Airel: The Discovering (Airel Saga Book Two)

Chapter VIII

The City of Ke’elei—1250 B.C.

GATHERED NEAR AN ANCIENT oak tree, dappled by the sunlight that filtered through it, the circle of elders, wise men, and Sons of El were gathered on a mountaintop high above Ke’elei. The court in which they were seated was encircled by perfect Corinthian stone columns of pure white. The tall old oak at the north side was the beginning and end of the circle. A fine latticework of shimmering silver thread screened the open spaces between the columns, casting wild, shadowed reflections on the cobblestone floor.

At the east side of the circle, Kreios was seated in one of the high-backed gopher wood chairs drawn up in a half circle. On the west side were twelve thrones of white marble making up the other half of the circle.

Zedkiel was seated at Kreios’ right, Yamanu at his left. His brother and friend were adorned in their best garments, as was custom in this council. Kreios was wearing the same cloak he had worn on his wedding day. It was bittersweetness that rode on his shoulders.

His beloved wife had crafted it for him of white elk skins throughout their courtship. His thick belt was studded with rubies that stood out against the white color of his robe like blood in snow. His long hair was pulled back with a leather thong, and the Sword of Light was strapped to his side in its sheath.

The elders, one taken from every tribe, were twelve in all, angels representing every race of humanity. Kreios looked from one face to another, studying their eyes, reading into their thoughts. He was happy to see that most of them were on his side, wanting to fight, to put an end to the Seer and his horde.

The old man in the middle of the twelve wore his beard long and white, but his face was young. He stood, draped in a golden cape that touched the ground. His breastplate gleamed, onyx set with diamonds.

“I, Anael, am the Watcher over this land as well as the land that overlooks the Forked Sea. This council will come to order in the matter of the reentry of the Sword of Light, and the matter of the Seer and his followers. We, the council, will hear you now.”

Kreios acknowledged him and stood. Anael took his seat, and all eyes were on the barely visible Sword in its sheath, its presence exuding great power.

Kreios’ hand moved to the grips of his sword as he strode forward to the center of the circle. When he reached the center of the council he stopped, his eyes locked with those of Anael. The sound of metal against metal rang out.

As the Sword cleared the scabbard, the heavens came loose with the ringing. The skies thundered, the artillery of the Kingdom of El sounding off at once. The Sword was lifted up, its blade held high. It crackled, and a barrage of blinding white light burst from the tip in a bolt of lightning.

Then he spoke. “I, Kreios, Son of El, the keeper of the Sword of Light, give praise to God Most High, who is seated now and forever on the Throne of Grace …” He knelt down. “And Grace has allowed that I could recover from the Seer what was stolen. Father, raise up your voice to the storm. We approach boldly to ask what You would have us do.”

Murmurs of praise to El ran through the encircled leaders like water over stones.

“Praise be to El; praise be to God Most High…” Prayers and awe came from the elders. Anael stood now, his white beard waving in the breeze like a banner. Kreios stood under the blazing Sword as if hanging by it. Anael stood tall and began to weep from the corners of his eyes.

The council remained in this posture for some time, awaiting the Word amongst them. Heads were bowed, Kreios stood at center, and Anael stood at the head of the elders.

The Sword became quiet again and cool to the touch. Kreios looked above him to the Sword, to blue sky beyond. The canopy of the mighty oak that covered the gathering place of the council had been partially consumed in a perfect circle.

He brought the Sword down to his side, looking at it with the familiar respect of a seasoned warrior. It still glowed mildly as he guided it back into its sheath, sliding down to the hilt.

“It is time for the Seer to be numbered with the dead,” Kreios said. “He must perish. If we fail in this, we will be destroyed, along with our children and wives. The time to act is now.” Kreios stood, a statue of stone, staring into the faces of the elders. They whispered to one another. He knew he could not do without their endorsement if he were to gain the support of the other warriors.

He closed his eyes, still standing at the center of the court, and ran to the place in his mind where he kept things that—if he were wise—he would never reveal.

In his mind’s eye, he could see a long valley much like the one below them, where the City of Ke’elei stood. He went deeper into the void and found what he was looking for. He could not tell what it was—only that he needed it. He understood that it would help to convince the elders they could defeat the Brotherhood.

There was a door standing before him, floating in the caverns of his mind, without hinge or handle. It was of solid wood, and it bore no marks of having been crafted with tools. It looked to Kreios like it had simply grown. It had suffered many scars and scratches in its dark surface, as if someone, or something, had tried to open it, but could not.

He felt the Sword of Light respond to the door, but he could not tell what it would mean. Deep in his mind, Kreios took hold of the Sword, unsheathing it swiftly. The door flew open at the very same instant. Kreios was pulled powerfully toward the black opening, but he planted his feet and stood his ground. The scent of moist earth filled his senses, but it smelled of something else that he could not place. Iron? Wood? He gave up on knowing—all he was certain of was that he must not go through the door. Not just yet.

From out of the blackness came fingers of red and blue light, separately wooing him, wreathing him, pulling him toward the black hole of the opening with insistence.

“Return,” he commanded. The Sword of Light returned to the scabbard and the door slammed in his face, knocking him onto his back. Simultaneously, he returned to awareness in the court, to the presence of the elders, the sound of silence soaking him. His birthmarks, those singular prints of the Maker that ran up his forearm all the way to his neck, now burned hot.

The elders stared in blank amazement.

“What is the meaning of this sign?” Anael asked, his face solemn.

Kreios hid his shaking hands. He probed the mind of Anael and understood that he, too, had seen the vision of the door, the void beyond, and the power that came from it. “The Sword,” was all Kreios could say as he moved back to his seat.

Now he had more questions than answers. That could only mean one thing: the time was not yet fully manifest. Though the Brotherhood pursued him and his daughter, and he believed the only way to save her was to stand and fight, Kreios believed that he—indeed, that the council—would only possess the understanding they needed when they needed it. And not a moment sooner.

For now, the seed had been planted. The stage had been set. Now? There was the waiting.