A Chronicle of Lies-Book 1- The Dark Sculptor (High Fantasy/Isekai)

When Vincent set his eyes upon the city, the world seemed to tilt on the precipice of reality. No words could adequately describe the raw beauty of Meldohv Syredel. In fact, for a few moments, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking at. His first impression was that a large thunderstorm was lingering over a large kingdom, its fury towering into the heavens. Motes of purple light spread like bolts of lightning, splintering overhead as if frozen in their strikes.

But then he realized what he was seeing was not lightning, but light refracted off of gargantuan crystals. The storm cloud was not a cloud at all, but a concave wall of stone, a hollowed geode the size of a damn mountain! At its center was Meldohv Syredel.

A large beam of sunlight poured through a giant hole in the roof of the colossal geode, casting the Meldohn features in a cascade of glimmering ambiance. Structures reminiscent of Celtic, Asian, and Persian design rose forth from the ground as if to compliment the crystalline shelter that housed them. Lattices, flying buttresses, spires, all wove in and out of each other to create a tapestry of architectural wonder.

Waterfalls cascaded from several fissures in the ceiling and were scattered by the crystals before striking the ground. There, they split into hundreds of streams that emptied into a large shimmering lake. Hundreds of zerok like Strix could be seen gliding through the air, their colorful wings flashing like banners. They weaved from building to building, from spire to spire delivering messages to unknown recipients.

Meldohv Syredel and the geode that housed it were flanked on both sides by shores on which waves could be seen silently crashing. Boats with sails extended floated out at sea, piloted by inhuman captains. A large river surrounded the city like a gigantic moat. Its banks were steep and harsh, as though some devastation had torn the feature into the foundations.

To his left and right, Vincent saw that the Gelan Highway carved through a large shelf, separating the higher lands on which they had been traveling from the lower shores which Meldohv sat. The highway continued to widen as more and more roads deposited travelers into its traffic.

The Falian populace surrounded him in a sea of color and iridescence. There were creatures whose wings were as red as flames, ones whose bodies were covered in black spots, stripes, and diamonds. There were metallic blues, mixed with highlights of green, purples who wore bolts of yellow, oranges swirled with white. Some walked alongside their burdened-landriders while others carried their own burdens on their wings.

He saw infants so young, their horns were still covered in flesh. They clung to the back of their parents’ heads, rested their feet on the bases of the parents’ wings while tucking their snouts in between the horns to sleep.

The highway turned into a bridge that spanned the river and carried them toward the city. Something glimmered in the air when they were halfway across and Vincent saw to his disbelief, spirals of floating water slowly orbiting the bridge. They rose with grace from the river, defying gravity, and rotated around the span of the bridge, intersecting to form intricate lattices.

At the head of the bridge stood a statue several stories tall. Exalted, she stood on the tips of her toes as if she were about to float upward into the air. She had her arms and wings spread outward, ready to embrace and welcome the travelers into her city. It was from her that the water arose and danced graceful figures, by her power, it did her bidding.

Slade was trying to talk to him, but he heard nothing. How could anybody be expected to speak when they beheld such a sight? There had been numerous depictions on Earth of fictional metropolises, cities that defied logic in the favor of imagination. But none of them could convey the smell, the sounds, or the subtle nuances of such impossible architecture.

Meldohv Syredel appeared to both glare and welcome, to seduce and to suppress his will with its reality. It was both beautiful and dizzying, hypnotizing him with its crystalline majesty and making him reel with vertigo at its scale.

“I can’t...” he whispered, “gotta get a hold of myself. Gotta get a hold...”

They passed under the statue and into the city. Thousands of feet up, columns of purple crystals hung like frozen chandeliers of ice. The more Vincent looked at the ever-spanning mural of indigo, the more the world seemed to spin out from under him. Many travelers seemed to stop abruptly as if shocked by the beauty of the city. Those who were walking on foot even fell prostrate to the ground and wept.

“I feel it...” Vincent heard one whimper, “I feel its power...”

“You will get used to it, father,” his daughter said, lifting the old Falian off his knees. “We are blocking the traffic.”

“How could the High Channeler face such a thing?”

