Cathartis Prologue and Ch. 1

Cathartis

Summary

In the world of Cathartis, the noble ruling class forms a magocracy known as the Ondus. While the Ondus enjoy the all the opulence and wealth Cathartis has to offer, the oppressed Catharts barely survive on the leftover scraps, unfit for the Ondus. Catharts are not educated, they do not develop practical skills, and they are forbidden from using magic. The Catharts serve only one purpose for the Ondus, and in return the Ondus allow the Catharts to continue their meager existence.

Upon attaining manhood and enduring his rite of passage, the young Ondai nobleman, Tibelor, begins to wonder why his society functions the way it does, and whether it had always been so. His question is a dangerous one and may lead him down a path to his own demise. Every moment of his education and training urges him to leave his question to the authorities, but a tickle in the back of his mind won't let him leave well enough alone.

On the far outskirts of the Ondus Empire, a young Cathart girl named Sperea, urges her people to rise up against their oppressors. Old traditions die hard, and those set in their ways despise change. She sees opportunity where others see despair. Her ideas are heretical and bound to sentence her to death. Before she can oppose the powers that be, she must oppose who her people choose to be.

A wily boy with a penchant for trouble has found the key to his liberation. Valban leaves behind the world he knew in search of adventure and danger. He explores forgotten ruins of the old world and finds the answers to questions he never thought to ask. Perhaps in the right hands, his discovery will exalt him to the life he barely dared dream of.

While Ondus factions vie for power, their squabbling blinds them to a greater threat. Suppremage Appredine launches his own plot to upset the power structure of the Ondus Empire. While the rest of the Ondus back-stab and bargain their way to the top, they don't notice the walls are closing in. The waves of change are crashing down and many wonder what will be left in their wake.
Cathartis

Prologue

Suppremage Appredine sat upon his gilded black-velvet cushion. He glanced back at the worked wood of the backrest of his throne depicting two serpentine dragons biting at the other's tail. Why had the slaves not encrusted that in gold and jewels as well? He allowed his temper to flare, felt the rage boiling at their incompetence, and threw a ball of black and red fire into the fireplace. The dry wood burst to life, casting sparks and skittering shadows across his palatial chambers. His rage was immediately quenched, so he smouldered and slumped into his seat. Experienced as he was, using magic always affected him and every other Ondai mage in the same way. He was accustomed to the sensation and had learned to ignore a vast amount of exhaustion brought on by spellcasting.

He knew the tiredness would persist. He could take a short nap, maybe 15 minutes or so, to make it go away, but why would he waste his time when he could refresh himself so much more quickly? He had research to do and the smell of the rain told him he was beginning to run short on time. He still had preparations to make, and the waves of change waited for no man or mage. This time, he would direct the waves, use them to destroy his enemies, and in the aftermath he would reign supreme.

“Gallus, bring me one of those miserable Catharts!”
The wizened servant scuffled into the room, wearing a tattered tailcoat, once bright crimson and gold, now faded to a rusty brown. His back was arched from years of bowing and slouching and his wrinkles carved deep troughs along his brow and beside his eyes.

“Your Supremacy, did you call for a Cathart? I have one nearby and prepared.”
“Yes, yes, you dolt. Must I repeat myself? You know how I hate repeating myself...”

“Your Grace, I meant no disrespect,” he replied, as he bowed lower than he should, given his condition. His back ached with the strain. “I shall have her sent in at once.”

Appredine turned his attention away from the idiot. He had more important things to do than banter with the help. His thoughts turned once again to the ritual. He had everything he needed, save one thing: The Key. What was The Key? All of the descriptions were so vague. It could be anything, or anyone. He had a feeling that he would know it when he saw it, but the difficulty was in knowing where to look in the first place. All descriptions and last known whereabouts of The Key had been lost in the last great purge. His moronic predecessor, Albron, had seen to that.

That old coot thought he would live forever, he thought he was invincible, and he took drastic measures to ensure no one could oppose him. If he hadn't been so blinded by ambition, he might have noticed when Appredine's fingers turned black on that cold, starless night. He might have noticed Appredine inching towards his back with murderous intent and might have been able to stop the Touch of Death from reaching him. Then again, Appredine had great skill in hiding his true emotions, more than any other Ondai mage, so Albron may not have noticed if he had been staring at Appredine the whole time.

Appredine crackled with anticipation and excitement. He let the emotion surge through him and launched a bolt of blue-white lightning at a nearby lamp. The lamp hungrily sucked up the magic with a buzzing and humming as it blazed with light. He always liked to have good lighting for this and the extra bit of emptiness and exhaustion would soon be relieved.

Gallus returned a few minutes later with a half-starved woman wearing dilapidated grey rags, carelessly draped about her shoulders and waist. Her hair may have been blonde, if it weren't encrusted with dirt and blood. Her skin was a pale purple, faded with malnourishment. This one was nearly hopeless, if not completely hopeless. The Suppremage sighed, knowing this one had outlived her usefulness. She was escorted to the first step of the throne's dais and shoved to her knees.

Appredine casually strode to his throne; his black-velvet robes with gold trim rustled about his red boots. He did love the feel of these robes, so light and smooth he felt almost nude. As he sat, he smoothed back his shoulder-length ebony hair so he could get a good look at the waif. He stared with his emerald eyes at the Cathart and gently lifted her chin in his hand until her icy blue eyes met his. He could see his handsome reflection in her eyes by the film of her unshed tears. Her face was so dirty and tear streaked, it was a wonder she had any left to well up in those eyes.

