Pathway of the Gods

Joanne R. Mitchell was born in Murwillumbah, New South Wales and spent a number of years overseas. She completed a degree in Business Management/Marketing in 2002. She worked in management and owned her own marketing business before settling down on the Sunshine Coast where she lives with her husband, Grant, and Shihtzu, Roxanne.

Although this is Jo’s first fantasy novel it is not her first introduction to the genre she loves so much. As a mother she read her own fairy stories to her children at bedtime. That early passion has now transferred into the magical world of the Immortals, and her first book, Pathway of the Gods.

She is an avid follower of the genre she loves, and finds a close affinity with the writers of fantasy fiction. Jo is currently writing her second novel in The Immortals trilogy, Awakening of the Gods.

Visit Jo at her website: www.jrmitchell.com.au

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An Epic Trilogy

THE IMMORTALS

Book One

Pathway of the Gods

J.R. Mitchell

Aquagem Publishing

Published in Australia by

Aquagem Publishing

P.O. Box 889

Buddina Qld 4575

Copyright © Joanne Mitchell 2007

Maps copyright © Aquagem Publishing

Third edition 2009

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission.

Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication data

Mitchell, J. R., 1959- .

Pathway of the Gods.

ISBN 978 0 9804 0180 6 (pbk.).

I. Title. (Series : Mitchell, J. R., 1959- Immortals ; pt. 1).

A823.4

Cover design by George Ihring

Cover design enhanced by Jesse Cutler

Text design and typesetting by Simon Paterson, Bookhouse, Sydney

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, Adelaide

Acknowledgments

To my dedicated loved ones, friends and acquaintances who travelled this path with me, thank you.

To the one person who made this possible: my husband, Grant. Thank you for your belief in me and for sacrificing our time together to make my dream a reality. I could not have done this without you.

To our children, whose faith in me never wavered and who are as excited about this project as I am.

To George Ihring, Juuce Interactive Pty Ltd, for bringing my characters to life and maintaining an optimistic excitement.

Special thanks to Renee McCahon for her additional meticulous editing work for this third edition.

And last, but not least, a thank you to all those friends who have waited patiently for the publication of this book.

To all of you: may you enjoy this epic as much as I have enjoyed creating it.

Ommran

Azrah

Theron

Prologue

Nibulus

‘World of The Immortals’

A piercing cry invaded the silence of the night. A sound of pain!

Istania lay in the birthing chamber, perspiration dripping from her brow as she wrenched violently at the bedding, the sheets beneath her tearing with the force. Another barb of pain, sharp and intense, shot through her body like a fine bladed knife. With effort, she refocused her thoughts, battling to remain calm. Why had she been so willing to make this sacrifice?

A second contraction, more cutting racked at her body, she grimaced with the suffering. Was this child worth the torment? Suddenly her travail and the shout of the midwife brought her back to reality as she bore down yet again.

‘The child, I see the crown of the head,’ relayed the midwife. ‘It’s time, Istania, push now.’

Istania forced herself to concentrate, wanting nothing more than to rid herself of both the child and the pain of its associated birth. She felt the baby’s head pass through her birth canal. With one final exhausting push, the mucus covered infant slid from her body and into the waiting hands of the midwife. Istania let out a grateful sigh of relief.

It was a boy!

Exhausted but content, she relaxed, lying back against the crumpled linen, perspiration soaking the bedding beneath her. She recollected with clarity the events leading up to the conception of her son. They were now fixed forever in her mind. That particular night had been laced with power. Istania recalled the moment the seed had planted itself firmly within her – in that one brief moment her body and soul had divided. There had never been a night when she had felt the substance of the Craft so strong, it had been overpowering, its dynamism and ascendancy potent; she had never known its force so virile.

The Oracle had fathered her son, yet the goddess knew the child had not been conceived in love. The boy’s father’s only interest lay in the Immortals’ ultimate goal – to gain a pathway to the Greater Gods.

The Oracle drove the Immortals; he was their divine leader, their patriarch and her lover. Yet Istania knew he was incapable of loving anyone.

As Istania lay quietly, her thoughts concentrating on the past, an unexpected stabbing pain gripped her yet again. Instantly she was brought back to reality, back to a horror of her own choosing. Pain tore her apart once again, shooting like arrows of steel through her lower abdomen; holding her like a lover in its embrace. The pain was felt with far more severity than the pain she had suffered only moments earlier.

She cried with terrifying alarm, ‘No, not more.’ Panic coursed through her body. What was happening?

For a sinking moment Istania was unsure, until she felt herself bearing down once again. The midwife stood frantic, as disbelief unfolded across the room. Moments later, amid the mayhem a second child forced itself from Istania’s pain-shattered body: the child struggling to escape the confines of its prison. Shock registered with the midwife as she quickly summoned a nursemaid who ran forward and gathered up the second infant. With dexterity she wrapped it securely in soft blankets. Both women now stared accusingly at Istania; this was not part of the plan.

