Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2) C.J. Aaron (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

the only one that defies that single term length. Once elected, they serve until another chooses to run in opposition or they step down. Councilor Paasek has served Vim faithfully for over twenty cycles.”

Irie paused at the conclusion of her introductions, watching Ryl with her studious eyes.

“We would like to ask the two of you some questions,” she intoned. “All heard the reports given from Kaep and the scout detail that found you. We are keenly interested in hearing the telling in your own words.”

She sat forward in her chair, resting her arms on the table. Her fingers interlocked as she eagerly awaited the story. Ryl leaned back in his chair. His breathing had slowed, returning to a normal rate after the abnormally taxing use of his skills. He looked at Andr; the mercenary was relaxing in his chair, right leg crossed over the other.

“You start,” he said. “I’ll pick up where you leave off.”

Together, Ryl and Andr retold their story starting from their disastrous arrival on the coast. The council remained silent, attentively listening to the tale that was being relayed. From the point at which his own awareness left him, Ryl too listened on with rapt attention as Andr finished the tale. The depiction of his annihilation of the Horde scouting party was met with wide eyes and open mouths.

“Have you no recollection of the attack, Ryl?” Councilor Paasek inquired.

“To be honest, until it was described, I’ve had a difficult time understanding what was real and what resulted from the poison,” Ryl admitted. “Far too much over those days was confusing. My mind was lost in a sea of hallucinations and pain.”

Ryl thought for a moment before carrying on. The memory of his unexpected defense was clear, yet so too were the hallucinations. Until Andr’s description of the events, he was still unsure of what was real and what was fiction.

He could recall his defiant attack in brutal clarity. He felt the desperation and the anger that had coursed through him as if it had just occurred. He felt the Leaves slide through the dark flesh of the Horde with no resistance. The warm spray of the putrid blood on his skin carrying the foul odor of death and decay. Yet there were still elements that tugged at his memory, so real at the moment, yet cloudy now.

The rejuvenating breath of air from the forest. It carried a vivid reminder of the Erlyn.

The voice that whispered on the wind. In his mind it had sounded like the words of Da’agryn.

The scream.

Ryl shifted positions uncomfortably in his chair.

“There is something that still bothers me,” Ryl admitted. Paasek leaned forward in his chair, his curiosity evident. “I felt something akin to a breath of wind from the forest. It surged over me like a wave, washing away the false visions and pain that clouded my mind. I felt the Erlyn in its call. I heard a whisper urging me to stand, to fight. It was a voice I could never forget. It was Da’agryn.”

Ryl’s eyes wandered the room, focusing on nothing in particular as he rambled on.

“Then there was the scream,” he continued. “I can still hear the ring of it sounding in my ears.”

Paasek exchanged a curious glance with the other members of the council.

“All phrenics here heard that too. Moreover, all phrenics here felt it, we still feel the tremors of it now,” Paasek admitted. “That voice has a name, and an ancient one at that, yet little else is known about it. It has been referred to as the Cries of the Fallen. Rumored to be issued only in times of dire peril when all hope has been lost. It’s a desperate plea for help. I’ll go back through the records, but I fear there isn’t much else to be learned.”

“The name, Da’agryn?” Irie questioned, cutting short Paasek’s ruminations. “That is a name we have not heard before. What can you tell us about this Da’agryn?”

“He was a phrenic—” Ryl began, only to be interrupted as Paasek leapt from his chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly as they slid back across the floor.

“—Impossible!” Paasek gasped. “The only true phrenics that survive remain in Vim.”

“Unbelievable, yes. But impossible? No.” Ryl said politely. “The Erlyn led me to him in a cave hidden deep within the woods. Our meeting was brief, yet the information he passed on was monumental. Before meeting him, I’d never heard the word phrenic. He spoke of a history erased from record. He instructed me in the ways of communicating with the forest, ways to practice the phrenic mindsight and to practice another skill he possessed. The soulborne wind.”

Paasek’s eyes bulged wider at the mention of the soulborne wind. He sank back into his chair in disbelief.

“That is a skill that has scarcely been seen throughout the ages,” he whispered. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“He claimed he’d been called many names across the ages,” Ryl continued as he thought back to their brief meeting. “Said he was more a part of the forest now than anything, nothing more than a voice and feeling elsewhere. He convinced me not to give up hope. A hope I hate to admit was faltering.”

Ryl paused before continuing, replaying every moment of their brief meeting in his mind.

“Somehow, he knew I’d be rescued after my Harvest,” Ryl breathed. “He believed that I would be the catalyst. That I would be the one to herald the changes that had been prophesied. He told me to look to the mountains, for I’d find my answers there. He said there was much to be done before my Harvest and vanished with the wind.”

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. Ryl could hear nothing over it as the moments stretched on. The councilors again exchanged wide eyed glances.

“Could it be him?” Heild asked.

“The prophet,” Oswill added in awe.

Paasek nodded his head in wonder.

“The prophet?” Ryl asked curiously.

“Once every hundred cycles since our founders fled here, we have been visited by one