The Power of Twelve

     “Then why would you not have told us?” Kelland asked. “Why keep your movements secret? It only invites mistrust.”

     The Darkest Faerie snorted at the idea.

     “Really?” she said. “You really think you might have believed me to be contrite if I had come here telling you where I had been? That my first thought had been Ilere, a Faerie that many consider to be Dark despite the colour of her wings? That when she failed me, I sought out one of the most dangerous sorcerers ever to live and consulted with his entombed spirit? My choices would only have painted me as more deserving of punishment, not less.”

     “Well, we are in that situation now,” Jerdana fumed.

     They were still in the Darkest Faerie’s chambers. Finneus had long ago returned to the Archives to study the Book of the Twelve further. Jerdana, Kelland, and Sasha had remained to confront the Darkest Faerie when Siyana returned her to her erstwhile prison. It had quickly devolved into shouting and bitter recriminations, as all matters concerning the Darkest Faerie did in Altador.

     “And can you blame me?” the Darkest Faerie asked. “I know you people. I know you. We are family, or the closest thing to one I have ever known. I suspected you cast the curse and would know how to lift it. But I also knew that, after all I have done to you, the chances of you voluntarily lifting it were slim to none. So yes, I went to Ilere, the best healer I have ever known, to try and buy me time. Time to find another way, because I was sure this route was closed to me. When she mentioned Oberon, yes, I went to him. Because I hoped he knew magic you did not. But never, never because I did not want to be here. Only because I feared what you would say if I came.”

     It struck Siyana that she had never once heard the Darkest Faerie admit to a fear. Never.

     “And yes, I sent the message to Kaia and Reizo,” the Darkest Faerie added. “Because I understood that if I was to die, there would be no sense in attempting to take others with me. You have discovered my actions, Kelland. Not my motivations. I have changed. I swear it on everything I hold dear. And I do not care if you believe me or not. Watch me waste away for all I care, it is a fate I know I deserve. Just let me do it here, in the place we built together. In the only place I have ever truly been happy. Our home.”

     “And what of Oberon?” Sasha asked.

     “What of him?” the Darkest Faerie asked. “We were old acquaintances, yes, from long before I met any one of you. I found the man useful if tiresome. We parted ways amicably centuries before the founding of Altador.”

     “And his spell?” Sasha said. “He has cast one on you. Tied to a hidden history. Memories you have hidden within you, as with the one Jerdana once cast on us all. You have been slowly working this spell all over Altador.”

     The Darkest Faerie frowned.

     “What?” she demanded. “He cast no spell on me.”

     “You would not even be aware of it,” Sasha said.

     “I would,” the Darkest Faerie stressed. “You think I’m the sort of person who goes around being magically enchanted without noticing? I spent a thousand years trapped in a stone prison, Sasha. I have learned to be very discerning with my senses. And I’m certainly not missing any memories from my time with Oberon. I remember each town we burned as if it was yesterday. Besides, how would I even be getting out across Altador? Aside from Siyana’s little walkabout I have been under guarded lock and key here the whole time. I think someone might have noticed if I was just popping out all the time, don’t you?”

     “But it must have been you,” Sasha protested. “Who else could have done it?”

     At that point, a commotion in the passage outside disturbed them, and a moment later Finneus returned, bursting through the doors with sudden fervour. The old Lenny was out of breath, seemingly having run there all the way from the Archives.

     “King Altador, where is he?” he asked as he gasped for air.

     “He left for Neovia ages ago,” Sasha said.

     “No!” Finneus gasped. “You must recall him!”

     “Why?” Jerdana asked.

     “He’s in grave danger!” Finneus explained. “The Book, another chapter filled itself in, the last one about Xantan. I understand now, the Darkest Faerie isn’t the one who has been painting the graffiti. The King was right, Oberon has planned a trap, but not this spell. The Darkest Faerie is bait, bait to get the King to Oberon’s lair. Because he knew it would be his only chance.”

     “What on Neopia do you mean?” Kelland asked.

     “It’s King Altador!” Finneus said. “He’s been painting the graffiti — he has hidden memories about the Twelve. And he’s not at all what he seems!”

     ***

     The host of Altadorian soldiers arriving on the outskirts of Neovia in a flash of magic caused enough of a stir. That the battalion didn’t enter the town but instead marched themselves straight into the secluded entrance to the Catacombs in the town’s graveyard was a matter for even more gossip.

     The shadowy denizens of the Catacombs retreated when they heard the plate metal footsteps coming. Kelland’s directions to the secret chamber had been exact, so they didn’t need to search for the faint trail of magic. King Altador posted soldiers at every major junction, to keep their retreat safe should they need it. When it came to the final dead end, he ordered the final two soldiers to remain at the cave mouth. He had begun this journey alone, all those centuries ago in Neopia City. He would end it alone, too.

     He knew what to expect in the cavern, but even so he drew his sword as he entered. He triggered the mechanism and the machines and magic paraphernalia sprung to life, casting eerie green shadows across the Lupe’s face. The flickering image of the emaciated Kyrii appeared in front of him, grinning sickeningly.

     “Oberon the Arcanist,” Altador greeted him.

     “Altador,” the Kyrii said, deliberately dropping the ‘King’.

     “You know of me?” Altador asked.

     “Oh yes,” Oberon replied with that snaky smile. “I’ve followed your career with particular interest. Ever since you cut Xantan down in that dark, foetid cave, I knew we would eventually meet. It was fated.”

     “I am here to finish what I started there,” Altador said.