Gently, the nurse wiped the mucus from the infant. Both boys screamed in protest, their piecing cries heard by all. The midwife glanced nervously at Istania, her accusation clearly written in the expression, which now marred her porcelain features.

The first child continued with his stream of protest, while the other lay silent by his brother’s side. The second infant; his eyes open wide, searching, seemed to be taking in his surroundings, a sense of knowing etching his features. An understanding smile spread for an instant across his lips as his mother watched the boy in disbelief.

The midwife sensed the power of the younger infant and backed away, the tiny babe giving her a casual, yet dismissive glance. The woman needed no second appraisal, something about this child instilled alarm.

‘Hand them to me.’

It was the Oracle. His towering form stood in the doorway, his proud stance conveying his authority. The patriarch’s silvery white hair, long and flowing, caught like slivers of gossamer in the dim light of the room, its length spreading down across his chest. His powerful body was silhouetted beneath his sheer garments.

Istania grew hesitant, afraid as she lay amidst the afterbirth. Her eyes followed the Oracle as he moved with silent footsteps toward her. Fear, born of knowing, licked at the confines of her immortal soul; something had gone wrong. Only one child was meant to be conceived, a boy, so how did she birth twins? She raised herself gingerly onto her elbows; her strength weakened but her resolve high.

‘I do not understand! How did this travesty come about? Why are there two?

The Oracle fought back his immediate response; he would not accuse her in front of servants, there was no way he had fathered both children.

When she did not receive an answer, Istania realised that he thought she had deceived him in some way. She realised then that her sons were in mortal danger. For the Oracle would think she was to blame, she could tell by the look of contempt he now bore. The fear of her predicament seized hold of her heart; somehow she would have to devise a way of protecting her sons. She had to think quickly!

‘May I name them?’ she asked. ‘Surely after all I have sacrificed, you owe me that much?’ Istania watched, wondering if her plea had reached fertile ground. Would he even acknowledge her?

The Oracle took the infants from the fearful nursemaid, cradling them in his arms. Istania watched with trepidation; her sorrow building as the Oracle methodically scrutinised each boy. A deep frown furrowed his brow. She could tell he was enraged, could sense his feelings, she realised he thought he had been betrayed.

‘Name them if you must, but it will not save them, or you from your fate.’ With that he looked down at the boys. ‘You have condemned both yourself and them, and for your actions you all will suffer.’ His words were spoken calmly, maliciousness hidden in his tone as he gazed once more toward the boys’ mother.

‘Istania, this was meant to be for the good of all, and you deceived me.’

The accusation was meant for all to hear, and with those words her guilt established.

Istania pulled herself upright. She would not allow his accusation to go unheeded. The choice to give birth had been hers, and she had participated willingly, yet the great Oracle and the other Immortals had given her no leeway. At the time it seemed the only possible way, but now as she looked toward the two infants curled in the Oracle’s embrace, she knew something had gone horribly wrong. Never were there meant to be two.

‘Name them before I change my mind.’ It was said with venom.

She hesitated momentarily, giving thought to her choice.

‘I will call one Theron, ‘Bearer of Wisdom’, and the other, Ommran, ‘Bearer of Truth’. As she spoke their names aloud, she filled her breath with the vapours of the Craft, hoping it might protect her sons; it was all she could do for now. The air in the room became thick and claustrophobic, as the names settled individually on the boys.

With a look of utter contempt, the Oracle handed the two boys over to the nurse’s care. If the truth were told, he should have been alert to the presence of two life forms himself. He knew he had only planted one seed, so who fathered the second child? Obviously Istania had taken another lover, but who?

‘You will rue the day you mislead me,’ he said, with bitterness in his voice. He turned and left the birthing chamber. His resolve; never to forgive her.

Istania fell back against the pillows; confusion marred her senses, why would the Oracle accuse her of betrayal?

•

Several days later, Istania sat alone in her private rooms nursing her sons. None of the other Immortals had come to aid or attend to her in her confinement, not even to congratulate her. Even the Oracle kept his distance. She acknowledged that they all probably believed her guilty of deception. But she knew she had misled no one.

For hundreds of years, the Immortals had planned for a child. Great care had been taken to weave the fabric of forces present within the Craft; the moons, stars and mists had been aligned; nothing had been overlooked. All this was done with the hope of creating the perfect being, an Immortal worthy of a place amongst the Greater Gods; one worthy individual that could orchestrate their plans – a perfect being that would lead them to the pathway created by the Gods.

Yet now as she sat alone, spurned by her peers, Istania sensed that she was somehow, someone else’s pawn in a much more complicated game than anyone realised. A burning sense of abandonment consumed her as she reread the hand written message the Oracle had sent her earlier that day. He demanded she offer up one of her sons as a sacrifice. The wording left her with no choice.