But Vincent didn’t get to hear what the High Channeler faced because the father and daughter were whisked off by the ever-flowing traffic.

It’s not real, he thought to himself.

The city stood before him, towering over him, its glimmering domain standing as a rebuke to his denial, promising both answers and bait in its glimmering facets. It was a place of lore, a gathering of ken. He could feel the history in its rock and see time in its structures. He was diminished by the scale of its majesty. Here, he would be walking among fables, standing inside a tapestry of jade and crystal.

But I’m here to be interrogated, he reminded himself, not to visit.

He was going to be put on trial.

“You better run Cordell.” a voice growled into his ear.

Vincent flinched, looking left and right for the speaker, but he didn’t find anybody. Nevertheless, the words took root in his mind, playing over and over again. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. He was torn between being enchanted by this place and being terrified by its conspiracies.

“I have him,” Slade said, looking at the sky.

Vincent had no idea who she was talking to. Have him? What did she mean? Eventually, she pulled up to a building with green brickwork. Armored guards stood at the entrance. She pulled in front of the structure, dismounted Holan, and tethered her to a post.

“Business, Kiolai?” one of the guards asked.

“Reashos,” Slade answered, “my mark, the rogue, has been retrieved. He is expected.”

“Your mark?” Vincent repeated, “that’s it, then? So much for not being a captive.”

The guard whispered something to his companion, then he went inside.

“I never said you weren’t a captive,” Slade said as the guard returned, accompanied by several more guards. “I said I believe you are clueless. Yet you still need to be questioned. I dropped you off, and this is where we part ways.”

She stepped aside as the guards approached her mount and commanded Vincent to get down. Swearing under his breath, he lowered himself from Holan. The creatures put their hands on his shoulders and led him toward the building. Why did he go along with this? Why was he allowing himself to be dragged by these creatures like some criminal? Why wasn’t he fighting back?

This can’t be happening, he thought.

“I mean it Cordell! Run!” the voice from earlier snarled.

“Shut up!” Vincent whispered.

“What was that?” one of the guards asked.

“Nothing. Get your fucking hands off me.”

“Oy!” the creature barked, “are we going to have trouble?”

Vincent looked him up and down. “No.” He allowed himself to be guided into the building.

When inside, he was led to a desk where a Falian with a wart-covered face sat. He held some sort of writing utensil in his hand. It looked like a conical rock with black ink coming out of its end.

“What is your name? House?” he drawled.

“Vincent Cordell,” Vincent said, “I don’t have a ‘house’.”

“He’s the one The Thirteen are expecting, Wem.” the guard said.

“Oh...” Wem flipped through a ledger in front of him. “Yes. The ‘rogue’. I see. Take him to cell thirty on the bottom floor. They will be notified.”

Vincent was led down a corridor of empty cells. Its walls were made of green brick and mortar. The guard stopped at a cell, unlocked the gate and shoved him inside. He locked it and let him be.

“Hey, what’s going to happen to me?” Vincent demanded.

“I don’t know,” the guard said, “not my business. Not my concern either.”

With that, the guard left, leaving Vincent alone. He looked around his cell. A single window allowed a sliver of light to pour through. The rest of the cell was illuminated by crystal lanterns that hung in the hallway. The brickwork, mint in color, glistened. There was a bed in the cell, barely wide enough for him to lay down comfortably. There was also a bucket in the corner, tucked under a stool with a hole in it.

Vincent paced around the cell, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He sat on the bed and laid on his side, cursing the walls. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he dozed off. But he awoke some time later, got up and looked around to see if anybody was in the hallway. He appeared to be the only prisoner on this floor. He spent the next hour pacing restlessly around the cell, swearing silently. With each step, he whispered his name, his age, his birthplace, his major. Growing impatient, he placed his hands against the bars and looked around.

“Hey! I’m awake!” he called, “anybody there?! Any of you freaks around?”

There was no answer. So, he continued to pace back and forth until he tired himself. Every now and then, one of the guards would come to inspect the cells. Other than giving him a cursory glance, they said nothing to him and left. He was left to his own torment.

