Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

The Cipher began the fight by quickly pulling out four pieces of radia from a pocket in his robes. Each one had different facets cut into them like puzzle pieces or the teeth of a key. The Ithilian’s slender fingers deftly snapped the four pieces together in the form of a small box. The box flashed for a moment and an invisible beam of energy whistled through the air catching the mercenary off guard. The blow struck him square in the breastplate and knocked him back a few steps.

The glaive knight ran toward the urchyn with surprising speed. Even with her armor on, she was fairly mobile and somewhat nimble. Shutting out the fact from her mind that he was still a boy, she slashed with her sword as she ran by the urchyn.  The boy cried out in pain, but she was already past him. Ceylina ran a few more strides then tucked into a roll so she could pop up and protect her brother if he were to be attacked next.

Running away from the knight, the urchyn found himself standing next to the mercenary. Fretly took out two glass phials of an elixr that looked identical to each other. When he drank one, his wound stopped bleeding and he looked a little less pained. Seeing that the burley mercenary was watching him, Fretly smiled at the brute and offered him the other phial. Balto was not one to refuse gifts, even on the field of battle. The Kirzan took the phial from the boy’s small hand and drank it in one swallow.

“Fool,” cried Xela at Farley. “That is not healing!” Sure enough, the mercenary immediately felt a little ill and weak. This was not Xela’s immediate concern, however, as the anvyl was stomping towards him, pounding one huge Kirzan fist into an open palm. The savant’s sister, in position to protect her brother, whirled in a circle, and, with a grunt, slammed her sword into the anvyl, piercing his armor. Even though this was a heavy blow that drew blood, it only worked to enrage Farley. The anvyl grabbed Ceylina and in one motion turned her upside down, forced her head between his legs and dropped her in a pile driver move. The two rolled away from each other and the anvyl got back up, but Ceylina, dazed, felt a little afraid of the anvyl’s power and stayed down. Balto came to the aid of his comrade by bringing his heavy battle axe crashing down on his Kirzan brethren’s head. Farley was able to parry the blow a bit, but it still cracked the side of his helmet knocking him out.

While she was dealing with fear and doubt, Quar’goth snuck up next to Ceylina. This time, he pulled five pieces of radia from his pocket, snapped them together in the form of a pentagon that surrounded his wrist like a bracelet and punched Ceylina with that hand. The pentagon bracelet gave the cipher preternatural strength and the blow knocked Ceylina’s helmet off her head.

Xela clenched his fists and concentrated, thoughts shot through his head at lightning speed. He decided to bluff, then try and heal his teammates. He feinted like he was going to attack all three of his opponents, but only whirled around them without making contact. The glaive knight and the mercenary knew this was a signal to drink their own healing elixirs while the enemy was confused by Xela’s actions.

Strangely enough, Farley Strongheart who had just come to, saw through Xela’s tactics. Instead of attacking, the anvyl pulled his teammates together to give them a chance to heal, as well. Farley paid for this decision, however. Ceylina again spun towards him and thrust her sword hard enough that she again pierced Farley’s armor.  Quar’goth thought he would take advantage of the glaive knight’s attack and punch her again with the pentagon bracelet, but Balto swung his shield up in time to absorb the blow, a blow that knocked the shield off his arm and stunned him for a moment.

Xela, who remembered where both the urchyn and the anvyl had been wounded, ran up to each and lashed their wounds with the sharp edges of his robes, causing them to bleed more. Just before he was hit by Xela, the urchyn was able to get off a shot from his bow that he had been carefully aiming. The arrow hit the blade of Balto’s battle axe and split in two striking both Balto and Ceylina. The half that hit Balto jammed in the crook of his armor between his neck and breastplate, locking his helmet from moving.

For the first time, Xela thought, “We’re losing. I’ve got to heal my team.” He quickly mixed liquid from a few different smaller phials to make something stronger. While Xela mixed his concoction, Balto tore off his helmet allowing Quar’goth a clear shot at his head. The cipher snapped two pieces of radia together like one was a key going into the lock of the other. A pulse of energy blasted from Quargoth’s hands smacking Balto in the side of the face.

Xela ran to his teammates and gave them both sips of the healing elixir. His head filled with a storm of thoughts and again he tried to confuse his enemies and heal his teammates. “If I can keep them confused and allow Ceylina and Balto time to recuperate, I might turn the tables and gain the upper hand,” he thought.

