The Gathering: Rise of Faiden, #4

By Kimber Grey

Shackled and tortured by the dark ruler of Faiden to awaken his prophetic power, Kenneth struggles to find a way to turn his gift against his captor and brother, Sayron. As his sanity wanes, Kenneth comes to realize that Sayron is a slave to the Power that controls him. Can the prisoner save his sanity and his brother, or will the darkness he sees in his visions consume both of them?

Shattered by grief, lost, and alone, Vera endures the brutal landscape of the Northern Mountains in search of the Oracle to learn how to defeat the dark lord. In her desperation, can she continue to fight knowing she will have to kill her beloved brother, Sayron?

Attia, the immortal who gave rise to Faiden, hears the pleas of the kingdom to be healed. She calls the guardians of the shards of the shattered Cerulean Crystal home. Will Vera succeed in her quest and gather with them to restore the heart of Faiden?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimber Grey
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386168799

Kimber Grey

Kimber was born in the arid and alien land known as southern California. She began consuming fiction from an early age, and has ever been eager to emulate the works that dramatically shaped her heart and mind as a child. She began creating short fiction and poetry in grade school, and wrote her first (laughably bad) novel in jr. high. Luckily, devouring the written word at an alarming rate tends to improve one's ability to produce it. With a grandmother who is a writer and an editor, English teachers who supported her budding potential, and a husband with a clever wit and an even greater appreciation of the written word, Kimber has never lacked support in the pursuit of her bliss. She published her first fantasy novel Quietus in 2009, and her second Seeking Destiny in 2012. The first three books of Faiden Reborn, Kingdoms Lost, Fallen Heroes, and History Forgotten were published in 2017. Her work has appeared in anthologies such as: "Ponderous Paradox", Missing Pieces IV; "Pushing the Envelope" and "A Dash of Salt & A Can of Whoop-Ass", Missing Pieces V; "Deathbringer's Apprentice", Missing Pieces VI; and "Solace Moon", The Hapless Cenloryan-The Troubadour's Inn Book I (2017 Ed.).

Book preview

The Seven Realms

One

The Northern Mountains

Kenneth groaned, his head throbbing. He carefully maneuvered his body, stiff from the cold stone, into a seated position. The sound of heavy chains dragging filled the dark bedchamber as his many shackles moved with him. His nose itched and he absently scratched at it. When he drew his hand away, he frowned down at the dried blood that had flaked off onto his fingers. Movement caught his eyes, and he looked up sharply. The Dark Lord of Faiden had positioned a standing oval mirror against the wall across from where Kenneth lay. Though it was daylight, very little sun filtered through the thick clouds of the northern mountain, and every inch of the dark lord's bedchamber was black.

Kenneth sneered at the dark lines of dried blood marking his face from his nose to his chin. More alarming, though, were the trails that streamed down from the corners of his eyes. He stared at his reflection, horrified by what he saw. His father had never been fond of mirrors; he'd considered them luxuries for the vain. Kenneth had rarely ever seen his reflection except in the polished steel of a sword or the rippling light of a pond. Though he was unfamiliar with his own features, the face he saw in the mirror was certainly a far cry from the one he'd bourn just a month before.

He was pale, his cheeks sunken, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. His collar bone and ribs showed clearly, with bruises visible all over his lanky frame, wherever bandages didn't cover. His clothes were soiled, torn, and little more than ruined rags. His ash-blond locks were inky gray, his roots almost black with the stain of sorcery.

His normally vibrant red wings were dull burgundy with a network of black veins. The lesser white wings rooted at his waist were muddy gray from sorcery. Both sets of his wings were brutally pierced with large metal rings. Heavy chains ran from rings and from the shackles on his wrists and ankles to the hearthstone in front of the fireplace where he had been sleeping. Everywhere that the flesh of the magic-born limbs was broken, the black webbing was darker.

Kenneth let out a slow breath, meeting his own gaze once more. When his hair was darkened and his face pale and hollow, he greatly resembled the dark lord. Oh, God, he whispered, his body suddenly shaking at the horrific realization. Oh, God. Oh, God!

Finally see it, do you? Sayron asked, crossing into the bedchamber from the study. You and I share a face, general.

Kenneth glared. What did you do to me, he shrieked.

Sayron laughed, stopping next to the mirror, giving Kenneth the opportunity to compare the dark lord to the prisoner, side by side. Kenneth looked back and forth, but every glance only made their resemblance more obvious.

Damn you, Kenneth spat, lunging to the end of his chains and rising unsteadily to his feet. What did you do, monster? Answer me!