Finally, somebody did stop at his cell. A golden-colored Falian wearing a shabby, brown hooded garment was about to pass him by but stopped, back-tracked, and peeked into the cell. Vincent did not bother to look up at the visitor. Instead, he gazed lazily at the newcomer’s yellow feet, which tapped a rhythm out onto the stone. Then he closed his eyes.

“Huh,” the creature said. His voice, though warm, had a gilded edge to it. It was like bronze mixed with gravel, and it seemed to thrum with hidden wisdom. “You must be the one they were talking about.”

“I must be,” Vincent agreed.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“You guys really like that phrase, don’t you? The answer is no. Not as long as you freaks are talking to me.”

“Kiolai Reashos told quite the tale of your journey here,” the newcomer said. Was that sympathy in his voice? “After what you have been through, I am sure some peace is desired. I will leave you alone for now. But first, is there anything I can have the guards get you? Have you eaten? Do you need any water?”

“What, are you a caretaker?” Vincent scoffed.

The stranger seemed to give the question a little bit of thought before answering. “I suppose one could use that word to loosely describe what I do,” he said with some amusement, “I will ask one of the guards to bring you food and water. You may leave them both be if you do not need it.”

Then the newcomer was gone. A few minutes later a tray of smoked meat and a jug of water were left under the door. Vincent waited for the guard to leave, then tore the smoked meat to small pieces and ate. He wondered what they did with his belongings now that he was imprisoned. Would they keep them locked up in some sort of safe or would they burn it for fear that it contained some contaminate? Those thoughts took root in his mind and made him crazy with worry.

This world was devouring him one day at a time. It yanked him from his home, effectively mocking his efforts to live a normal life. To add insult to injury, it took away his memories, stole his identity. And now it was getting ready to put him on trial. Never before in his life had he felt such a strong desire to both laugh and rage at the same time.

Finally, one of the guards came to get him. His wrists and wings were bound together, and he was led down the hallway. He passed by cell after cell and not one of them was occupied. He was still the only prisoner on this floor. Before he could contemplate the reasons for such a vacancy, he was led up a flight of steps, down another hallway, and through a thick double door. There, he was greeted by an audience of fourteen.

The guards led him to an iron chair in the middle of the room and had him sit down. He was mildly surprised they didn’t shackle him. Apparently, they thought their presence alone was enough to subdue him. Vincent looked around at his audience and felt a funny curl tug at his lip. Were these creatures seriously about to try him? Were they aware of how ridiculous they were, sitting there as if they were human?

“Is there something amusing?” one of them demanded. The speaker was a rough-looking creature with tufts of red hair on the sides of his scalp. Though one of his wings appeared to be mangled, he stood tall above the others. In his hands, he held a rolled-up scroll. Vincent looked around the room, at the other creature inhabiting it.

“I am the one addressing you,” the speaker barked. Vincent looked back at the creature’s yellow eyes. “I ask again, does something amuse you?”

“Lots of things,” Vincent said. At this there were several whispers among the others. “But, you go ahead and do your thing.”

“You claim your name is Vincent Cordell.” The speaker opened his scroll. “Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Vincent said, “what’s yours?”

The Falian addressing him considered his guile for a moment before answering.

“Luin Orth. I am a member of The Thirteen,” Orth answered, “do you know why you are here?”

As Vincent considered Orth’s question, he saw a few channelers among the audience. One of them looked regal in robes of white, along with matching white irises that seemed to reflect ice. In his hand he held an ornately decorated staff. Vincent knew immediately that this character must be the High Channeler Thal’rin so many spoke of. He stood tall even when seated. Vincent scowled at him briefly before turning back to Orth. He didn’t care for powerful winged wizards.

“Yeah, I know why I’m here,” he said, “you think I am responsible for killing somebody who tried to contact me over something called the ‘reticulum’. It’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Stupid, is it?” Orth repeated, cocking a brow.

Vincent nodded.

“Kiolai Reashos believes you are clueless, your brain, addled,” Orth said, “so I will extend you some grace and let you know that you stand before The Thirteen and the High Channeler himself.”

Vincent simply shrugged. The gesture caused a few whispers.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Orth demanded.