This time, the urchyn saw through Xela tactics and healed himself amidst a flurry of the savant's orange robes bobbing and weaving. The boy shot another arrow that struck the mercenary. Xela saw something shift in Balto’s eyes, no longer was he for hire, he was now fighting for himself. The Kirzan charged at his three enemies and shouted the most terrifying shout at them. Quar’goth and Fretly both stood stock still in fear after Balto’s violent bellow. Farley, on the other hand, being Kirzan himself, was not intimidated by Balto. The anvyl grappled with the mercenary, eventually gained the advantage and held Balto motionless in his powerful grip.

Xela predicted what they were going to do: immobilize Balto and beat the oher two of them down. “Quar’goth is hoping that if he can get us out of the way, the mercenary will not have as much motivation with his employer dispatched.” The savant carefully considered his next move as he mixed more of the healing elixir. “I must focus on taking out the cipher. Without him, his team will have no leader, but it will have to be up to me and my sister to win this battle, Balto is no good to us now.”

Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

Xela stared straight ahead, he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him because of the fog that had moved in overnight. In the month of Selwyn, the fog would roll up from the coast and settle into the natural depression in the landscape known as Tournament Plains. The tournament organziers used this natural phenomenon to heighten the audience’s anticipation of the day’s fighting. Xela’s sister, Ceylina, stood behind him, eyes closed, focusing on the strategy they had discussed hours before. Behind her stood Balto humming an old Kirzan battle song softly to himself. Xela took a deep, mind-cleansing breath. He was ready.

A cacophonous chorus of crunes suddenly filled the air with triumphant music. Underneath the music, a buzzing sound could be heard, the source of which soon revealed itself. The mists were blown away from the battlefield by a dozen king stasisks beating their immense wings. These giant flying carapids were tethered to the earth by cords normally used to anchor airships. Xela took the cue and strode onto the battlefield, his orange robes electric against the crisp blue sky.  

Once the mists had been cleared, anchors from the Skywall Anchor’s Association reeled the king stasisks back to the ground, where they clicked and clacked like insectoid umpires. Their hitching posts formed the boundaries of the battlefield and the anchors stood next to them monitoring the action and the stasisks. Beyond them, on wooden risers, stood the audience in viewing booths. Each booth contained a party atmosphere as the audience mingled and cheered dressed in costumes and masks. The Center of Death Tournament was a guilty pleasure for the attendees and no one wanted to give away their true identity.

The only identities that Xela knew in the vicinity were his teammates and his opponents, whom he could see now as they lined up opposite him on the battlefield. There was Quar’goth of Ithilia, a cunning and cocksure cipher. Quar’goth’s teammates were a bit more of a mystery, some vagabonds from Fairewood, a young Sidrani urchyn and a hefty Kirzan anvyl. Xela believed his team’s strength lie in the advantage his sister would have over the urchyn. They couldn’t lose. Quar’goth’s beady Siryl eyes stared intently at Xela and Xela returned their intense gaze. The cipher’s black robes were adorned with symbols and signs unknown to the savant. “Your formulas won’t help you this round,” the Sarajan whispered.

The crune players fell silent as the tournament proctor took his place on a raised platform at the center of the row of viewing booths. He wore purple robes adorned with skeletons stitched in silver thread. Over his head he wore a mask shaped like a bird head with a trumpet for a beak. The beak amplified his voice as he addressed the combatants and the crowd.

“Distinguished spectators and jolly speculators, I welcome you to the final round of our tournament. Many have fought bravely over the course of these few days, but only six remain to test their might and their will. Let us welcome those who will be fighting in honor of their ancestors who died noble deaths before them. Today’s fallen will have the privilege of preserving that tradition of noble death and bring glory to their bloodlines. “ A loud chorus of cheers erupted as the proctor finished his line and paused.

The proctor waved his left hand toward Xela. “The team representing Sanctum is lead by Xela of Exedosa, member of the Saraja High Council. He is joined by Ceylina of Saraja Fay, a glaive knight, and Balto Fannerbock of Farpoint, a mercenary for hire.” Each team member took a bow when their name was called and the crowd cheered loudly for them. Their masks contained whistles, rattles and amplifiers that modified their voices. The resulting noise thundered over the battlefield louder than the crune chorus.

“The team representing the Sequence of Seven is lead by Quar’goth of Ithilia, a cipher. He is joined by a pair from Fairewood: Fretly Quickfinger of the Fairewood Urchyn’s Clan and Farley Strongheart, an anvyl from the Cirqus of the Three Moons.” Again, a wave of cheers and chaotic noise swept over the battlefield.