She glanced at Ommran; his dark curls swirling defiantly about his tiny face, as his fingers held on lovingly about her thumb, she met the stare of his piercing sapphire blue eyes as they watched her intently. Istania sensed his recognition as his lips parted, giving a mere hint of a smile. She understood the enormous power, which emanated from this child; he was gifted. A strange alien sensation passed over her as Ommran turned to seek sustenance at her breast. Turning him aside Istania called for the nursemaid to come and remove the boy.

Something dark stirred beneath the surface something mysterious, the boy too small to manipulate the force within him.

She bent to kiss him goodbye, but hesitated – she could not allow herself to feel affection for him. She handed the boy quickly to the waiting maid.

‘Take him to the Oracle; tell him I have made my decision. Now go.’

A single tear rolled down Istania’s cheek.

She gathered Theron to her breast and the comfort of his suckle kept her heart from overflowing with regret. She knew the Oracle would soon come and take Theron too. The boy would be suspended in time with the power of the Craft’s Ilisinic Magic, she knew he would never know she was his mother; the Oracle would make sure of that. The patriarch would wait for another time to bring him forth yet again, a time when the Immortals had created a mate worthy of him.

Istania wondered if she could live with what she had done. Could any of them live with this travesty?

•

The great Oracle stood alone in his tower; his son perched high on his hip. Three thousand years had passed since Theron’s original birth, yet the Oracle still could not forget Istania’s betrayal. Time would never erase her deceit.

He held Theron close, this was his son; it had to be. Ilisinic magic had held the boy frozen in time until now. With his rebirth he would be united with Azrah, Goddess Immortal, and together these two would discover the greatest mystery of the universe, the whereabouts of the ancients and the path by which they traversed. It had taken all this time to perfect a second child, the infant female known as Azrah. This child conceived through a mortal, one he knew would not betray him.

He frowned as he thought about how close he had come to losing it all.

His thoughts turned to Istania; he had trusted his instincts yet she had deceived him. Her bastard son however had paid the price. The Oracles face turned sour, a bittersweet smile edging his mouth, he had no regrets about disposing of Ommran; that had been a necessity. No one but his own offspring would inherit the powers of the universe.

Theron let out a cry as the Patriarch’s fingernails dug into the boys flesh, the pain the product of a moment’s lapse of concentration on the Oracles behalf. Standing on her balcony, Istania heard Theron’s cries. Tears suddenly blurred her vision. How could she have betrayed his brother? Her heart would carry the guilt forever, the guilt of abandoning Ommran. Why had she not fought to keep him?

Istania stood rigid, her mind consumed, as she realised that the Oracle still firmly believed she had taken another lover, but she knew that could not have been further from the truth. Something mysterious had transpired that fateful night when the both boys were conceived. At the time Istania thought it had merely been a surge in the Oracle’s powers. Now thousands of years later she knew it had been far more than that. The force of the power wielded that night had been enough to compel her soul to momentarily leave her body. Something or someone with skills far greater than the Immortals, had conceived Ommran, she knew that now with certainty. But how could she prove it?

Istania looked longingly at the tower where the Oracle resided. Thousands of years ago she had stood in this very same spot and watched as her tiny son Ommran was cast into the dark void of the unknown universe. The Immortals believing he would perish. She recalled with clarity the emotional strain she felt at the time as Ommran’s silent pleas of hopelessness and rejection had called out to her for help. She had done nothing; simply watched as his tiny form was set adrift, alone, afraid and helpless. Her silent prayers had followed him, yet she had not lifted a finger in his defence and she had lived her life ever since begging him for forgiveness.

Now Ommran’s twin, Theron, would walk the hallowed halls of Nibulus. Istania knew the Oracle would never allow her close enough to convey the truth of their births. She would have to find another way of gaining both their trust and absolution.

Eons of time have passed. And far away in a distant universe, beyond the reach of the Immortals, sails of an enchanted ship unfold.

The fierce southerly winds blew with ferocity, filling the majestic sails of the mystical black ship. With each gust, the ship’s timbers vibrated as it tossed and ploughed through the tempestuous seas like a cork on the surface of a boiling pot. With each wave the mighty ship rode high, propelled further toward its destination.

‘Dragon Wing’ was emblazoned into the timberwork of the ship’s bower. On either side of the hull, was an image of a golden dragon, its fearsome features crafted by the hands of a master painter to be a warning to those who passed by. The sails of the ship were also painted to resemble a dragon’s wings, so the ship seemed like a veritable beast searing through the water. Barnacles could be seen encrusted on the ship’s underbelly as it rose above the waves. They became lost to sight as the ship’s hull sank once more below the surface.

Dragon Wing was a vessel built to ride the violence of sea and space; it was a ship swathed in ancient magic, a ship created by the power and cunning of the dark lord with magic long forgotten in time. This living vessel had carried Ommran for thousands of years – helping him seek his revenge. Those who stood in Ommran’s way either died or became one of his hordes. Dragon Wing and its master had a single obsession: to destroy those who had given Ommran life.

