fighting back the darkness around her. The floating blue flames burned silently.

“So it begins,” she whispered, her voice feathery light. “The Twilight of the World.”

“The Uldan family rules Faengard in the present, having oppressed the other houses after the Rondo of the Three Kings. Of the Thorens, two remain—one of whom is in custody of the High King. The main problem is House Lachess, which has all but died out. There is one known member who remains, and she is chained at the top of Raginrok, under the watch of the World-Eater itself. Druid Keldan left to rescue her, but…” Talberon paused. “He failed.”

“Keldan is dead?”

“I presume so. He last wrote in the Archive over two weeks ago, with fears that he would not survive.”

Morene was silent for a moment.

“This much I know,” she said. “Yselin Lachess, for that is her name, is indeed the last of the Lachess’s. Of the Thorens, there are three. Of the Uldans, there are eleven. The blood of the three Kings will be central to the upcoming war with the relicts.”

Three Thorens? thought Talberon. That thought was quickly lost as he realized what Morene had just implied.

“War?” he asked. “I thought the whole purpose of this quest was to prevent a war by stopping the relicts from returning.” A flame of frustration welled within him. He still remembered the damage they’d suffered during the Great War, all the pain and suffering, all the deaths. He never wanted to see such a scene of carnage again.

“I have read the wind,” Morene said sadly. “I have seen the Twilight, so it will come to pass. But whether Faengard is saved or not, the outcome is unclear. It will depend on the Fateweavers of this Age, who may well be the last of their kind.”

“Fateweavers…” Talberon muttered. He thought immediately of Ein, Merrill and Evaine. The wind had been strong around them. The dragon-girl too, and Alend Thoren of course.

“Make no mistake,” Morene continued. “You will need the Lachess, for she is one of the Fateweavers. You will need to deal with Faenrir no matter what.”

Talberon swallowed. He remembered Al’Ashar riding into battle with the Aldereich—the Great relicts, Wyrdhaugg and Eotunsorm. They’d been several times more devastating than the Apocalypse Knights. Faenrir was an Aldereich as well.

“What do I do?” he asked, suddenly feeling like a child again. He’d been left with so much weight on his shoulders, so much responsibility. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t prepared.

“Take the Stormdancer to Raginrok,” Morene said, “and protect him with your life, for he will have the biggest part to play in the upcoming war. That is all I can say.”

“Wait!” cried Talberon, as Morene began to disappear. “Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?”

The Prophet shook her head. The edges of her being were dissipating, fading like the dying embers of a fire. “That is all I can see,” she said. “Take him to Raginrok, for his fate closely twines with that of the World-Eater. A storm looms on the horizon—the winds are turbulent and change with each passing breath.”

“Master—”

“I fare thee well, Sparrow. This will be the last time we speak, until your time comes to join me in the place beyond the Hall of Heroes.” Morene offered a soft smile. “I am proud of you and all that you have achieved.”

She vanished, leaving Talberon alone once more. He stood an inch away from the water, looking at the spot where she’d been just a moment ago, doing everything he could to not wade in after her. He didn’t know what would happen if he did, but something primal at the back of his mind warned him to stay away. The pool was a veil between life and what lay beyond.

Talberon let out a deep breath and sat down on one of the steps. That was it. All the times the Druids had called upon Morene she’d offered them a tidbit of advice, never more than a vague whispering, yet it had made all the difference. Talberon had been hoping for a little more, seeing as this would be the last time they ever spoke. He should have known better.

Take them to Raginrok. That was simple enough. But what were a group of village children to do against a servant of Al’Ashar? Talberon wished he knew. If only he’d possessed Morene’s gift. Maybe then, he’d be worthy to take on the mantle of the last Druid.

And what of Aedrasil? If war was going to break out, what was the point of saving Aedrasil in the first place? What was the point of gathering the blood of the Three Kings? There were so many questions he didn’t know the answer to.

Talberon sighed and took out his Archive. Then, he began to write.