“What is what supposed to mean?”

“This!” Orth imitated Vincent’s shrugging.

“I don’t know who you people are. That’s what it means,” Vincent said, “but I know you’re the authorities, I can gather that much.”

“You would be correct,” Orth said, “so some respect is in order, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

Orth glared at him, then thumbed through a scroll he was holding in his hand.

“Reashos has also made some profound claims about your supposed immunity to the Bane,” he said, “and about your apparent ability to delve into the lore of sealed conduits. We will consider these in the following proceedings, along with the testimonial provided to us from the zerok, Strix. In short, you are suspected of being an enemy of Mid-Admoran. You have the horns of a Jalharen, you have demonstrated a lore none of us have ever encountered. You have attacked one of our telen, who is now no longer with us. If you are found to be a spy, you will have broken a treaty of solace that we have held for decades and the repercussions will be severe.”

“That...” Vincent began but stopped himself. He was about to say that what Orth said meant nothing to him. But then he remembered whatever this world may be, it was capable of inflicting pain. These people could hurt him. “Fine. Sorry. Ask away.”

Orth recounted how a weather gleaner on Lorix’s Observatory found and saved a channeler from drowning in Lorix’s Eye. Not knowing what to do or who to notify, the local messenger, Strix, flew to several villages in search of information. Eventually, Strix established a line of communication with Meldohv Syredel. In order to placate the zerok, a telen reached out to Vincent, but was repelled by unknown lore.

While Orth continued his litany of details, Vincent’s eyes wondered until they landed upon a familiar hooded figure sitting near the back. It was the visitor who stopped by his cell, the one wearing the brown garments. His eyes were closed as if in contemplation. Either that, or he was on the verge of falling asleep.

Two fleshy whiskers hung from the side of his snout, just below his nostrils, draping along his cheeks. As Vincent looked at him, the figure adjusted his horn guards and slid the hood forward to shade his snout. He may have been trying to sneak in a few z’s.

When Orth was done, Vincent was forced to tell his side of the story. It was much harder than he thought it would be. Several times he had to bite his lip and fight down the urge to scream at these creatures. At other times, he had to bite it to keep himself from laughing. Orth kept asking him to repeat certain statements Vincent made and he kept asking for more details about particular events.

He kept making references to things Vincent didn’t understand. Do you understand you need permission to cross the Skein? No, I have no idea what that is. How did you fight back against Teresis? I don’t know who that is. She is the woman you killed. I don't know. How did you hijack Kiolai Reashos' conduit? Again, I don’t know. Who is Deonte? An old friend.

Vincent didn’t tell them about the stormspawn that had bowed to him on the thread. They didn’t need to know. In fact, they didn’t need to know any of this. Why was he justifying himself to these creatures? Why was he answering their questions instead of laughing at all of them? This was ridiculous!

Several of the others questioned him as well. He was all but numb to their inquiries. It felt like he was being interrogated by Jim Henson puppets and because of this, there was a strange charm to the situation. They kept speaking of treaties and stability, events that had no relevance to him. But the novelty wore off quick. It grew tiring and he was hampered by the voids in his memory. A few times, Orth asked questions about Vincent’s supposed homeworld, in mockery no doubt. Vincent wanted to answer, but those memories were locked from him.

The line of questioning kept coming back to whether or not he was a Jalharen spy, something that seemed to put them all on edge. He gathered from context clues that these people and Jalharens were in a very precarious relationship and Tuls had even said as much. He also gathered that the Jalharens wielded powers that remained elusive to the Meldohns. They also kept returning to the subject of Teresis Moren, the woman he supposedly killed. Fury began to claw at his chest.

“You know she’s dead because of you, right?” he finally said. Thal’rin, who had remained silent during the questioning, fixed him in his icy glare. Vincent wondered if he was about to be smited by the High Channeler’s awesome power, but he continued. “Don’t groan at me!” he said to his interrogators, “This guy–” he pointed to Orth, “–gave Teresis the order to ‘bind’ me, didn’t he? He was the one who told her to dive into my head and invade my mind. He sent her to her death.”