An inky raven perched on the mast stood on spindly legs swaying to the rhythm of the waves. With avid curiosity, it watched the dark lord who stood firmly on his two feet at the helm.

Ommran watched from the bow. He stood tall and imposing, with his head held proud. His long dark hair, gathered back with a strip of leather, billowed out behind him in the wind. He was clothed in black moleskin trousers tucked into knee-high black leather boots; his sweater taut across his chest, the salt and sea mist clinging to the fibres like fleas on a dog. He wore a long black leather coat unbuttoned down the front, blown open by the blustery winds. His eyes were the colour of azure skies, his chiselled chin concealed by the dark growth of a beard.

Both man and ship knew each other well – as a man knows a woman he has been married to for many years. They had long been united in their cause, and now they concealed themselves beneath turbulent clouds that protected them from the prying eyes of those who would hinder their plans. Ommran, discarded and forgotten by his creators, sought retribution for the rejection he had suffered by the Immortals.

Ommran looked to the south. His attention focused on a distant world: the world of Asserian. His thoughts turned to Azrah, its creator. He could sense her power and her strength somewhere out there – yet Ommran felt her presence was somehow incomplete.

Warmth, a faint semblance of emotion, touched his soul when he thought of her, but he quickly turned it aside. There was no place in his world for feelings, for emotion, most of all not love. Ommran had never been shown love by the Immortals and he had never given any in return. He thought of a time long ago when he came close to knowing such feelings, only to lose them to another, his brother Theron. Ommran believed it was his destiny to be with Azrah and take what should have been his by birthright: her seed belonged to him. With anger in his heart he hastened into the wind, picking up speed toward Asserian.

•

Azrah stretched out across the settee; she mourned that time long ago, when she believed her world was unmarred and she untarnished. It was a time when she and Theron first knew one another, when life seemed carefree and unblemished, a time when they had both co-existed with the Immortals on Nibulus.

Azrah reminded herself that she was meant to be a perfect being. The Oracle had often said so. Did the great Oracle actually lie? Theron was given the same impression. So why did their lives – hers and Theron’s – now appear so tainted? Something was wrong; she felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness, as if a part of the puzzle was missing.

Azrah ran her hands over her long sensuous limbs. Everything about her appeared flawless: her skin was smooth as velvet and not one imperfection marred her body. Her stomach lay flat and taut, her breasts firm, round and perfectly formed. Azrah glanced over at herself in the mirror as she stood. Her long golden hair cascaded down her length, shadowing the perfect body beneath. If the Immortals had made her perfect, why did she now feel totally flawed?

She walked to the platform that looked out across the great expanse of her worlds. Worlds she helped create. Before her lay the culmination of hundreds of years of devotion, their worlds: the worlds she and Theron had made.

Azrah could see Asserian off in the distance, floating like a giant bubble in the depths of space. It was her favourite world, a place where she had instilled peace, and happiness – a world dominated by women, where the males paid homage to their priestess and queen. A perfect world!

With a sigh, Azrah glanced toward the world of Sansinus. It lingered in a dark and ominous corner of the universe. Sansinus was the world of the mages, a world where the Craft dominated. She wondered whether she would live to regret her benevolence towards that race.

A smile spread across her face as she thought of Nepthany, a world that held her greatest secret. She smiled; it was out there, even though she could not see it from where she stood. On Nepthany she believed she had found real love. Azrah’s faint smile masked the pain hidden in her heart. Out there in the expanse of space lay many worlds, all created by herself or Theron, but all she could do now was stand and admire the beauty of them all.

Azrah sensed, rather than saw, Theron as he appeared opposite her. She did not turn to look at him; she didn’t need to, since she knew him well. His nakedness revealed that he was her complete opposite – tall, broad shouldered and sinewy. His facial features complimenting his fine bone structure. He had a strong chin and mesmerising eyes, eyes the colour of azure skies. Azrah smiled; she found him beautiful – not beautiful like a woman, but rather like a magnificent work of art.

Azrah remained motionless. She secretly shifted her weight from one bare foot to another, making sure the movement showed off the lines of her body beneath her sheer gown. Even with him so far away, she could sense his need and desire. He couldn’t help but be aroused.

Theron emerged from behind the pillar of Trayon. The darkness of the pillar’s shadow blended with his honey-coloured complexion. Azrah turned and gazed into his eyes. She missed him.

Theron didn’t speak; he merely smiled and moved toward her, his movements graceful and deliberate like a cat stalking prey. Before Azrah could catch her breath he had drawn her gently into his arms. His bare body wrapped itself about hers as a snake would about its prey. He ran his tongue up the nape of her neck. Azrah’s gown dissolved into nothing, leaving the two of them naked, entwined in desire. He gently lifted her high in his arms.

