Chapter 152

Gifts of Blood

The sky was always starless, Sylas reckoned, misted in thick, gray clouds. The feeling of looking at it from down below was suffocating, as though he was stuck within a framed cage that had no world beyond it. Rather than the sight, however, it was his thoughts that were drowning his lungs. Derrek's 'confessional' had illuminated a great deal of reality, and wove seemingly the last few pieces of the puzzle he was seeking.

It all made sense, at least shallowly. Valen was ‘banished’ for his safety, as Sylas suspected--but more than just ‘his safety’, he was banished as a security blanket for the entire Kingdom. Something was about to transpire--the Kingdom was about to go up in flames, and gongs and horns and kazoos of war were about to sing their war-woven anthems. And that something was esoteric--breadcrumbs of knowledge known only by a very select few.

And there Sylas came into the picture--like a fallen comet, an aberration beset unto the world, tasked by a higher power with one simple task--redo what shall be undone. The throne will burn, but the Kingdom still will need its King. And none other were allowed to wear the crown but Valen.

Beyond just that, beyond the ire of the Kingdom itself, lay the cosmic, metaphysical ‘war’ between the mortals and the immortals--the men and the gods. Valen, by the accounts of the ‘prophecy’, was the bridge. Likely what every Desdor King and Queen were since the founding of the Kingdom. They were promised a level of autonomy on the account of worship. It kept the balance, however wane and lame, and it kept the time ticking forward.

Something changed, however. If Sylas had to guess, it would be the fact that the discord snapped the balance. The King, or perhaps even Kings before him, realized that the doom was only a matter of time, that the forces they were fighting could not be tamed like wild horses. They alone were not enough--and thus they would go to war, they would thin out the herd, and they would leave Valen to regain the raiment of a King.

He was still off, Sylas knew--especially when it came to the knowledge of cosmic realities. After all, whoever could summon Sylas could have just as well helped the King with the conflict itself, rather than going on with it in a roundabout way. Furthermore, there was one thing that never stopped bothering him--the King knew that Sylas was from Earth. He also, likely, knew that there was no magic on Earth. That Sylas was as ordinary as they come. And still, rather than chiefly installing someone magical he trusted, he ‘chose’, in a sense, Sylas, even if the choice of someone from Earth was entirely random.

There was another thing that bothered him--Gods didn't seem to hold any ill will toward him. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way to help Asha and him with any and all requests they've ever had. If he was to be the weapon against their forces, it made no sense for them to treat him so. If it was just a break in the ranks, then there, surely, would be Gods who would want to interfere. And yet, he suffered no Godly interference--only human's.

Walking back into the castle, Sylas quickly went toward Valen’s chambers, ignoring everyone else on his way over. Entering, he saw that Valen wasn’t alone--there were six-seven others present there, Ryne included. Before anyone had a chance to say a word, Sylas spoke.

“Everyone except Valen, out,” he said in a curt tone, prompting dampening silence to rule the room. Even Valen stuttered back, having never seen Sylas behave like this.

“You heard him,” Ryne was, in fact, the first to speak, standing up. “You lot, help me out. Quickly,” seemingly woken by the young girl’s words, everyone stood up and hurriedly left, wordless, shutting the doors behind them. Sylas remained standing, looking at Valen as though wanting to disrobe the boy of his skin and see what lay beneath. The young Prince grew uncomfortable with the gaze, breaking the silence.

“What... what is wrong, Sylas? Did you have another vision?” the Prince asked.

“Your Father told me that you must be the one to inherit the throne,” Sylas said, shocking Valen further into delirium. “Even in your current state, even with all the circumstances. He insisted,” Sylas dressed the tale up slightly. “You must be the King. It got me thinking--why? If you need be the King, why banish you? Why send you into the frigid winds of the north? Why send you to me? You're a fine lad of good heart and swift mind, but you hardly radiate the holiness of someone who must become a King.”

“...” Valen remained silent, his expression turning stern. The young Prince knew that this conversation was likely far more important than any other the two have had before, as Sylas was never quite so honest with him.

