Veiled Empire by Nathan Garrison

right.”
    He turned to leave, and with a start, realized he was not the only one standing in the room.
    One of the sergeants stared at him wide-eyed. “Who . . . who are you?” he asked. The man stood with one hand on the hilt of his still-sheathed weapon.
    He was the one on the far side, who had been tangled up in the man he’d thrown his mace at. Luck, that he’d been overcome with fascination, rather than duty. A sign? Hardly. Things don’t work like that anymore.
    “Salvation,” Yandumar said. “Or not. You’ll soon be forced to pick between them. I suggest you choose wisely.”
    He took out the link and undid the latch.
    Nothing happened.
    He turned the open sphere over in his hands. What did Gilshamed say was going to–?
    An all-encompassing light ripped across his vision, blinding him to all else. A sensation like being dipped in boiling water accompanied a wind that shrieked and tore at his eardrums. The moment stretched out, pain rising, and with it, panic.
    Then, as quickly as it began, the sensations vanished. Yandumar looked around, blinking in the sudden darkness, and from it a voice spoke out. “Are you all right, Yan? Are you hurt at all? How do you feel?’
    “Scorch it, Gil! What was that? You said it would be a signal, not . . . not . . .”
    “Yes, sorry. I was afraid you would not agree to this little test.”
    “Test?” He grabbed Gilshamed by the shoulders and shook him. “I had no idea what was going on. I thought I was dying!”
    “Dying? No, no, there was little chance of that. But I had to ensure your safe retrieval from the encampment without further altercation.”
    Yandumar sighed and released the valynkar. “That’s . . . well . . . thank you. I guess.”
    Gilshamed drummed two fingers on his cheek as he ran his ancient eyes over him. “Yan, is something the matter?”
    Yandumar grunted. You always see to the heart of things, don’t you? . The thought tasted more bitter than he expected. “Will we never escape our pasts?”
    Gilshamed smiled and put a hand on Yandumar’s shoulder. “Perhaps not. But, together, I think we may get the chance to confront them. And is that not, after all, the better path?”
    “We’ll see.”
    Gilshamed seemed to take that as affirmation, for he lifted a hand skyward and released a ball of brilliant yellow fire, which lit the night for a league in all directions.
    Their scattered forces moved into position surrounding the four now-leaderless companies. Gilshamed unfurled his wings, their own source of luminescence, and launched himself into the air.
    “Give them hope, my friend,” said Yandumar at the back of the retreating figure. “This land could surely use some.”
    V OREN SET DOWN his quill and crumpled up the parchment. A waste, but the tragedy that was his latest attempt at channeling his emotions did not bear viewing by any other soul. It joined several other pathetic excuses for poetry, a few disharmonious compositions, and a painting aborted after only a few dozen brushstrokes.
    The departure of Draevenus had left him empty. The mierothi’s companionship had grown to be something Voren treasured, waking him up from so many centuries of lethargy. Not even the best of his art had made him so aware of what it meant to be alive. To connect with another sentient being, even on something so simple as the history lessons he had been giving, was so much closer to “living” than anything else he had done since his capture. But now that Draevenus was gone, the awareness of that need lingered without an outlet for it.
    Abyss take him for ever knocking on my door!
    Even as he thought it, Voren knew the sentiment lacked bite. Draevenus’s presence had been the best thing to happen to him in this palace.
    But his dull compliance with an empty existence no longer sufficed, and he was plagued by a recent urge to capture . . . something. He could not quite define it, which, of course, was the main drive behind his need to so do.