Tower of the Arkein: Kan Savasci Cycle Book 2, page 1
TOWER of the
ARKEIN
(Book 2: Kan Savasci Cycle)
Copyright of Work © Chase Blackwood 2017
Map by Tad Davis
All rights reserved
The right of Chase Blackwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, character, places, or ideas are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, historical events, business, religions, or ideas is coincidental.
Acknowledgements
To my patient, clever, and encouraging beta readers. Thank you for your thoughts, editing, and all your help in making these books the best they could possibly be.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE – Into the A’sh
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART TWO – Bodigan Princess
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
PART THREE – Thea of Bristol
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PART FOUR – Isle of Galdor
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
PART FIVE – Tower of the Arkein
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
FOREWARD
The Kan Savasci Cycle is a work of passion I created, whilst working two jobs. I have spent a significant amount of time building first the world, knowing that in history environment often shapes culture, followed by the peoples, characters, religion, politics and economic systems. I have used my life experiences (everything from working in the sciences, to traveling the world, to martial arts training, federal law enforcement and military experiences, as well as loves come and gone) to make the world as vivid and beautifully real as I can, while still retaining the ephemeral feel of an epic fantasy.
I wanted to mention to new readers, Tower of the Arkein was originally intended to be Book 1, and as such can stand alone (Think of Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, or to a certain extent Star Wars a New Hope and the Empire Strikes Back). Yet, I wanted to really flush out the world, and therefore, wrote Tears of a Heart first. This allows for a greater character arch, as well as more depth for the discerning reader.
In short, you can start with Tower of the Arkein and still very much enjoy the story, the characters, and the immersive world. For those who love greater depth, the history, and world building, as well as hidden easter eggs for later books which, both Tears of a Heart and Tower of the Arkein contain, I suggest starting with Tears of a Heart. For those who value action above all else, start with Tower of the Arkein.
PART ONE
Into the A’sh
Prologue
“To move a man, find out what he wants.”
Anonymous - Tower of the Arkein
The annalist paced across a richly decorated waiting room. It was opulence at its most arrogant. Gold leaf filled intricately carved moldings upon the tall marble pillars lining the walls. Scenes from the Book of Khein graced the arched ceiling. They depicted Salvare’s guiding hand during Creation.
The artwork was cracked and fading. The lightning that flared from Salvare’s angry eyes looked tired and worn as if the very act of Creation had sapped the life from the painting. The broken earth lay shattered before God’s bare feet, a testament to the folly of the divine.
The annalist couldn’t help but remember the torn ruins of S’Vothe, the jagged mountain village, where his search for answers had truly begun. They were the windswept lands that cradled a young boy and marked him for impossible feats of greatness and villainy. It was the birthplace of a legend now inexplicably vanished from the known corners of Verold.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Images of molten stone surrounding a great gold and silver-leafed chest flashed through his mind. Had it only been six months?
The silent echo of pain resounded in his ears. It bore through his mind like a hot spear, slicing through the soft gray memories he had so diligently collected. It was, however, nothing more than the residual effects of the arkein.
The annalist reluctantly opened his eyes. The harsh desert light glared off the white stones of the monastery floor. It washed the scene in a bath of luminescence. The once subtle hints of obscurity lurking behind quiet shadows, now stood stark and naked before his penetrating gaze.
As his head cleared, he noticed the lack of servants in the halls, the dust gathering in the corners, and the frayed tapestries. They all spoke of the gradual decline of the Church of Salvare.
Approaching footsteps reverberated off the walls and ceiling in an odd counterpoint to the previous silence.
“The deacon will see you now,” a short monk said, adjusting his robes.
The monk was diminutive in stature as if someone had taken a saw to his legs. He had likely been sold to the Church at an early age to avoid any embarrassment such a child would bring to a family of wealth.
“Of course,” the annalist said, following the smaller man into the adjacent room.
The next room was simpler in its décor. A set of three wide steps formed a simple dais on which rested a chair. Throne may have been a more apt description. At the end of a beautiful, bejeweled leash was a shadow cat. Its black fur shimmered as it restlessly flicked its long tail. Its dark eyes tracked the annalist as he entered the room.
“Deacon,” the annalist began.
“You needn’t waste time on formalities with me,” Deacon Neri said, waving a hand for the smaller monk to leave. “What brings you here?”
“I seek information,” the annalist replied.
“Of course you do,” Neri said sharply, “I know who you are.”
“Then you know who sends me,” the annalist continued smoothly.
