The mist was freezing, like a cold mantle draped over the entire body; if not for the many heavy layers of fur covering him, he would likely have already died of exposure.
—The master must truly be mad if he thinks we should begin the search here —Jingsa grumbled as she turned her head to avoid the violent cold wind striking her face.
—You know what father is like; he's not someone who takes "no" for an answer. He would even go to the underworld itself for answers —said the female voice behind him. Libang had her face completely covered in layers upon layers of fur; only the shadow of her eyes and the tip of her upturned nose could be seen.
Jingsa feared it might freeze and fall off.
—Yes, I know —she murmured—, I know it very well.
Libang turned, annoyed and irritated, as she observed the rugged hills, covered in green grass and hidden within the surrounding mist. Then she spotted a lake, and around it several beasts playing and drinking—from deer to a few boars.
Jingsa felt a great deal of excitement about this journey; at last, they could leave Midgard—perhaps go to Eden or even farther lands—all in search of the original book. The lost history of the Cycle of Ashwood and Iron. And the reason they were here.
Lord Chuhan's challenge to her master was rather simple: to recover the stories of the Cycle of Ashwood and Iron—the foundational history not only of the province of Maeve, but of all Midgard (before it was called Midgard). Probably the most legendary epic of the Fey race up until the time of the Empyrean.
Unfortunately, the story had been lost. The records, mostly oral, had been broken and fragmented. Her master had tried to recover it, summoning more than fifty thousand Filiad Odham from across Midgard. But despite the hundreds of hours of recorded history, it was incomplete. The Circle was not whole.
Chuhan's challenge had aged her master by several centuries, and had also diminished his influence. Once, a supreme Filiad held the same power as a great king of Tara, but now they were challenged by a minor king. Times had changed.
Even she, though young, could feel it: the age of the Filiad's ritual chants was ending, replaced by the dharmic prayers and hymns of the great Empyrean temple. Still, she hoped this journey might restore at least some of the ancient glories—not only of the Filiad, but of the entire Fey race. She truly hoped so.
Her master was resting by the fire, sheltered among a few trees. He was resting—or perhaps meditating; the cold and the elements did not seem to affect him, despite wearing only a light bear-fur cloak over his back and leaving his face and hands uncovered, unlike them. He was no mere mortal—he was a noble.
—Master, I think there is an abandoned house near the lake. Perhaps I should go check it. I'll return once I'm done —she said while gazing toward the distant lake.
—Very well, my disciple, go. But first—you know why we are here —her master had kept his eyes closed the entire time, but now he opened them. His gaze was clear and pristine, like the sky before a storm.
—Because we are near the sea, only a few days from here. We can travel by ship or a spirit carriage to the port city of Anivia and set sail.
—Perhaps —murmured the old sage as he looked at the lake as though it were a mirror to an unknown truth only he could perceive—, or perhaps because there is something in this place that will allow us to achieve our goal much more easily.
—This place —he murmured.
He tried to recall the lake. It had no name until at least ten thousand years ago. He could see geographical changes across the land; once, all of this had been underwater—the lake was at least ten times larger than it was now.
—Just go, Jingsa, but do not take too long —his gaze drifted away from her, and he closed his eyes again—. We do not want you to get lost so soon after the journey begins.
The mist was thick—too thick, perhaps. If not for her special training and the spiritual roots she had been born with, she would already have been lost in the darkness.
—How beautiful —she murmured to herself.
When she reached the lake, she felt a strange peace despite being almost completely isolated from the world—like a lone island in a chaotic sea, or a bird floating in a sea of clouds. And then she saw it: a small mound rising from the damp earth, and a stone standing upon it. It was a barrow, and that stone was a gravestone.
She approached slowly as a dreamlike sensation filled each step, until she could read the inscriptions. Carved into it, worn by time and by the hands that had traced its surface, was a name barely legible. Yet it could still be read:
Ducanor Kal Arreus, rightful king of Ulheim and champion of Maeve.If your royal stone were your very being, Kal Arreus resting here, with sages seeking shelter, we would recover what was lost—plain and perfect, Ducanor.