The proctor raised his hands in the air and the crowd grew quiet. “The team representing the Sequence of Seven has won the right to take action first. Which team will be victorious? Let us find out. Begin!” The most deafening blast of sound yet washed over the combatants as they scrambled to take their strategic positions. The proctor took off his bird mask to reveal a blood red hood. He launched a radia flare that exploded over the battlefield, startling the king stasisks, all of which took flight and strained against their tethers. Xela rolled up his sleeves and lowered his head. It was time to fight.

Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

Xela watched the last of the sunlight fade and shadows take over the battlefield below him. His thoughts were of his opponents tomorrow, his enemies. He wondered aloud as Ceylina sat polishing her armor and sharpening her swords. “What is an Ithilian cipher doing with a child and a dolt? I thought Balto was a dense Kirzan, but this anvil fellow, he might as well be a griglin bear with as much intelligence as he has displayed.” Ceylina shrugged in response.

Xela started to pace and pontificate, “And the boy, a little too old and too big to be part of the Fairewood Urchyn’s Clan, don’t you think? Perhaps he is looking to start a new life as a warrior. A shame his life will end just as it begins.”

Ceylina looked a little appalled at this last statement. “You’re boasting about giving a boy a beat down? Is that your strategy, beat up the child and we’ll be sure to win?”

Xela ignored his sister’s outburst and continued his monologue. “The cipher is obviously the leader of the team and the mastermind behind their winning strategy. He is smart enough to use the trickery and speed of the urchyn in concert with the strength and force of the anvil to keep opponents off balance while waiting for the right moment to use his powerful keys.”

“We already beat a cipher in our last round, Xe, can’t we apply the same strategy tomorrow?” Ceylina asked.

“Yes, but we were fortunate. Outthinking a Siryl is a difficult task, especially a cipher trained in the Sequence of Seven. Siryl may be of slighter build than us Sarajans, but the keys they use are powerful and deliver serious damage. We will need Balto to absorb much of the damage the cipher will deal, but still ensure he has enough strength to take out the anvyl,” Xela said as his pacing became so vigorous that the loose ends of his robes whistled through the air.

“We can do it,” Ceylina said as she stood up and clenched her fists. “I know we can. We will win and your wish will be granted.”

“It’s not a wish, Lina, it’s a request. A request the benefactors of this tournament have the resources to make happen,” Xela said.

“And who are they?” asked Ceylina.

“It’s not entirely certain who supports it or why this tournament exists,” Xela explained. “Some say it’s run by the Whitefire Syndicate as an elaborate scheme to give prisoners from Ice Gate a chance to win their freedom. Others say it is simply entertainment for wealthy Dragathan socialites. Another theory claims it is part of an old family tradition funded by perpetual death agreements maintained by the founding families over the years. Few question the origins of the tournament or the source of its funding. The competitors only dream of the gain and the better future that winning promises.”

“I never questioned,” Ceylina whispered to herself. “Are all the wishes…I mean, requests…are they always made with good intentions,” she asked her brother.

“With the seemingly limitless power behind this tournament, one can only hope that is the case,” Xela sighed.

“Well, I know yours is a good cause, studying the Sanctum Spire and figuring out what it is and how it can be used for benefit of all Sarajans,” Ceylina said, intending to lift Xela’s spirits. A far off yes was his only answer as he parted the flaps of the tent again and watched the full Phaeton moon rise over the horizon signaling mid-Selwyn.  Tonight would be the height of the Center of Death celebrations across the continent of Veratar. “If I could win this tournament and my request be fulfilled, everyone celebrating tonight will teach my name with respect and admiration to their children,” Balto began to snore on his cot at that moment, deflating Xela smoewhat. “I should get some sleep, too,” he thought, a futile endeavor considering the anticipation that kept his mind racing.

Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

The glaive knight found Balto, the Farpoint mercenary they had hired to be part of their team, doing just what Xela had predicted, drinking. Luckily, he wasn’t drinking the black malt and instead had gone for a crate of fangwail pale ale. Having slain the brew master, Balto was entitled to the items his vanquished enemy had brought with him: supplies, weapons, etc. The remainder of the recently deceased competitors’ worldly estates were disposed of according to their death agreements by the tournament hosts.

Ceylina couldn’t deny the stout fighter his victory spoils. Not only had he bested the hearty Willem, he crushed the dreadnaught who had pummeled her with furious attacks, as well as smashing through the elusive Inkwater mimic’s charades and mirrors. Yes, he was key to their victories on the field today and he would be tomorrow. She reached out and took his flagon with the blue and red Hirojan brewery label on it and set it aside. “Sleep it off now, Balto, you’ll need your stamina and your senses tomorrow.”