“And you know the king of Bodig holds little sway here,” Neri paused and took in a breath, glancing about the room, “I also know who you’re searching for.”
The words echoed in the annalist’s mind. Each heartbeat filling a void marked with anticipation, while silence hung thickly between them like a wet rag. Deacon Neri continued to hold the annalist’s unflinching gaze. It was uncommon for a man to show so little respect for someone of the Second Circle. Ignorance had a way of drowning out fear and squandering intelligence.
“You think you know him,” Neri said at last.
“Who?” The annalist questioned.
“You came here to play games?” Neri said in a stern voice, “You’ve the wrong monk if you seek games.”
“No deacon,” the annalist replied.
The annalist took in a calming breath. He had to remind himself why he was here, prostrating himself before a lowly deacon of the failing Church of Salvare. He wasn’t here solely for the King of Bodig and Emperor of Heorte. He wasn’t even here to avenge the death of his family. No, he was here for all of Verold. So that others wouldn’t lose their families. He was here to learn enough to stop the Scourge of Bodig and Bane of Verold.
“You’ve never met him,” Neri said.
“Oh, but I have deacon,” the annalist’s eyes narrowed and a shadow of anger rolled over them.
Neri’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. It was enough to betray his surprise. He attempted to mask it by reaching down and stroking the midnight fur of the shadow cat purring at his side.
“Many of the stories they tell are untrue.”
“Then educate me,” the annalist offered bowing his head ever so slightly.
“Before I do, you must make me a promise,” Neri said carefully.
The annalist was taken aback. It was rare someone of lower stature wi shed to tie him down with promises.
“Go ahead,” the annalist said, with a hint of curiosity touching his voice.
Neri took in a breath before he began, “Don’t judge him until you’ve understood his heart.”
That was it? That was the promise the deacon requested? The annalist could certainly abide by such simple terms. He did seek the truth after all. It was the cornerstone of his forgotten profession.
“Very well.”
There was a moment of silence as Neri gathered his thoughts. The shadow cat’s green eyes became lazy once more, falling half-closed into sleep.
“Get comfortable, this is not a short story,” Neri said as he regarded the annalist coolly, his voice shattering the silence like the crack of a small hammer, “Although, it’s likely one of the most interesting stories you’ve come across,” Neri shook his head subtly, “I will tell you of Aeden’s exodus from the A’sh as he related it to me.”
Chapter 1
“Hatred is a seed that once planted becomes near impossible to uproot.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology
Aeden hated Yazid Nur Komal. He was rude, arrogant, and condescending. The man spoke of piety and service to god, but would excuse himself from prayers. He would speak of the sanctity of life and then would beat the whores he paid to sleep with. Yazid was without morals. If he understood them, he blatantly spit in the face of the gods. Most importantly, Yazid was the man who had killed Odilo. For this, Aeden had vowed to kill him.
The only thing that stayed his hand was his adopted brothers, Neri and Adel. Timing was everything. Killing Yazid would be too obvious to the discerning eye of Jal Isa Sha’ril. The Jal was intelligent, scheming, and ever aware of the motivations of those around him. His ability to discern thoughts before they became action was eerie.
Aeden would stay awake late into the night dreaming of ways to rid the world of Yazid. The more violent Yazid’s imagined death, the better Aeden slept. It was an odd amalgam of emotion that threatened to strip him of his humanity. His thoughts painted his life in angry, vengeful strokes. He needed balance.
The Jal knew this and only just accommodated him. Despite being forced to work with Yazid; eating together, training together, and sleeping in the same room, Aeden was granted relief.
This relief came in two shapes. The first, was in the form of a quiet and unwavering man, Kardal Jabir Sha’ril. Where Yazid spoke too much, Kardal rarely spoke. In fact, Aeden couldn’t remember hearing Kardal utter more than a dozen words in the last two weeks.
The second form of relief came from the Jal himself. Practice of logic and rhetoric was what the Jal called them. Aeden later referred to them as forced debates.
It was then no surprise that the Jal invited Aeden into his chamber. It was early afternoon in mid Lenton. The day was hot but bearable. It bore the subtle hint of change in its wake, the way Hearvest spoke of falling leaves to the north.
“Sit,” the Jal said with an extended hand.
Aeden looked about the room briefly. He saw two guards at the far doorway. He had passed two when he had entered. The room, however, was empty save for the Jal.
“You seek to escape? Perhaps kill me first I presume,” Jal Isa Sha’ril said, his hooded eyes narrowing.