Theron carried her to the settee. He arched her body over the length of the chair, running his hand over the roundness of her buttocks, teasing and taunting. His tongue gently licked the trough between her breasts. Slowly he worked his way to her nipples, taking them one by one into his mouth and rolling his tongue around their edges slowly, deliberately. Azrah let out a joyous moan. Theron watched her eyes as they rolled back into her head: the obvious pleasure was there. His manhood pulsed, wanting nothing more than to enter her and take his pleasure. He forced himself to hold off. He continued to tease her, waiting to hear the pleasure of her cry. As her body shuddered and convulsed with passion, he penetrated with force, thrusting with quick and deliberate motions. Fulfilment was their final destiny.

Theron released his hold; he was spent by the passion of the moment. He rolled to one side and loosened his grip on her. Did he love her? He was no longer sure, yet he had an obligation. How he longed to be freed of his responsibilities on Venra. He knew now he had been gone far too long from this place. Yet coming back to this world, the world he shared with Azrah, was somehow painful no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he cared about her. Coming here held no meaning anymore and he felt guilty. He now lived a life separate and distinct from this life as a god. It was a mortal life, a life he loved: a life as Sirus, Prince of Eshtah on the world of Romanie.

The Immortals had given him a life but it held restrictions and fundamental responsiblilities. He wanted more freedom and on Romanie he found it. With those thoughts he departed in the magic vapours of the Craft, without an affectionate word or glance toward Azrah.

Tears welled instantly in Azrah’s eyes. Would she ever know happiness? Would she ever know normality? She’d had those feelings only once, yet now it seemed like another lifetime. Long ago she knew she had shared something special with Theron on Nepthany. She thought Theron had shared it too, but now it seemed as if it had never happened. He never spoke of it and she never referred to it.

For the first time Azrah wanted so much more, and she knew that could only come about by finding out the truth. Azrah knew something was wrong. She needed to return to Nibulus, to confront the Immortals to seek the truth – that was her only hope. Theron had weakened her powers by setting up a powerful veil to stop anyone from finding them. She needed help to find her way back. Maybe on Sansinus she could enlist the help of the mages. By now those beings should have mastered the powers of the Craft and she hoped they would be her allies. It was her only chance.

Azrah summoned the powers of the Craft. Within the magic of the Craft’s vapours she too could manoeuvre through time and space within her worlds. She would pay a visit to the Sansinites; she hoped their powers combined with hers would be strong enough to break the spell Theron had cast long ago.

1

Romanie

‘Sirus, Prince of Eshtah’

‘Stay calm sweet prince for tomorrow you will find solace for your troubled soul.’

Theron materialised on Romanie. He stood dressed in his Romanie garb, waistcoat over white shirt, dark leather trousers worn tight with knee high boots. As he adjusted to his surrounding, the majestic Emid’s Wall protected him from the morning’s cool breeze, as the first rays of dawn crested the horizon. He was angry, but mainly with himself. He struck out at the wall with his fist, part of it shattered before collapsing in a pile of dust. He kicked the fragments at his feet; particles of dirt scattered, covering his boots with a thick film of earth.

‘Damn!’

Anger was an emotion he thought only mortals could feel with such passion, but here he was, angry with himself and Azrah. Should he blame her, or the Immortals? No, he realised he was the creator of his own misery.

Right now he couldn’t face going back to her, and lately it had become increasingly difficult to return to her side. Azrah simply reminded him of what he hated most about his Immortal life – the lack of freedom to live life how he wished.

He looked around at the world on which he stood; he had created its splendour using the powers within the Craft. The Gods in their infinite wisdom had given those powers to him at birth and he had absolute mastery over the worlds he established. The Craft was a potent endowment, which gave the bearer the means to create life or to destroy it. It also meant responsibility, which Theron knew he would be better off without.

Humans inhabited Romanie. These people were a race of conquerors. This world was built through strength and courage, hard work and forbearance and it was the one place where Theron felt he belonged. Over a period of time, he had lived here under the guise of a mortal, Sirus, Prince of Eshtah.

As Sirus, he had earned his place amongst these people. He had fought wearisome, hard-won battles for Eshtah’s monarch, King Emid. Together they had conquered and claimed this land and now King Emid was his friend and treated Sirus as a son. They ate at the same table, bathed in the same dirty streams and rivers, laughed at the same raucous jokes and even loved the same women. Romanie was where Theron felt he belonged.

Theron glanced at the wall that he had wilfully damaged moments earlier. This wall had been a labour of love, and had taken months of hard and laborious work by the men and women from this region, known as Eshtah. It was a strategic fortification, which held back the waters of the Iber River. He now felt ashamed at the deliberate damage he had done.