Sayron laughed harder. Now you see what I saw the moment I laid eyes upon your face. You were the exact image of myself in my distant youth. He chuckled. I was wondering how long it would take you to acknowledge that we are kin.

Liar, Kenneth screamed. "I'm nothing like you! Liar! Beast! Vile, loathsome, monster!"

Sayron roared with laughter. Call me what you will, Brother. Blood we are, and have always been.

Don't call me that! We are not—

Oh, give it a rest, general. You can rant and rave, but it changes nothing. It took me quite some time to believe it, but now I am certain. You have even confirmed it multiple times under the burden of your prophetic powers. You are my long-lost twin brother, Kayron Gleoson Aeroth. He laughed at Kenneth's stricken face. Remember how I told you that I knew your parents?

Kenneth spat at Sayron. "I don't believe your lies! Nothing you say would ever endear me to you! You are not my blood! Never! "

Sayron quirked a brow, shedding his cloak to open his two sets of wings. Then explain, dear brother, how we share an uncanny resemblance as well as belong to a very rare race of fire elemental fae.

Kenneth stared at Sayron's wings, examining their size, shape, and color. The larger ones, rooted between his shoulders were a dark burgundy, almost black, and the ones at his waist were a drab gray. They might have been red and white once, before he was stained by evil and sorcery. There was no mistaking the unusual shape of the larger wings, rising to a point, and falling to a box shape. They were the same as Kenneth's. No, he whispered, but in his gut, he already knew that the dark lord was not lying.

Somehow, a part of Kenneth had always known. He looked away, his stomach knotting painfully. All at once, he was aware of a great number of things he knew but had never allowed himself to acknowledge. He was a Prince of Faiden, Sayron was his older twin by a handful of moments, and his mind was full of knowledge and facts that he didn't remember learning.

How many languages do you know? Sammie's voice suddenly echoed in his mind as if she sat beside him. Kenneth looked down, seeing the soft grass of that distant forest, her kind eyes shining up at him. Then, he was lost in the vision.

Sammie spread a blanket on the grass, her dark hair speckled with what sunlight could pierce the canopy. Some of the others said you used words like 'comprehend' and 'underestimate' before you could even walk properly, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you know a lot of languages.

Kenneth hardly knew the impetuous and forward girl, and a lifetime of ruthless bullying and heartless gawking had made him wary. He was the only fae in a human city, and he wasn't even normal. Two sets of wings, one of them oddly shaped, made him an anomaly, a freak. He was accustomed to mockery of every form.

When Kenneth didn't answer her, she looked up into his wary gaze What, she asked, raising her eyebrows. She waited a moment, and then shrugged when he still didn't answer. Okay, you don't want to talk about that? That's fine. I don't mind. She turned back to the basket she had brought with her and began to lay out a picnic. What do you want to talk about?

"What do you really want, Samantha?" he finally replied, his voice quietly cordial. He didn't have time for whatever game she was playing.

Sammie sighed and looked back up at him. You don't have to be so guarded around me, Kenneth. I'm not like the others. I'm not going to call you names, or judge you before I get to know you, she assured him. So far, you seem like a very interesting person, she brazenly observed. "What I want is to eat lunch and have the opportunity to get to know you. She smiled broadly, and then added, and you can stop trying to figure me out, because I am exactly what I seem. So . . . will you join me?" She patted the blanket beside her where she had left room for him.

Kenneth was unnerved by the strange girl, and for a moment, he considered asking her to leave so he could return to his arms practice. It would have been rude, especially if she was in earnest. Besides, the food she had brought smelled delicious, and he hadn't eaten all day. He sat down beside her on the blanket.

Twelve, he answered. Not including subtle variations of slang and pronunciation. He hesitated for a moment, and then added, that I know of.

That you know of, she asked with a smile and a shake of her head. That's odd. She held a water flask out to him.

Kenneth bristled at being called 'odd', but it wasn't untrue, so he took the flask and drank.

How can you not know how many languages you've learned? She must have recognized his growing discomfort at the line of questioning, because she reached out tentatively and touched his arm. I'm not the enemy, Kenneth. If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. I'm curious, that's all.

After a long moment, he sighed. Perhaps she was what she claimed. He hoped she was, at any rate. Having anyone to talk to besides his single-minded father, the general, would be greatly welcomed. I don't know, he conceded. Sometimes, I see a language I've never encountered before, and I already understand it.

Wow. That would scare me, she confessed.

This time, he wasn't offended. It was the truth. It was strange, and it did scare him. He accepted the food she offered and returned her smile.

So, you memorize books, know a dozen languages, some of which you didn't learn, and you spend all your time training and studying? She shook her head and chuckled. You are a very complex person, Kenneth.