The Kirzan mercenary looked up at Ceylina with bloodshot eyes that could not focus. “Huh?” he sputtered in confusion.

“Let me help you up. I’ll take you to the tent where you can sleep. We’ll go over tactics with Xela in the morning,” Ceylina suggested.

“Xela, who?” Balto mispronounced her brother’s name, then squinted as another question arose in his fuzzy mind. “Tactics? What tactics? I hurl stones and swing my axe and I protect Xela.”

“Yes, that’s all you need to know, I suppose.” Ceylina grunted as Balto grabbed her gloved hand in the Kirzan's own huge hand and pulled himself up. The old warrior with the white beard and scarred face teetered close to Ceylina’s face and she gagged on his horrid breath. Somehow, the lug righted himself and stumbled back to the tent on her arm. 

Interlude: The Center of Death Tournament

Xela, a savant from Exedoza, seat of the Saraja High Council in the Sanctum region of Veratar, looked over Tournament Plains from his team’s private competitor’s tent. Smoke hung low in the air, the ground was crisscrossed with pockmarks and gouges, and carnivorous carapids cleaned up any chunks of flesh left after the last of the bodies were collected by the designated mourners.  These mourners, supplied by the tournament hosts, were there to honor the bodies and the memories of the combatants before incinerating them discretely with fire radia. In the month of Selwyn, most of Veratar, at least the Protectorate and independent cities and villages, celebrated the Center of Death. These celebrations continued a long-held tradition where ancestors are remembered and the recently deceased hold a particular weight in the minds of those observing the multiple-day respite.

The tournament was held every year to correspond with the Center of Death celebrations and were hosted by unknown benefactors and sponsors. The fight-to-the-death format often meant significant and well-known names were sure to be added to the ranks of the recently deceased. Teams of three competitors sparred for honor, for survival, but mostly for the prize offered to the winners: anything your heart desired.  If your team won, and you were still alive, for all intents and purposes, you would be granted a wish.

A woman walked up from the field wearing gold armor breaking Xela’s meditations on the results of the tournament’s first day. “The blood of nearly every race on Veratar was spilled out there today,” she said with awe.

“Aye,” said Xela, sighing deeply. “Such is the allure of the heart’s desire that the brain will allow the heart’s blood be spilled to achieve it. Tell me, Ceylina, does greed originate in the brain or the heart?”

“I could not tell you, Xela. As a glaive knight in the rolls of the Knights of Sanctum, I am honor-bound to never succumb to the temptations or machinations of greed,” the knight said, dropping her helmet to the ground.

Xela folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes and turned to look at Ceylina. Her armor was dented in places, scratched, and her long black hair was plastered against her face with dried sweat. She was still bleeding from her left ear, the result of a dreadnaught’s fury. “Good answer, I swear you have some savant in you, yet,” praised Xela.

“You flatter me, brother.” Ceylina dismissed. Savants held a special place in Sarajan culture. While their mental and social capacities may be different than others in Sanctum, the other unique cognitive talents of savants could be developed well beyond those of normal Sarajans. This treatment of savants was part of the reason the Saraja split from the Sarion generations ago. The Sarion ignored, abused or persecuted savants, whereas the Saraja utilized their value for everyone’s benefit.

Ceylina changed the subject, “Instead of silly flattery, let us honor the great warriors who died today. The ones whose names will be written next to the greatest fighters of Veratar: Gryphon Hammerstrike of the Black Door Fortress; Karsha Darlandis, a Vaneen of the Nightwatchers of Veratar; and our Sarajan cousin, Erlton the Freeborn, from the Order of the Green Hood.”

“Freeborn? How did he die, prick his own finger with gossamyr toxin?” Xela asked.

“You should not make slight of the recently deceased," scolded Ceylina. "Erlton lost his battle with a Dartugan sea rogue, a cutthroat Legion enemy who some say defeated Freeborn with less-than-honorable actions.”

“Honor has its place, my altruistic sister, but the name of the game here is victory or death. I must consider all possibilities when forging a path to victory for us, honorable or not,” Xela said matter-of-factly.

“I will not do anything less-than-honorable. I told you this when I agreed to be part of this team,” Ceylina insisted.

“You won’t have to, but I would not preclude me from taking whatever actions may be necessary. We have survived to the final round, fair warning, anything goes.” The gleam in Xela’s dark eyes grew a little more intense as he said this.

