Inheritance

[Aiwaz Khath]

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ANDUL'S PASS, THE WEEPING WOODLANDS, ESHAN​

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The sickness did not last long. It had run it coarse through the king's body faster than anyone could anticipate, ravaging his organs and rotting his skin.
"It was no ordinary illness," claimed Mathias, a ageing man in simple, green robes etched with the unknowable symbols of esoterica and mystery. "For all his power, alas, he could not contain the magic that bound his blood to the sacred, and thus it tore through his body." He placed a rough palm upon his new liege's shoulder in assurance and comfort. "Fear not, my prince. Where he struggled, you shall triumph."
"We share the same blood, Mathias," spoke the prince. "Who is to say the same defect does not run through my own veins? The same inability to contain this... power."
"The king was old. There is hindrance to be found in all age, but also strength. It was his time to move on to Selidor, to seek the halls of your ancestors. His magic will serve him well into the afterlife, and it will guide you amongst the living."
They were words that did not offer much comfort, but Abramelin said nothing. A bitter breeze carried itself along Andul's Pass to the woodland canopy where they stood, causing the auburn trees overhead to sway delicately under the cold cloudline above. The air cut sharp into the lungs. Winter was on its way.

"I would have a moment alone with my father," said the prince.
"Of course, my lord." Mathias bowed his head with respect and hobbled off towards the camp. Abramelin placed his hand upon the freshly cut stone and closed his eyes. Engraved along its front was no name, for mention of a deceased's true name brought a terrible curse upon their transition into Selidor, the realm of the dead. Instead, it was garnered with runes of ancestral magic, the centrepiece stating simply, "Here lies the eighty-seventh King of Jotu. May he find peace forever in Selidor." Abramelin wished for something more extravagant, but Mathias had told him, "the dead have no need for the material." In his heart, he knew he was right. But he felt as though he was doing his father a disservice with such a humble resting place. He was a noble man, a kind and gentle man. He did not lord, but he ruled. He was a man of the people, but age had addled his mind in recent years, and thus his people had not left Eshan. They stagnated, unable to restore their glory. And now he was gone, savaged by his own strength, withered by that which was found within him. Now it fell to his son. What kind of ruler could he be? What kind of ruler must he be? "I shall live up to our legacy," he whispered to the stone. "I shall restore honour to it. This, I vow, father."

His eyes opened at the touch of wet cold. Upon his hand was a single, soft flake of snow. The first of winter had arrived.

 

[Aiwaz Khath]

The walk back to the camp was peaceful yet not without an element of eeriness, for the Weeping Woodlands was not a place one for ideally choose as their place of refuge. At every step lay remnants of gravestones, and one could see mounds in every direction. Alas, this forest held an ancient tradition for many locals, wherein they would bury their deceased. The Jotu were not local. They were not even Echani. But they were stuck here, and thus they adhered to the wishes of the nearby villages. If they were to seek refuge on their land, they would at least have to respect their traditions. Voices in heated argument echoed through the trees as Abramelin approached the camp of his people.

"He is not the true heir until he has completed the Trials. You know this, Mathias!" The voice was that of Finggar, an influential figure within the High Council of the Jotu folk, and frequent advisor to Abramelin's father.
"I know. If only His Grace had lived another year, so that our prince would have had time to pass them before-" Mathias fell silent, and his eyes locked towards the prince. Finggar's gaze followed, and for a while there was an uncomfortable, tense silence as Abramelin could feel the sight of his people rest upon him. His father's death placed him in an unexpected and difficult position. Tradition dictated he should pass the Trials of Andor before he inherited his father's crown. Only when - or if - he passes the Trials would he be considered worthy by his people.
"I understand some of you may have your doubts about me," Abramelin addressed to the local camp - the gathering of the more prestigious families of the Jotu (so-called 'nobles') - as others stood to hear his words with more detail. "I am young, inexperienced in rulership and much else. First and foremost, I have not ventured out into the galaxy to complete the Trials of Andor. Thus, I am not yet worthy of the mantle thrust upon me." The silence was so immense, even the gentle snow seemed like the booming of drums. "I hereby place stewardship in place of High Priest Mathias and the High Council. They shall guide you and keep you safe should you ever need. My father personally vouched to the diligence and loyalty of Mathias and Finggar. They will serve you truthfully. But alas, I must leave this planet, for I seek the Jewels of Indra." Hushed murmurs swept along the camp, and Mathias' face was one of astonishment, wonder, fear and doubt. Every Jotu child knows that a new king must seek a mystical artefact of some kind from the outside galaxy, and bring it back to symbolise and strengthen their right to rule. The first king, who was known only by their deified title 'Indra', was said to have created some of the most powerful magical artefacts, and with these artefacts he conquered and settled a homeworld for his people. The artefacts were passed down to Indra's heirs and descendants, but as the wars of other men came to their lands, the sacred Jewels of Indra were lost. "I will find these Jewels for you, my people. With them, I shall restore honour, glory and strength to the Jotu. Hear me, I shall not return until I have succeeded in this task. I vow upon my soul. Should I fail, may it be eternally bound to Saarth." He spoke no more, but offered an acknowledged nod to Mathias - who was beyond words and would doubtless attempt to sway him - and headed for his tent.

 

[Aiwaz Khath]

"This is absurd," cried Fenggar, who had been pacing around the prince's tent for some moments. "The Jewels are legend. Myth. Nothing more. You will not find them. You will never become king." Abramelin ignored his protests.
"What Fenggar is trying to say," spoke Mathias with gentle resolve, attempting to calm the energy of the room, "is it would surely be a better endeavour to find another item of magic instead of something that may not still be in existence."
"How long have you served as High Priest, Mathias?" asked the prince.
"I- Twenty years."
"And how long were you in the Priesthood before that?"
"Another twenty years."
"And would you say these have been a good forty years for our people? Have they been prosperous? Or have we been merely crawling along the edges of the galaxy, clambering to the aid of those who took pity on us?" The silence was sullen and heavy. Abramelin sat back in his oaken seat. "We are dwindling in number. We have less than five-thousand people to our name. We have lost our magic. We are no longer worthy of it. Do you not see this, brothers? We have grown weak. We have no ships, no money, barely enough food. Above all, we have lost our dignity. The gods would be ashamed." When he spoke, Mathias noted a certain pride and ambition in his prince's voice. It resembled that of his father and those before him. "The Jewels are out there, Mathias. You know they are. You have felt the call, just as I have. The gods are guiding our people back towards our collective destiny. You know this, and you know that I must return them home." After a long silence, Mathias gave an austere nod.
"Very well. I shall guide you in this endeavour, if I can. We shall arrange, with the local Echani, a way to contact you from here. Transport, too. And until you return, we shall keep the peace." Mathias looked to Fenggar, and Abramelin's own sight followed suit. For a while, he was silent, face stubborn and unmoving, until, eventually, a single word slipped out.
"Aye." He nodded once, almost frantically.
"Thank you, my friends. I will not forget this."