Kenneth was shaking violently when the vision faded from his mind, leaving him standing in the dim chamber of the dark lord. His brother.

What did you see, Sayron asked, his voice terse as if he had already voiced that question several times.

Suddenly too weak to stand anymore, Kenneth fell to his knees. Slowly his eyes rose to his oppressor. I'm . . . I'm as old as you, aren't I?

Sayron smiled. That is correct. So, where have you been these past eight hundred years?

Kenneth shook his head, looking down. His heart ached from the vivid memory of young Samantha. If he ever saw her again, she would be with another man. That inexplicable knowledge was both comforting and devastating. Sorry, he whispered wryly. I can only account for the past twenty years.

Sayron crouched before Kenneth, gripping the general's chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. Do you know why the Orb of Power wants you?

Kenneth jerked his face out of Sayron's grip, glaring. Of course not!

Sayron smirked. Because you are an eight-hundred-year-old prophet of phenomenal strength. You can lead us to the Oracle. You can see beyond her deceptive and clever ways.

Kenneth shook his head, shifting quickly away. "No. I will not help you."

Sayron shrugged. I honestly don't care if we catch her or not. You see, the Orb I possess has amazing powers, but the green orb the Oracle possesses can scry the future . . . all futures.

Kenneth frowned. The implications of what the evil dark lord could do with such knowledge lifted the hairs on the nape of his neck. Why wouldn't you want that?

Sayron smirked. Do you know what possessing that magnitude of knowledge does to a man? He shook his head. He loses all self, all understanding of the present and the current reality.

Kenneth looked away from the dark lord's enigmatic gaze. Why tell me this?

Because, Kenneth, Brother, I just witnessed your mind losing connection with the present in favor of a vision . . . without provocation. You're slipping.

Kenneth shot a dark look at Sayron. No.

Yes. Sayron sighed and rocked back on his heels. Your powers are growing beyond you, and your mind is starting to break.

No, Kenneth snapped.

Sayron rose and strode to the balcony doors, looking out. The truly curious part of this, witnessing your decline, Brother. He shook his head. A part of me wants to stop it.

Two

Land's End

Prince Aster wasn't the guardian of the Gemma Calbrin Crystal, a shard of the Cerulean Crystal, which meant two things: he was more expendable than the actual guardian, King Flash, and he would have to be exceedingly careful when attempting any magic on it. Aster had exhausted hours carefully building a bridge of energy between himself and his father's shard of the Cerulean Crystal. The connection had to be built piece by piece and fortified heavily. Aster had often bragged about his awe inspiring control over large quantities of raw energy, but all of his previous endeavors had been nothing compared to the three-inch, raw carnelian stone he clasped between his stocky palms.

He couldn't begin to comprehend how such potent and well-balanced magic could be contained within such a small tool. The more he came to understand the fragment of the once mighty Cerulean Crystal, the more he admired the craftsmanship. Simply touching the outermost fringes of the shard's magic could easily destroy Aster, even with the exhaustive protections he was painstakingly erecting.

Only after he was certain he could not possibly dampen the energy feed any more, did he tentatively reach out to the magic within the crystal. In an instant, it filled him to his limit, and he gasped. His own lifestone blared as bright as the sun and burned hot against his chest. Aster grit his teeth, clinging to his protections under the numbing flood of magic from the shard. It nearly obliterated the bridge, almost overwhelming Aster's connection to his lifestone. No! He shuddered. Please hear me, wise crystal! He didn't think it would respond, and yet it did. The flood ebbed to a steady flow of energy, still staggering in intensity, but no longer overwhelming.

Aster panted from the effort it took to keep his wits under the weight of the crystal's potent consciousness. He hadn't expected sentience, but its intelligence and amazing cognitive capabilities flooded into his mind. He felt like an infant next to the wisdom, age, and lightning-fast thought processes of the crystal. In a moment, it had taken in everything he knew, his entire life of experiences, and had already reached a decision about what defensive measures it should take against his invasion.

It crumbled Aster's energy bridge, demolishing it in an instant with ease. Aster jerked and yelped in pain. He was completely at the shard's mercy. No defense he could hope to mount would even slow down such a powerful adversary. Without thought, Aster dropped all semblance of defense, leaving himself completely open to the crystal. His mind, magic, and lifestone were left vulnerable. He allowed it do as it wished with his life and soul, and hoped it would be merciful.

The crystal responded by withdrawing quickly, leaving Aster alive and relatively unharmed. Aster sighed with relief, recognizing immediately that the crystal had been acting defensively the entire time, reacting to what it perceived to be an attack. Shaking, Aster reached out again, this time with no bridge and no protections. He knew it could destroy his lifestone, shattering his soul, but he needed to risk it.