Aeden would have been lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
“In spite of all I have given you, all I have offered?” he continued, attempting to sound hurt. “You think you would have fared better under a different master?”
“No,” Aeden finally replied.
The word master, echoed resoundingly in his head. Aeden had no master, nor did he crave one. In his heart, he was free. He wove his own fate.
“Good, I would hate to have wasted my time,” the Jal paused for a moment and took a sip of sweet wine before continuing, “of course this isn’t why I called you here.”
Aeden remained silent. He knew the Jal enjoyed hearing himself speak. If Aeden were to ascribe him a weakness, it would have been pride. For all the Jal’s ambition, intelligence, and knowledge of historical events, he was proud. The Jal needed others to know what it was he had accomplished. Perhaps today was another sermon on his self-made station.
“No, we have more pressing matters of greater urgency. Would you care to guess what matters lay at hand?”
The Jal seemed to enjoy testing him, probing the hidden corners of his mind for weakness, strength, for the Sight.
Aeden struggled to think straight. His mind seemed to swim in a perpetual pool of grey and red. He hadn’t slept well the night before. Rarely, in fact, did he sleep well. Not until Adel and Neri were free would he sleep well.
“I assume it’s because of what Yazid had said about you,” Aeden replied.
The Jal raised a carefully trimmed eyebrow. He took a moment to study Aeden the way one would study a painting.
“Clever, but you paused too long to concoct that lie,” the Jal sat back in his chair, “I will give you one more chance, do not bore me, or insult my time.”
There was steel in his voice. Aeden cringed ever so slightly. As angry as he was, he knew not to purposefully seek out the wrath of the Jal. He had only once seen a new servant defy the purser. The servant now walked with a permanent limp and was missing a hand. The high-pitched screams as a screw was driven into the servant’s leg had echoed down the corridor with resounding weight. The servant had never spoken up again.
The memory faded as Aeden focused on the Jal’s question, what matter lay at hand? Aeden once again glanced about the room. A simple roll of papyrus lay upon the table next to the purser’s decanter. It could have been a message from any number of wealthy individuals. Only one, however, would stir a sense of urgency from the Jal.
“The caliph wishes your attendance,” Aeden replied.
The Jal’s dark eyes simply stared at Aeden for a moment.
“Interesting,” the Jal took another sip of wine, “Yes, he seeks a meeting.”
“Why?” Aeden asked before he realized his place.
The Jal raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem to take offense.
“That I’m afraid is beyond my knowing,” a tiny smile touched the corner of the Jal’s lips.
The Jal’s eyes then focused on Aeden. His hooked nose was partially cast in shadow giving him the predatory look of a falcon.
“Why do you think the caliph wishes a meeting?” the Jal asked curiously.
Aeden remained silent for a moment. It was an impossible riddle. He had spent so little time in the A’sh that its ways still remained hidden to his eye. He had crammed years of history into his young mind over the course of a couple months. It was a peddling amount in comparison to the wealth of knowledge the Jal retained. Why ask Aeden?
His mind raced, knowing the Jal expected an answer. What did he know about the caliph? Surprisingly little after he gave it a moment’s thought. Did it have to do with Q’Bala to the north? Sha’ril and Q’Bala had been at war for over two hundred years. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. The Jal was the purser of the caliphate after all.
“I don’t know,” Aeden finally said.
“Of course you don’t,” the Jal replied, but this time with a hint of reticence in his voice. “Send in Yazid.”
Aeden nodded and backed out of the room.
Aeden figured Yazid was sleeping. It was already late morning, which meant the Jal’s guard was recovering from a night of excessive drinking. Alcohol was a vice frowned upon by church doctrine, particularly in Sha’ril. Yazid, however, paid as much attention to church doctrine as he did personal hygiene.
Excessive drinking often left Yazid inebriated, angry, and a few times incoherent. Aeden once had the opportunity to poison Yazid. The guard was already drunk that night, like most nights. It would have been a simple matter, but something stayed Aeden’s hand.
Was it mercy? No, it was more visceral than that. It was the lust of confrontation. Aeden wanted the satisfaction of cutting Yazid’s throat. Slicing it causally the way Yazid had cut Odilo’s throat. Only then would Kegal, the god of destruction and death, be satiated.
Aeden rounded a corner and traveled across a small courtyard. A fountain splashed serenely within. It was a symbol of great wealth to have a fountain in a desert kingdom. Water was as precious as gold. It was another subtle reminder of Aeden’s place within the Jal’s world.