“Enough!” Orth barked. It was hard to tell, but Vincent thought he saw veins throbbing in the creature’s temples. “I will not allow you to sit there and disrespect the deceased.”

“It’s tragic!” Vincent snapped back without any hint of irony, “what happened to her is tragic. But you people– can you let me talk? You brought me to talk here, right?” Orth tried to interrupt him, but scoffing, he gestured for him to go ahead. “You sent her to go invade my mind with a technology you clearly haven't mastered. I don't know how you did it, but you did. But even in my world, when a new piece of technology kills somebody, like a reactor melts down because it was designed poorly, those who built it are held accountable and new safety standards are created. That's what's happening here. So I fought her off in my sleep and then I get accused of being a murderer?” He looked around them in disbelief.

“Don't you dare blame me for your fuck-up,” he said, “you did this! Not me!” At this, he had to catch himself and swallow. “Look, Slade told me you have something that can force me to tell the truth. If that's true, why don't we just skip right to it? Why the hell haven't you slapped those things on me, skip all this garbage?”

More murmurings followed this statement. The one Vincent took to be Thal’rin leaned forward and spoke with a calm, airy voice. “He has a charisma,” he said, “Have you noticed that, Orth?”

Ignoring the question, Orth considered Vincent a moment before answering. “We have a conduit that will inhibit falsehoods, yes. The thumahl, otherwise known as 'The Liar’s Handcuffs’.”

“Then put them on,” Vincent held out his wrists. “If you people are so certain they work, why in the hell are we wasting time with all this...formality? Slap them on and I’ll give you as much truth as you want and then some.”

Orth cocked a brow. Perhaps it was unusual for somebody on trial to ask for something that was pretty much a truth potion. Perhaps he thought Vincent was bluffing because he looked down at him suspiciously. The air in the room became so tense that Vincent could feel it about to snap.

“The way the law is written, if they are to be used, you must first be questioned without them until all questions are exhausted. Or...” Orth paused. “An exception may be provided only by the Diac of Meldohv Syredel to skip this prerequisite since prolonged exposure to the thumahl is dangerous to the wearer.”

Vincent looked at the channeler behind Orth, the one with the icy glare, expecting him to say something. But the answer didn’t come from him. Instead, it came from the figure in the back wearing the shabby brown garments, the figure who briefly stopped by Vincent’s cell.

“I give you permission to skip it, Luin,” he said, “especially since our guest desires it. But only ask questions that are relevant to our inquiry.”

The figure’s hawk-like eyes were no longer closed in contemplation or hidden behind the hood. Instead, they peered out at Vincent from under the shadow cast by the garment, irises that reflected an unseen source of golden-yellow electricity. So this unassuming creature was the protector of the region, one whose power could fell entire armies.

There was nothing threatening about this “Thal'rin”. He was of a humble build, he held himself casually and his brown raiments were patched in numerous places. There was nothing regal about this creature at all. Only his eyes seemed to hint at thunder and intensity. Even then, there was a humorous warmth behind his gaze.

Orth nodded to the guards. They brought in a wooden box and opened it to reveal a pair of leather bracers. To Vincent’s eyes, there was nothing extraordinary about them save for the series of purple and green beads woven into a mesh. The guards instructed him to lift his arms. Then they pulled up his sleeves and fit a bracer on each of them. He felt nothing different except for the cool beads that touched his bare flesh. He carefully lifted his hands up to inspect them, expecting at any moment to feel something different.

“How do I know they are working?” he asked.

“Try to utter a falsehood and you will find out,” Orth said as if challenging him. “Tell us who you are.”

He was about to answer when noticed something peculiar happening to the flesh around his wrists. Where the bracers contacted him, his skin darkened to a midnight blue. Dots and clusters of light began to appear in the darkness, winking as though his flesh were embedded with fiber-optics. This change continued to spread up his forearms and across his elbows, a cyan hue the color of night flowing over his flesh. Apparently, The Thirteen noticed it too because they began to talk among themselves.

“Huh...that’s new,” Vincent said, holding his arms up. “Is this one of the side-effects of wearing these?”