     Oberon simply laughed.

     “Oh, little child, it didn’t start there,” he said with a wicked grin. “I hate to break it to you, but you are nothing more than a delivery man. No, what we are ending truly began the day I first met Xantan, when the twelve of us founded the Great Empire. I was his apprentice, you know? We both sought to outshine the Kayannin who came before us. We sought to champion over death itself, and made a bet. Whichever achieved true immortality first, would be named the Master Wizard. The obsession with it was what caused Xantan to turn against us and curse the council. It was also, by the by, the reason I betrayed him. I told the rest of the council his plan, knowing full well they would confront him.”

     “An interesting story but hardly relevant to the here and now,” Altador cut in.

     “Ah, but it is,” Oberon said. “It is so very relevant. It is the crux of why both you and I are here. You see, when we confronted Xantan, he cast a spell that would protect him from a true death. He tied his soul to Jahbal and Mastermind. He turned his rebirth into a magical bomb, and made the deaths of his former friends the triggering mechanism. When he was felled, his spirit would dance down the sword arm of his vanquisher, and there it would wait, like a thief lurking in the shadows. Until both Jahbal and Mastermind fell, then it would explode forth with the latent magical energy and Xantan would be reborn. You saw this, in Two Rings. Xantan was reborn before you.”

     “And cut down again, all the same,” Altador said.

     “Oh yes,” Oberon agreed. “And I thought, I planned that would be the end of it. Xantan’s bid for immortality would be at an end and I, by default, would be declared the winner. Sadly, that did not come to pass. You see, I had not counted on the fact that when we confronted him, Xantan would cast two spells. The first, he targeted on Jahbal and Mastermind. The second, he aimed for the rest of us. Two chances at redemption for him. Two more rolls of the dice, and the second has yet to be spent.”

     “Xantan still lives?!” Altador gasped.

     “Yes, oh yes,” Oberon said with that sly smile. “You’re starting to get it now. When you struck him down the second time, Xantan performed the same trick. Your sword became a bridge, a channel that allowed him to cross. And once more his spirit has wormed its way into your soul, waiting there like an awful parasite, for the day when you are compelled to complete your final task. To rid the world of the Circle of Twelve forever. I helped, of course. I took care of all the others over the years. Now, only I remain. You are here to finish the job.”

     “You want your death so badly that you would lure me here?” Altador asked. “You cast the memory spell? Had the Darkest Faerie paint graffiti all over the city? Planted the book in the Archives? Are you mad?”

     “Quite,” Oberon replied plainly. “That was the nature of Xantan’s curse, after all. He corrupted us all, right down to the core. But no, I didn’t lure you here. You did that.”

     “I have had no part in your schemes.”

     “So close, and yet so far!” Oberon proclaimed. “Don’t you see? Xantan is wrapped around your soul? He is in your unconscious mind, and has been guiding your hand for centuries. Why do you think you selected twelve people for the Altador council? Why the titles? Why do their duties so mirror those of the Circle? Why did you seal the Darkest Faerie away rather than kill her? The story of Altador mirrors the story of the Great Empire because of you and Xantan’s influence within you. You placed the Book of the Twelve in the Altador Archives, when it was first founded. You cast the memory spell, with the hopes its completion would awaken enough of Xantan’s soul to get you to this chamber. You have been painting graffiti all over your own city. You, you, you. To get the delivery boy in position. Well, here you are.”

     Altador felt a terrible darkness inside him stirring, but bit it back.

     “To kill you?” Altador asked. “Why would you want that?”

     “Because I made a bet and I intend to win,” Oberon answered plainly. “Xantan remains inside you. I knew his influence would coerce you to come here alone, undefended. So yes, this is bait, I suppose. To get you here so that I might end you, and by extension him, and claim my rightful title as Master Wizard.”

     Oberon’s projection turned to one of the machines spread across the cavern, which suddenly began making a radically different noise at his direction. Behind him, Altador heard the rumble of stone sliding into place as the entrance to the chamber sealed. Slowly, from the vats of putrid chemicals, gas was pouring out. Green and cloying. Choking. Poison.

     “The Darkest Faerie’s plan in the Forgotten Graveyard lacked elegance, but if it gets the job done…” Oberon considered.

     King Altador began to cough as the gas entered his lungs, burning them and forcing him to the floor to try and avoid the worst of it.

     “It’s nothing personal, you understand?” Oberon said. “I have nothing against you, Altador. By all accounts you’ve been a useful idiot. But Xantan must fail.”

     “I’ve... heard enough... from you!” Altador growled.

     He gathered what strength he had left and, half deliriously, struck out at the phantom with his sword. He didn’t make contact, of course - the Oberon he saw was a phantom. But as his sword clattered to the ground it struck one of the many trailing wires and severed it completely.

     Oberon shrieked in pain, and Altador knew what he had to do. He began to strike at the wires, and as he did so, the magical apparatus around the cavern fizzed and died. Oberon was clutching at his chest.

     “No!” he begged. “No, please!”

     But when the final cable was severed, the projection flickered and died. The machines were silent, the gas stopped. Behind Altador, the cavern door reopened. And on the throne, the dead skeleton of Oberon the Arcanist was finally laid to rest.

     The last of the Circle of Twelve was gone.

     But it was far from over.

     Altador began to laugh, carelessly discarding his sword. It wasn’t a laugh anything like his usual though, a strange cackle full of merciless joy.

     “Took you long enough,” the voice of Xantan spoke through him as it seized control.

     To be continued…