Amazingly, the crystal allowed the contact and filled his mind much more gently then the first time. Though Aster could tell it was controlling its output to keep from harming him, even that tiny, momentary contact transferred so much information that he was instantly overwhelmed. All of his own thoughts were drowned out and oblivion abruptly overtook him.

Three

The Northern Mountains

The sun woke Princess Vera. She blinked at the bright noon sun peeking through the clouds, but didn't lift her head from the pack she was using for a pillow. She had walked to the first stones jutting from the ground at the base of the black Northern Mountains, only to tuck herself out of sight in a crevice and cry herself to sleep. The sun, drifting bright orange into the niche in which she hid, had awakened her once more to a harsh world of loneliness and regret. To a world where her beloved guardian, Master Wizard Wizkand Safreous, was no more.

A few flakes of gray snow drifted down around her, falling from a canopy of murky clouds that seemed to churn ever above the mountains. Vera pulled a blue wing over her face and cried. Wizzy, she wept. What do I do without you? How can I go on? What's worth fighting for, now? She nestled her face against the pack, the old calbrin's scent still permeating it. How can I believe in a world that would demand so much? Take so much? How can I go on, she sobbed. Less than a month ago, we were so happy!

She wailed openly into the emptiness of the sky, her ragged and wretched sobs soaking the makeshift pillow. And I took that from you! Why did I listen to the kingdom's cries? Why did I have to leave our wonderful home? Oh, God, how I wish you were here! She beat her fist against the hard contents of the pack. Oh God! I wish I was home!

Vera cried until her sides hurt, until her voice rasped and her head throbbed. When she was utterly spent, she lay under her expansive wings, tears coursing down her cheeks, her breaths shuddering. Both of the homes she had ever known were gone. The Crystal Palace and her family were murdered by her brother, and her cottage sanctuary in the woods with Wizkand was smoldering ash. What now, she whispered, lifting her gaze to a glimmer of light that streamed in from the edge of where her wing met the stone. What do I do, now?

She gave a shuddering sigh and slowly sat up, letting the light dusting of dirty snow slide off of her two sets of wings. She looked up at the imposing dark mountains before her, then to the sun that was now mostly concealed by the low-hanging clouds. She didn't want to go on, but she couldn't go back. Could she stay under that stone forever? Could she go back to sleep for another eight centuries and forget her heartache, as she had once before?

She looked down, ashamed. It was times like this, moments of uncertainty, when Wizzy's firm voice would coax her from her emotional paralysis. She surprised herself when she began to talk aloud, digging deep for the strength that Wizzy would normally provide. You would forget him? Selfish girl, she chided herself. Crying quietly, she rose to her feet and pulled her pack onto her back. He told you to be strong, she muttered, her voice cracking. She swallowed back the thickness in her throat. He told you to keep moving.

She looked up at the mountains through the haze of her tears. Then, without even a conscious decision to do so, she began to move. One step after another, she started toward a narrow path not far from where she had hidden herself. He believed in you. Don't give up. Don't be the spoiled brat that once blamed him for your parents' deaths. Her voice became more steady, her tears drying as she began her ascent. "Don't you dare let him down."

Four

The Northern Mountains

Far below, a vast brown wasteland stretched in every direction. Very near to the north, the ominous black spires of the Northern Mountains filled the horizon. Kenneth was only vaguely aware that he was seeing the terrible landscape in the past, through the eyes of another.

The wind froze and whipped Vera's tears away, grabbing at her clothes and packs. Had she been conscious of her surroundings, she would have been grateful for her genetic resistance to the below-freezing air that she glided through. All her world had shrunk to a devastating loss that choked out of her as constant sobs that the wind tore away. Her heart hurt, a physical reminder of her sorrow and loneliness. She felt hollow, empty, and alone.

Her wings and the wind carried her to the ground, and she fell to her knees at the base of the dead black mountains. She hugged herself, wailing, and her voice echoed distantly back at her from the barren reaches of the black spires before her.

The heir, Kenneth whispered, his vision returned to his black cell, his face soaked from tears. Sayron was crouched next to him, watching Kenneth's face intently.

What did you see? What of the heir?

Kenneth felt a surge of energy and sat back on his heels, panting from the sudden wash of magic. Sayron gasped, straightening as well, his gaze lifting to the windows of the balcony. A thick gray streak of hair appeared in the dark lord's black locks, and Kenneth looked to his own reflection. The same gray lock of hair had appeared on the left side of his head.

Sayron spun on Kenneth, grabbing a fist full of the general's hair. What is this? What is Faiden up to? I know you feel it, too!

Before the words were out of Sayron's mouth, Kenneth