The sun edged above the horizon, beckoning another glorious spring day. Theron spread out his hands before him and in an instant the wall reformed. Every mud brick that had crumbled with the impact of his blow now stood firmly back in its place, a testament to the powers Theron held. He touched them, the bricks felt a part of him, just like the land, and he recognised that this world and its people were imbedded in his soul.

He stood tall and inhaled the freshness of the new day. He wondered why he embraced this mortal life with such ardour. The wars, the plunder and the daily hardships excited him and renewed his strength. He thought of his Immortal life on Venra, where he wanted for nothing where he could give and take life at will. Why then did he feel so drawn to Romanie? Even to Theron it was absurd.

Theron’s guise as Sirus meant he could come and go as he pleased, but now he accepted that it was becoming increasingly more difficult to leave this land he loved, because in his mind this was home.

As he studied the countryside about him and saw the perfection that creation had wrought, it reminded him how flawless his immortal companion Azrah was. There had never been a Goddess as powerful as her; it frightened him sometimes to acknowledge just how much power she possessed. Azrah! If only he could negate her from his thoughts, he didn’t need to feel this guilt. He wondered why he did not find her appealing. Making love to her gave him little but sexual gratification.

He had taken other women to his bed, but none held any real appeal. Except for I’Eda. She was a lady in waiting at King Emid’s court. Was I’Eda the real reason he felt drawn to Romanie? He wondered! Theron thought it strange to feel such strong emotion for two women, one he had; the other he wanted.

A smile creased the corners of his mouth as he pictured I’Eda. He remembered with clarity the first time he had seen her. She had been a mere child at the time, but she beguiled him even then with her intellect and beauty. His loins began to tingle as he envisaged how she looked now as a fully mature woman; her beauty and intelligence now developed to such a degree that she simply took his breath away. Her auburn hair complimented her eyes, which sat like limpid pools of jade green within the delicate confines of her face. But I’Eda’s ethereal features masked her fiery temperament. I’Eda had a way of lighting a fire in Sirus’s heart whenever she was near, but more so when they lay together. But I’Eda would never be immortal, or a perfect being like Azrah.

Sirus lengthened his stride as he moved through the early daylight towards his chateau, Delgrade. The shadows of dawn now edged their way over the Iber River like fingers stretching to be free. He drank in the clear morning air again, knowing he still had a considerable distance to travel before he reached home. King Emid had given him substantial land holdings – seven thousand acres of prime farming land and forests were his. There, wild game roamed and birds of all varieties flocked to the pristine lakes. It was his haven. His estates also housed serfs and peasants who occupied settlements and villages within its borders. Theron knew each of them by name.

Theron was enjoying the distraction of everyday life and the carefree attitude that went with it. It was easy for him to just be himself – but it would never do to be seen arriving at his estate on foot. He raised two fingers to his lips, gave a sharp shrill whistle and waited. Shortly, a dark shadow appeared like a cloud bursting through the clear morning sky. Neon, his horse, descended in a flurry with his wings spread wide; this magnificent steed had been his companion since they met thousands of years before. Sirus broadened his smile in greeting.

Neon landed gracefully. Instantly, his wings inverted and disappeared. Neon whinnied, stomping his foot in the soft dewy grass at his feet, awaiting his master’s touch.

Theron had found Neon as a foal, the animal alone and afraid. Theron took it upon himself to rear and nurture the defenceless colt. To Theron’s dismay he discovered that the tiny foal had the ability to fly; his tiny wings an intriguing abnormality. This was not the only distinct feature of the animal. Sirus discovered later that Neon also had the power of speech. These two exceptional traits were far too extraordinary to leave unprotected in a world where man would exploit them, so Theron kept the foal and named him Neon, meaning ‘new’. They had been together ever since.

Sirus ran his hand affectionately down Neon’s neck; the hair on the animal’s mane was as fine as silk thread. Neon responded with a shudder of delight.

‘It’s good to have you back, Master.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ replied Theron as he leapt on the horse’s back. There was neither bridle nor saddle in sight as he nudged him into a gallop. Neon spread his majestic wings and took flight, the might of his strength like the sound of wind as he cast himself upward into the morning’s blue sky.

Sirus loved to fly. The wind whistled through his hair and the scenery swept beneath them. In fact they both enjoyed the freedom of flying. Rider and horse felt an absolute affinity with each other. No one on Romanie saw the spectacle; Theron made sure of that. They glided easily over the meadows and brooks, taking in the sights and sounds of men and women rising for the day as animals grazed lazily in and around the farms. Cows stood impatiently waiting for the farmers to make their way to the milking sheds. It seemed a perfect day as Neon neared the edge of Xanthos Forest, on the boundary of Delgrade. He landed; his gait became lighter as he steadied to a gentle canter.

Neon edged his way slowly along the forest floor. The ground was covered with new spring growth, soft lush grasses and wildflowers abounded. As he trotted along the path, both he and Sirus sensed they were not alone. Neon slowed and sniffed the air. Something smelled wrong. Sirus tugged gently at his mane and Neon silently pulled to a stop just before a dense growth of shrubs.