Orth stared at him as if he had been scandalized. When he didn't respond to the inquiry, Vincent decided to ignore the metamorphosis and instead, chose to answer the creature's question. He looked over his audience and made sure he had their attention.

“You want to know who I am,” he began as the change continued to creep up his arms. More clustered lights began to appear over the darkness. “My name is Vincent M. Cordell,” The darkness disappeared under the sleeves of his garment. “I am 25 years old. I was born in Chicago, Illinois to both my father, Joseph Cordell and my late mother, Karun Cordell. Before I came here, I was trying to major in electrical engineering. I was trying to finish my education.” At his peripheral vision, he saw the metamorphosis flow across his snout but he forced himself to ignore it.

“You want more truth?” he said through clenched teeth, “I am a human fucking being who was trying to mind his own business when all of this shit happened! I am not one of you ugly lizards. I am not a ‘Falian’ or whatever the hell you embarrassing freaks call yourselves. You and your world are all fake. You are nothing more than an elaborate delusion of a desperate mind! I suffer from a complex fuck-ton of neurological disorders, mainly bipolar and schizophrenia. One causes me to be a miserable pissed off little shit and the other causes me to see you!”

He hurled his truths toward them like daggers, insulted the very things they held dear. “You think you’re people? No, you are all animals. Worse than that actually, because at least animals are real. You all are as fake as 3-dollar bills. You’re the stuff of fairytales. and in my world, we used to pretend as kids to hunt you down and kill you. You’re embarrassing! I hate being trapped inside this goofy-looking body with this goofy-looking face and being stuck here with all you...deluded, smelly, ugly-as-sin freaks of nature! And you dare to call me a murderer! Fuck you all!”

Vincent had tapped into a well of rage and now it was pouring out. He was hyperventilating with fury.

“You are all fucked up in the head,” he said, “something kidnapped me and brought me here! I’m not a fucking killer, I’m inno...I’m innoc...”

It was the first time during Vincent’s uninterrupted tirade that he faltered. He knew the words in his head, but it was as if his mouth had forgotten to give utterance to the syllables. I am innocent. I am innocent. But the bracers would not let him utter the last word, so he was left stammering in the ensuing silence. Only the scribe who was frantically writing down everything Vincent just said punctuated the quiet.

“Luin,” the real Thal’rin said, breaking the ice. “If you will permit me.”

“High Channeler.”

Orth took his seat as Thal’rin got up. There was a limp in his stride as he made his way toward Vincent. His golden eyes looked solemn, yet warm. As he approached the chair, the guards placed their hands on Vincent as if to hold him back from attacking, but Thal’rin warded them off.

“I do not believe he will attack me,” he said, “you heard him speak, he is not a killer.”

“He is not innocent either, Lord Thal'rin,” said one of the guards, “and you heard his slights.”

“I think none of us are truly innocent,” Thal’rin softly retorted, “and apparently, he honestly believes those things of us. Let go of him.”

Vincent felt the guards lift their hands from his shoulders as Thal’rin approached. The High Channeler came close enough for him to see the shadows under the creature’s eyes.

“Those illuminations that have appeared on your flesh,” he whispered, “have they appeared before?”

“N-no,” Vincent said, “I assumed it was more of your...'magic'.”

“Hmmf,” Thal’rin grunted, “the bracers do not cause these markings to appear. This is something none of us have ever seen before. Would it offend you if I asked to see more of them? I promise I will not harm you.”

Vincent gawked at the creature and considered telling him to fuck off. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves. Thal’rin pulled out a ring from a pocket and slipped it onto his finger. Then he took Vincent’s arm and traced the lights with the stone. The creature stared at the glimmering celestials on Vincent’s flesh as he traced them, bearing down on the illuminations with his intense gaze. Frowning, Thal’rin thanked him and set his arm back down. Then he took a few steps back and fixated Vincent in his gaze.

“Are we ready to even consider such a thing...” he muttered to himself. Then to the guards he said, “Please step outside and lock the doors. Do not enter until one of us bids you entry.” They appeared to hesitate before deciding to obey the creature. When the door shut and locked, Thal’rin pondered for a moment before speaking. “He is not a criminal," he said, "he bears no responsibility for Teresis’ death. What happened to her was an unfortunate tragedy and the fault lies with us for not knowing this danger.” He waited for a response. When none came, he continued, “I pardon him of this tragedy. This of course can be contested, but for now I pardon him.”