“Stay here and keep scheming then, little brother. I am going to honor the ones we defeated before their incineration ceremonies take place. Willem, the brew master from Hiroja, fought honorably, I felt. He did not show fear when our mercenary brought his axe down upon his head.”

“Ha! Willem sipped a bit too much of his own kilwing lager and was too soused to have any fear.” Xela chuckled for a little while at this thought, then continued. “You are always so concerned with honor, but I am concerned with victory. I have been contemplating the dead, not because of the great deeds they did in the past, but what lessons they can teach us to help us in our future. The failures of these great warriors will give us strategy for tomorrow’s final round,”

Ceylina just stared at her brother standing there in his shimmering carapid silk robes of orange and yellow, only the finest for those who served on the Saraja High Council. Xela was one of the more talented strategists in all of Sanctum, but he was also immature. Ceylina thought he would grow out of his childish impulses, but she resigned herself to the fact that his raw emotions were a result of his syndrome. Most of the time his talents overcame his shortcomings, but this was life or death, not anything humorous. Still, she would not have the confidence to participate in such a high-stakes tournament if not for his supreme skill.

“I will leave you alone and attend to my duties to the dead,” Ceylina said turning to leave.

Xela called after her, “Speaking of our mercenary, please find the big brute and bring him here to debrief. We don’t want Balto getting into the brew master’s leftover black malt, lest he poison himself and becomes a liability tomorrow.”

“Yes sir!” Ceylina called from the other side of the tent as she walked away. 

Dashyl's Journey: The Assassin

“Thank you so...whoa!”

One minute the journal was in Dashyl’s hand, the next, it was gone, snatched by a black blur of a form somersaulting through the air. A person, dressed all in black, punched Alerial in the face while in the air, deftly landed in a crouch, then spun around to face them clutching Kilkarak’s journal. The thief was a woman, masked, with just her eyes visible. Those eyes narrowed as they focused on Dashyl. She pointed at him and then jumped back into a shadow where she faded from sight.

Alerial yelled a guttural, gravelly yell after being punched and leapt toward Dashyl. The avenir waved his radia-tipped staff in a circle above him. A blue shield of radia energy emanated from the staff and enveloped Dashyl and Alerial. Dashyl turned around in time to see a dart flying through the air toward his neck, but as the dart hit the radia energy, it vaporized, releasing a bright blue flash. Dashyl averted his eyes, but heard a man cry out.

When the flash faded, Dashyl saw a man standing in front of him dressed in black robes and a red hood. The man was holding his hands over his eyes, grunting. At his feet sat a blow gun and another dart. At this moment, the woman in black leapt out of the shadows, kicking Alerial’s hands and he lost his grip on his staff. The radia shield dropped and the woman bounced from her landing right into a backflip. As she flipped in the air over Alerial, she punched him in the head and rolled through her landing, popping up near Dashyl.

Dashyl drew the knife that the venomist had given him. “This woman is as slippery as a fish,” he told himself. “Strike where she will be, not where she is.” Dashyl flung the knife through the air as the woman began her next move. As she tried to twist away, the blade caught her in the side of her torso, slashing deeply into the softer skin there. Dashyl again noticed her eyes, this time they filled with rage instead of focus. Kicking away the knife, she flew through the air in a jump kick pose towards Dashyl. Before the woman could land her kick, two bright blue flares fizzled through the air striking her in the back and head and then exploding. The force knocked her off course and she slammed into the wall behind Dashyl and did not move from where she crumpled to the floor.

“A Shadowhand Agent and a Krill Assassin!” Alerial shouted to Dashyl. “Be on your guard, they want us dead! Urk.” As he finished his sentence, a dart hit Alerial in the neck. Dashyl spun around to see the man in the red hood run to the woman and dive on the floor to retrieve the journal that she had dropped.

“Are you okay,” Dashyl asked as he went to Alerial’s side. The avenir pulled the dart out of his neck.

“Nysik. A special toxin developed by the Order of Kril. My people have been trying to come up with an antidote, but we have not succeeded.” Alerial said, looking Dashyl in the eye. Before Dashyl could even think of what to do, he heard a voice behind him.

“I have your father’s journal,” said the Krill Assassin as he walked toward Dashyl. “Your mother is dead, your father is dead, and soon you will be dead.”