“But one thing came to my mind--one thing I nearly forgot,” Sylas said. “Your Gift.”

“... e-eh? My... gift?” Valen stuttered, surprised.

“Nothing else about you stands out,” Sylas said. “You must know this yourself. In the presence of your Father, even I felt a spark of infinity. A tremor. Without speaking, without moving a muscle, by merely standing still like a statue, he seemed to loom over the world. He needn’t a crown or a throne to tell the cosmos he was a King. You... you don’t have that. You don’t command the presence of the world--you defer, listen to them. Admirable, though unkingly. So, it begged the question--why is the King insisting on someone seemingly entirely antithetical to himself being the one to inherit the throne? Your Gift.”

"My Gift... is worthless, Sylas," Valen bit his lower lip, holding back his emotions. Though he was very much aware of how different he was from his Lord Father, it still hurt hearing it. Especially from Sylas. "I... do you think my Father is wrong? That I shouldn't be a King?" Valen didn't even question how the Prophet spoke to his Lord Father. Those were the things men of magic simply could do, in his book.

“I said those things, but I entirely disagree with the kind of King your father is, Valen,” Sylas said, softening his tone somewhat. “King is not a God--he is the extension of his people. He does not live in a world separate from the rest--but within them. Your father... is a godawful King. Never speaking with the world, never listening, playing games beyond measure, uncaring for the suffering of his people on a quest for some higher purpose. You, on the other hand, who spends days talking to morons in this room trying to understand their point of view... there is no doubt in my mind you deserve to be on that damned chair. But, why does your father think so too? Your Gift, tell me about it. Everything. No matter how minute, how seemingly insignificant it may be. When did you find out about it, how, what were the others’ reactions and so on.”

“Uh... everything?”

“Everything,” Sylas nodded, finally sitting down and pouring himself a cup of ale.

“Uh... I... I don’t know where to even begin,” Valen said, seemingly trying to recall something in the distant past. “I--I found about it when everyone else did, during my Bloodline Ritual. It’s been so long, however, that I don’t really remember it. From what I’ve been told, it was just an ordinary process with no surprises. My Gift, though not the worst, I’ve been told, is just... there.”

“You have no memory of the event?” Sylas asked, frowning, seeming to find it strange.

“I was very young,” Valen smiled bitterly. “Five, maybe six. Of course I don’t.”

“I broke my arm when I was five,” Sylas said. “I still remember it, despite everything. We don’t forget important rites of passage.”

“You seem to think thee Ritual is important,” Valen said. “It’s not. Nobody expected anything from us. It’s just... it’s just one of those family traditions. Every family has them. It’s just that ours is a bit different.”

“When did you start noticing that people were behaving differently toward you?”

“I... I didn’t,” Valen said. “It all happened in a few days, from the scorn to the exile. I’m telling you--my String has nothing to do with it. Maybe... maybe you just misheard my Lord Father? Or misinterpreted his words?”

"Tomorrow morning," Sylas said. "Asha, you, and I will mount an expedition westward, into the mountains. There is a place there neither one of us was able to understand, but you might."

“Aha. Aha. You do realize that is impossible?” Valen said, thinking Sylas was joking.

“I’ll carry you on my back,” Sylas replied, deadly serious. “I’m sick and fucking tired of this world taking me for a spin time and again, with secrets thousands of years in the making. I will have the answers. It all seems to take root in the era of the Empire and even beyond, to when the Gods and Men first established whatever fucked-up relationship they ended up having. It's the cause of friction that lives to this day. And, it all seems to be bubbling into an inevitable, bone-breaking war. If we are to come ahead in that war, my young Prince, we can't be walking into it blind. Your Gift, String, magic, call it what you will--something innately yours is what drove your father to banish you, drove him to unite us, and drove him to seemingly sacrifice the entire Kingdom's welfare for the foreseeable future with the hope you might inherit its ashes and turn it into a phoenix. So, that magic of yours--we need to understand. What makes you so uniquely qualified to inherit the wake of soot, and turn it into gold."