Sirus dismounted with caution. There was something nearby, a life form. He could feel the power. But if the entity sensed their proximity or knew their purpose it did not appear afraid. Sirus could sense no alarm or stirring from beyond the brush as he stepped through the grass. He trod lightly, not wishing to frighten or disturb his quarry.

The path the pair tracked was well worn. Many of Sirus’s servants used it as a passage between their homes and Delgrade. Neon stood motionless, the cool ground beneath his feet seeping through the arc of his hooves, as he slowed his breathing to shallow intakes of air. Theron crept closer, his heartbeat rapid. The concern he was experiencing was a strange sensation, for both he and Neon knew something was amiss; whatever was hidden beyond the brush was a life force more potent than Theron himself. A sense of panic arose; bile stirred in the pit of the Immortal’s stomach.

Theron manipulated the skills of the Craft and distorted the view to see beyond the thicket. There, curled up in a ball as if asleep, lay a child, deathly pale and still, its skin as white as chalk. The child’s complexion appeared smoother than the leaves of the lilliam flower. Soft downy hair, the colour of summer heads of corn, covered its head falling across its features to conceal most of its face. Sirus moved closer and bent down cautiously; he did not wish to disturb the youngster. Carefully he touched the child; the youngster’s skin was cold and clammy. Still there was no response. He hesitated before slowly picking it up. He hugged it close against his body. Perspiration began to trickle down Sirus’s back, but it wasn’t from the heat of the day. This was no normal child. Something was amiss! He wondered momentarily if he should leave it here? Xanthos Forest was frequented by all manner of creatures; most seeking food to appease their hunger and Theron knew the child would make a tasty morsel for the wolves or foxes. He shook with apprehension and proceeded to carry the child back toward Neon.

As he approached the horse, he paused briefly to feel for a life force, a heartbeat or warm breath. He was relieved to feel a tiny pulse. As Theron neared Neon, he could see the horse had made good use of the delay and was busy munching on a winterberry bush. Neon lifted his head from the succulent shrub. Sweet juice from the berries edged his mouth, as he glanced suspiciously at the bundle in his master’s arms.

‘That thing has a peculiar smell! No good will come from this. I sense that child is not quite what it seems. Put it back; it can fend for itself.’ Neon’s tone was noticeably brusque.

‘Under normal circumstances I would heed your advice,’ Theron said with a warm smile, ‘but something about this child has captivated my curiosity. Besides you more than anyone else would be mortified if I left it here and it suffered harm.’

Theron paused as Neon approached. He couldn’t explain his morbid interest in the child other than that it had a presence about it.

‘Neon, I have a strong feeling that this child is important.’ Theron examined the child again as Neon took another sniff.

‘This youngster isn’t from Romanie, nor is it from any world I have known,’ Theron remarked. He held the child up to the sunlight that filtered down through the canopy.

‘This is certainly no creation of mine, nor do I believe is it one of Azrah’s,’ he added as Neon sniffed and inhaled deeply, before snorting in disgust.

‘Well! It smells very peculiar,’ Neon stated, feeling confident about his first appraisal. ‘Just take a good look at those ears! They’re not normal!’

Theron realised the child did have unusual features. Its ears were pointed in a sharp peak at the top and lay flat against its head. Certainly not a feature of any of the humans who populate my worlds, Theron thought. He wondered how it managed to get here on Romanie.

The golden curls had concealed the top of its ears, but had shaken free when Theron picked it up. Theron’s first impression of the child’s skin was correct; it was delicate and fragile and he could clearly see the veins beneath the surface.

‘You may not agree with me Neon, but I’m taking the child to Delgrade. I think we should keep it close until we can find out where it came from and how it managed to get here. I need answers.’

‘Very well,’ Neon snorted with indignation. ‘Only don’t say I didn’t warn you! I personally think this child is nothing but trouble. Either that or it will end up bringing trouble our way. What doesn’t smell right isn’t right.’ Neon hoped Theron would share his suspicions.

Theron carefully mounted Neon’s back, holding fast to the small bundle in his powerful arms. He deliberately ignored the frown on Neon’s brow. Together the three continued their journey through the forest toward Delgrade.

•

Several days later, Theron, now in his guise as Sirus, slipped quietly into the young boy’s room. Mildred, his housekeeper, had insisted on bathing the child before wrapping it in her newly laundered linen. They now knew the child was a boy. But Sirus still had no way of knowing who the boy was, or where he had originated. As he entered the room, Sirus noticed Mildred sitting patiently in the corner while the child slept soundly.

Mildred was not just Sirus’s housekeeper; she was an integral part of his home. She had been part of the spoils given to him by King Emid after the overthrow of Sabon – a neighbouring province. Her wily temper and obvious commanding presence were rare gifts, talents Sirus was grateful for.