Dashyl stood there, frozen with fear, thoughts buzzing through his head. “The Order of Krill and the Shadowhand Agency were part of the Legion faction. They were Sarion, just like me and my parents, why would they want us dead? Why do they want my father's journal?” These thoughts flew from his mind as he suddenly recognized the pattern on the assassin’s red hood: a skull. The skull seemed to be smiling as it hovered closer to the boy.  The man reached beneath his black robes and pulled two curved, kinked blades, one in each hand. He started whirling the blades around his body and shouted a word Dashyl did not understand.

In a frenzy, the assassin came at him, blades clashing in the air seemingly everywhere. Dashyl closed his eyes. Just as he was about to leap away, an arm hit him in the side, pushing him out of danger. Dashyl rolled and came to a stop in time to see Alerial take the brunt of the assassin’s attack. Blue blood streamed from a multitude of wounds on the healer’s body.

“Run!” Alerial screamed as he looked over at Dashyl.

Dashyl watched as Alerial pulled two more radia flares from his pockets and throw them at the assassin. A blue ball of flame engulfed the black robes and red hood for a moment and then faded. Dashyl could see his rucksack by the door. He had a clear path to grab it and run. But could he leave Alerial, the Akrasa who had saved his life? “What can I do for him now?” Dashyl asked himself.

“Run, boy!” Alerial bellowed again.

Obeying this time, Dashyl ran, grabbed his rucksack and bolted for the door. He turned before stepping outside. Alerial was holding his staff high in the air as the assassin charged at him with his blades spinning. Dashyl gasped as the assassin plunged his swords deep into Alerial’s belly. Alerial yelled one last time and smashed his staff down on the head of the assassin and both of them disappeared in an explosion of blue flame.

Dashyl had not seen the explosion. He had turned to run and was out the door a few paces when the concussive force of the blast knocked him forward into the gravel of the path. He turned back to see the remains of Alerial’s house, a ruin belching blue smoke. Scrambling to his feet, the boy grabbed his rucksack and ran away down the path, tears streaming from his eyes, with one thing repeating through his head, “Trader’s Haunt and home.”

Dashyl's Journey: The Beginning

In the morning, Dashyl was up with first light preparing a rucksack of essentials for the journey: hard breads, dried fruits, nuts, a small rain shelter and sleeping bag, flint and wool for starting fires, fish hooks and line, and a small shovel. Lastly, he packed the pouch of small saffira stones Alerial had given him to sell. With that money, he could buy passage home on an airship from Trader’s Haunt. But Trader’s Haunt was a dangerous place full of thieves and vagabonds. Dashyl unpacked his rucksack so he could put the pouch of stones deep in the bottom of his sleeping bag. He then slid his knife from the venomist into its sheath on his belt and threw his cape over his shoulders.

Finished with his packing, Dashyl sat with Alerial as they ate their morning meal. “Eat as much as you can," said the blue-skinned healer. "You never know when you’ll get another hot meal once you leave my house.”

“I went a long time without a proper meal before you brought me here. I can do it again,” Dashyl said, sitting up straighter in his seat. Alerial smiled and nodded as he dished Dashyl more of the thick paste they ate every day. “I won’t miss your cooking,” snickered the orphan.

“I won’t miss your appetite. You’ve eaten half my supply for the winter!”

“I’m a growing boy. Besides, you brought me here, you took responsibility,” Dashyl retorted.

“That’s true. I will miss our repartee. Your wit is beyond your years, young Dashyl.”

Dashyl considered Alerial’s compliment as he swallowed his last mouthful, “I’m full.”

“Good. It is time for you to start your journey home. But before you go, I have something for you.”

“Ooh, a parting gift?” Dashyl said, expectantly wringing his fingers together.

“Well, a gift, you could say, but one that you may decide not to open.”

“Huh?” Dashyl questioned with crinkled eyebrows as Alerial disappeared into his bedroom and returned with what looked like an old weathered book.

“What is that?” Dashyl asked, unsure why he wouldn’t want to open a book. His mother and father had taught him to read and gave him many books he loved that retold the old legends of the Sarion journey through space to Rynaga. “Maybe it’s a book of scary stories,” he thought, “but no story can scare me.”

“This is your father’s expedition journal,” Alerial said as he handed it to Dashyl.

The boy’s eyes grew wide. His mouth dropped open. He looked from Alerial to the book and back. “How…”

“I found it among your father’s possessions after his death.”

Alerial was right, Dashyl did not want to open it.

“I read the journal while you were in your saffira sleep. I skimmed the first part and then picked a random day to start reading. I went back a few entries after that and then read to the end. Your father has written some things in there you may not want to know right now, but I am giving it you now so you may have it and you may make the choice yourself to know some of your father’s darker secrets.”