“What?!” Vincent and Orth said at the same time.

“Lord Thal’rin,” Orth began, but Thal’rin held up a hand.

“He testified while wearing the bracers, Luin. I will concede that the bracers are not perfect. They simply provide an honest facet. Delusion can distort truth and the believer can utter falsehoods without knowing them to be so. But I propose a more outrageous hypothesis for our friend’s impassioned condemnations. Do you see the illuminations that now ordain his form? Don't you think those resemble the stars and celestials in our sky?”

“We see them, Thal’rin,” one of the females said, “on his wings I recognize the constellation of...no, they are different. But they are unmistakably stars.”

“It is a defiance of law,” Thal’rin quoted as if reciting poetry, “it is a paradox incarnate, a walking contradiction. It wears the sky on its form, and that’s how you know it to be...”

At this, Orth’s eyes darted between Vincent and the High Channeler, as if he suddenly understood what was being implied.

“Surely you are not saying this boy is the Saedharu,” he said.

At this there came an uproar so loud, Vincent had to cover his ears. But with a gesture of his wing, Thal’rin brought The Thirteen down to a simmer.

“I am not. However, Ayrlon’s tear is alight. You all know this,” he said, “but what light does it glow with? What kind of ambiance does it shine? One that contradicts the eyes does it not? Here, we have another contradiction: We have a groundwalker who does not believe he is one. He has demonstrated a power he does not know how to control. And according to the testimonies from Xalix Sontorey and his grandchildren, the messenger Strix, the relos and Kiolai Reashos, he has suffered the Bane and survived it even before acquiring and bonding to the Triasat.”

He turned to face the rest of the council. “Every one of you knows that no person can survive the Bane. This law has been written into our blood since the age of the Severance. And yet, unless the witnesses we have heard from are all sharing the same delusion or are all liars, this one has suffered the Bane and has survived. And now,” Thal'rin gestured toward Vincent, “he wears the sky. Why it was hidden until he put on the thumahl, I do not know. But there is no denying what our eyes are telling us now.”

“The Saedharu is just a fable!” somebody shouted. Vincent did not see who.

“Not true,” another said, “but this is highly improbable!”

“I know how it sounds!” Thal'rin said. His voice had power behind it, and it brought The Thirteen to silence. “But it is as I said: Ayrlon's tear is alight. After seeing it for yourselves, after hearing testimony about this young man, after seeing...'that'. We should consider all possibilities.”

Vincent had no idea what the High Channeler was babbling about. Ayrlon’s tear? Saedharu? They meant nothing to him and yet it sounded suspiciously like prophecy. But he was too spent to testify against such bullshit so he said nothing and let them ramble.

They kept shooting him stares of disbelief as Thal’rin, Orth, and the others bickered about this elusive figure. By intention, he paid no attention to anything they said. He wanted no part of their lore. It reeked of false self-fulfillment.

So, he remained disconnected and inattentive while they continued to converse, speculate, argue and shout. Occasionally, he thought he heard a whisper in the walls or saw something skitter up the stone. Eventually, they reached some sort of agreement and invited the guards back into the chamber. All of The Thirteen stood up and Orth stood in front, looking absolutely baffled.

“Vincent Cordell, stand,” he commanded.

Vincent sighed, then pushed himself out of the chair.

“On behalf of The Thirteen, I speak,” Thal'rin said, “we pardon you of the crime of malfeasance. Though what happened to Teresis Moren is a tragedy, we have ruled that it was an accident, and it will be treated that way unless new information implicates your guilt. The reticulum will remain disused until we can understand what lore caused her death. Furthermore, your...'immunity' to the Bane, the coinciding of your appearance, and the illuminations that appear on your body, warrant consideration. We must find out more about you. So, for now, we cannot allow you to leave our city. However, it would not be fair for me to keep you in a prison cell. And so, it has been decided that you will stay under my roof for the time being.”