The poem carved beside the name seemed to echo Jingsa's own thoughts, making her blink in confusion, as if a strange mystery were unfolding before her eyes.
—Strange. This poem seems newer than the name itself… why would someone place it here? —she murmured, puzzled. Yet what surprised her most was realizing exactly where she was.
The Lake of Ediocles—the eternal resting place of one of the great heroes of the Circle of Ashwood and Iron.
—Because it is new —said an unknown voice behind her.
The sound of metal being unsheathed rang through the air as she took a defensive stance. Then her expression burst into disbelief. The mist, thick as the boiling vapors of a volcano, revealed—or perhaps materialized—a figure.
He was lean, yet approached with fierce majesty. His hair was a metallic black, gleaming like steel itself. He wore a red cloak draped over his shoulders, a robe embroidered in silver and black, bronze sandals, and at his belt hung the sheath of a massive sword—one that resembled the blade once wielded by Lord Chuhan.
—You… you are… —she knew his name. She had recited it dozens of times in songs and stories. She knew his history and could recount every legend tied to each scar and adornment on his body.
Trembling, nearly falling to her knees, she forced herself to stand.
—The one you were looking for, it seems. Why have you called me, woman of the Feynir lineage? Or did you simply wish to keep a dead man company? —he said with a playful smile that, despite everything, made Jingsa blush.
Gods… I am over thirty years old, I cannot act like a maiden, she thought as she straightened herself.
—Your name is Ducanor Kal Arreus, the ancient king of Ulheim and great champion and first knight of the Red Branch sect —Jingsa exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement.
—Yes, I answer to that name—and to many others. And what do you want, child? Why have you stirred my spirit from the depths of the earth? —he said, sitting casually upon his own gravestone.
—A ritual —she murmured. Then she remembered the strange aura surrounding her master. Han Qing had seemed unusually intent on her reaching this place—as if it had all been planned.—That old madman… —she muttered.
—So you were made part of a ritual without knowing it. Not surprising. I suppose they sent you because you are a woman —Ducanor said with a grin.
—What? Is there… a price? —Jingsa asked nervously.
—Yes. The blood of a virgin —he replied casually.
—I… I am not a virgin —she blurted out in panic, immediately regretting it as Ducanor burst into laughter.
Only then did she realize she was being teased—by none other than the legendary Ducanor Kal Arreus himself.
Clearing her throat, she asked:
—Does this ritual have a time limit?
—No. It will last as long as the user can sustain it. I am merely a memory bound to the earth—a fragment of the true Ducanor Kal Arreus, separated in battle and clinging to the air, the stone, and the ground beneath your feet… and to this tomb. But it will not last forever. Perhaps days, perhaps weeks—but not eternity. After all, I am dead.
—And the dead do not return —Jingsa finished.
—Very well, child. What do you wish to ask me? The location of a treasure? Someone's fate? A secret? Or perhaps just a kiss from this legendary hero? —he said, gazing at the sky and the lake.—Ah… how strange it is to see the world change when you are no longer part of it.
—I… want to know the story. My master was sent to recover the lost history of the Cycle of Ashwood and Iron—the true history. I suppose that is why he called you.
—The true history… Is there such a thing as truth? Interesting. I did not expect that from a Filiad. A Finn Ollam Erehn, perhaps? —he murmured.—And the Circle of Ashwood and Iron… a fine name. Only sages and poets can give such names to events so drenched in blood.
—Finn Ollam Ere—no, that title is no longer used. Now they are called—
—It does not matter —Ducanor interrupted.—The future is yours to write. I am the past—I have no need to know it. Just tell me where you wish to begin.
—The beginning —she said. She had so many questions, so much curiosity—perhaps too much—but she chose that simple request.—The beginning… I want to know the beginning.
—The beginning… —Ducanor murmured.—The beginning of everything was…