The Sabon were a militant group of rebels who had thought to overthrow King Emid and his Eshtahian militia. But the hostilities and subsequent war had been short and the Sabon now lived at peace amongst the people of Eshtah.

Mildred was a kind, competent woman, who was as short in stature as she was round at the waist. Sirus had complete confidence in her ability to run his home. He knew whenever he was forced to leave to either honour his duties to King Emid or the Immortals, he could always be guaranteed of Mildred’s loyalty. She was well organised and, like all good commanders, quick to take affirmative action if anything or anyone got out of order.

As he entered the room, Mildred glanced up from her needlecraft and nodded to him. Then without further ado, she resumed her rhythmic threading in and out of her embroidery. The handiwork made by the Sabon women was renowned for its intricate patterns, textures and colours. Since coming to his household, Mildred had taught the young women amongst Sirus’s staff, as well as others from the surrounding district, how to work the intricate patterns to perfection. The women now had a profitable business selling to all the fashionable ladies of Eshtah. Sirus recalled taking a shawl back to Azrah, to boast of its beauty and the delicate workmanship in the stitching. He recalled how pleased the Goddess had been with her gift and he felt a brief pang of guilt now.

Sirus approached the bed; the boy’s angelic face lay cushioned against the pillows. Visually the child appeared young; yet Sirus sensed a great wisdom beneath the youthful exterior, which could only be accumulated over time.

‘Should I try and wake him,’ Sirus asked, deliberately softening his tone to match the deathly quiet of the room.

‘No. That would not be wise, just leave him be, your highness,’ Mildred’s motherly voice responded. ‘He is young and needs rest.’ She paused momentarily, as she speculated about her concerns. ‘This child is quiet exceptional, peculiar in fact! Do you not agree?’ Mildred had obviously noticed the uncharacteristic features of the boy. Sirus ignored her enquiry as he continued to stand guard at the child’s bedside. When the housekeeper received no answer she continued with her droll prattle, relaying the morning’s events within the chateau. Nothing occurred without Mildred’s knowledge. When Sirus continued to study the boy and ignored her gossip, she simply shrugged her shoulders and continued with her needlework.

‘He will wake when he is good and ready,’ she finally stated.

As Theron, Sirus could have penetrated the child’s thoughts; the memories concealed there would reveal hidden truths. But as Sirus it would require a depth of concentration and power that others around him, especially Mildred, would not understand. The suspicion it would arouse was not worth the risk. There would be time later.

Sirus bent over the child, the boy remained still. The child’s hands lay neatly by his sides, the bedding tucked about him for support. He looked so small in the large bed. Sirus leant closer; his face now almost touching the boy – something about this child was drawing him in.

The boy had been placed in the bedroom next to Sirus’s own personal rooms, so if the boy woke then he wanted to be the first to know. But it had been several days and still there had been no movement, but the boy’s condition had remained stable.

Mildred had discovered a medallion hanging around the small boy’s neck when she changed and bathed him. The object was crafted from a metal that Sirus had never seen, the material was extremely solid – an oxide with unusual colouring like burnished bronze. The medallion had been crafted in a circular fashion with inscriptions marked about its intricate border. At its centre was a hole the size of a small plum, but egg shaped. It was as if something belonged there. The strange lettering was in an unknown dialect, one that not even Sirus knew. As Theron, he thought he knew every language of the universe, but this language was foreign even to Theron.

Both Sirus and Mildred had tried to remove the medallion when they reclothed the boy. Sirus wished to examine the object at close range, but there was no clasp: the chain too small to remove over the boy’s head. He had decided he would wait until the boy gained consciousness. Then there would be time for questions and hopefully some answers about the boy and where he came from.

‘I’ll drop by later, Mildred.’ Sirus murmured, as he tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. He turned to walk from the room, his movements slow. His back was now turned toward the boy. He barely felt the soft touch of the child’s hand, as he reached up and grabbed hold of his wrist. Momentary surprise registered on Sirus’s face, seconds before the light in the room faded and Sirus was pulled into unconsciousness. He fell into a deep and mysterious sleep. Sirus thought he dreamt.

•

Sirus found himself in what appeared to be a dimly lit room. Looking about him, he realised he was still dressed in Romanie clothing. The room was empty; nothing but bare walls surrounded him. Sirus tried to move his limbs, but his feet were anchored to the floor. Helplessness was an alien sensation and for the first time in his existence he felt vulnerable, as well as completely and utterly alone. His mind seemed to be the one faculty still capable of functioning; yet when he tried to use his mental ability to move his muscles he found he was powerless.

Suddenly the room lit up and a child appeared. It was the child, the same young boy he found. Sirus realised too late that Neon might have been right.

The young boy moved forward, hovering at eye level directly in front of Sirus, who could do nothing to ward him off. The child did not appear to be malicious but Sirus still felt afraid.

Sirus tried to speak, he wanted