“Well, my dear, it is your lucky day,” he said with half grin, his tongue running along his milky white teeth. “I have decided to let you go.”

“Wh.. Ar... Me?” she barely managed to stammer. “Did I do something to please you, Your Majesty?”

He saw a flicker of hope in her eyes as they flashed golden. Ah, how gullible these things were. Always willing to grasp at straws even when falling into the obsidian abyss.

“Of course my dear, you have served me well. You have provided me with ample restitution. What will you do first when you leave the castle?”

He saw her eyes beginning to light up; her now golden eyes glowed with inner light as she blinked away her tears. “I'll... I'll return to my... my home; my husband will be waiting. We'll dine and we'll...we'll dance and sing all night,” she began, her voice gaining strength and stability.

He cut her off abruptly. “Just one more thing, because you see, I am a little tired and I need some rest. Can you provide me with rest, just one more time?”

She seemed startled, but before her hope could begin to fade, he snatched it away. He hungrily drank it from her eyes. A golden river of color flowed from her eyes to his, and while his eyes flashed gold her color began to fade away. Her eyes became granite, her skin ashen, her hair white with specks of dirt and blood. He knew this would be the last time; this was the last time it would see the light of hope again. It slumped lifelessly to the floor with a thump and exhaled its last breath. He used the golden light of hope to refresh himself, and all traces of weariness were erased.

“Take the body to the incinerator, Gallus. Ensure the family is compensated.”

“What shall I tell them happened, Your Greatness?”

“Must I think for you now, Gallus? Are you so old that your brain has turned to mush? I do not care what you tell them. She slipped and fell down the stairs. Now get out, I have reading to do.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Gallus bent at the waist to pick up the woman's body, bringing his head near hers. He put his arms under hers and dragged her away, bowing as he left. Appredine watched him go and began to wonder if that man had any hope left in him. Perhaps it was time for a new servant. Gallus had been trustworthy and loyal for many years and was one of the few who served out of a sense of duty rather than fear. His skin had been metallic silver once, but now it had faded with age to dirty grey. He had elevated Gallus through the ranks of the Catharts until he was nearly one of the Ondus. No Cathart could actually become an Ondai mage, but as long as they believed and hoped they could be, they continued to serve their purpose in life.

He slightly arched an eyebrow at his own musing and felt the curiosity fill him. He reached out with his curiosity and found the tome on a nearby table. He beckoned the red and black leather-bound book over, so it floated through the air over to him and opened itself on his lap. His curiosity faded away and again he was left with some emptiness and slight fatigue. Old habits will get you in trouble, he mused to himself, and it will take some time to bring in another suitable Cathart.

He searched the pages for the third time that day, delving for any clue he might have missed. He had little hope of learning anything new from this book, and yet, a glimmer of hope remained.

Cathartis

Chapter 1 – Ascension

Tibelor ran through the twisting hallway of worked stone, Anjor following close behind. The sound of their footfalls resounded off the dank walls. He searched desperately for a defensible position, but the hallway seemed endless. He could hear his own heavy breathing, and that of Anjor, and realized they couldn't run forever. They would have to take a stand soon. He made a quick left and found himself at a dead end.

“Anjor, quickly, I need rest,” Tibelor breathed through gasps.

“I'm very drained; I can't feel anything but exhaustion.”

Tibelor suddenly slapped Anjor and searched his face for any sign of anger. Anjor's face was as lifeless as the walls.

“I am either going to slap you to death, or you are going to give me what I want,” Tibelor menaced through gritted teeth. They had known each other for eight years now, and Tibelor knew how to get a rise out of his kind-hearted servant.

“I'm trying, there's nothing.”

Tibelor slapped him again, harder this time, and he could see the red hand print left on Anjor's tan face. Was there a spark there? Tibelor quickly struck Anjor again and spit on him. Anjor's eyes briefly sparked and flared, glowing a dim red. That would have to be enough. Tibelor locked his eyes on Anjor's and drew the rage away in one quick inhalation causing a stream of red light to flow from Anjor's eyes to his. Tibelor's eyes flashed red for a moment; he could feel Anjor's anger, and he intended to use it all.

Tibelor felt the rage surge through him. The anger flared into a palm-sized fireball in his hand. He glared down the hallway into the darkness, searching for movement. There, a glint of light reflected off something scaly. He drew in all of the stolen anger and gave the fireball a full-armed pitch. The creature shrieked in agony as the fire engulfed it, and it went scampering down the hallway, crashing into walls and casting off embers. It soon fell lifelessly to the floor, and Tibelor grinned.

“Do not worry Anjor, you will not need your anger any more. We are almost done, then I will have no further use for you. Perhaps I will let you go.”

“I guess so, I don't think I care anymore.”

“Come now, you must have a little hope left in you, or you would not be standing. Keep that hope alive; we might need it soon.”

Tibelor briskly stalked off down the hallway back to the intersection and tried to decide which way to go as Anjor shuffled up behind him. He collapsed on the floor next to Tibelor, and he looked down in puzzlement.

“What is wrong now?”

Anjor clutched at his leg as blood seeped through his fingers. “The beast clawed my leg. I've been ignoring the pain so I wouldn't slow you down, but I've lost a lot of blood.”

“We do not have time for this, get up, we have to finish this. This is what we've been training for.”

Anjor tried to stand and stumbled back to the floor, barely catching himself before his head met stone.

“Fine, you miserable pile, give me some sympathy so I can heal you.”

Anjor flashed him a glance of sorrow, and in his haste, Tibelor mistook the cloudy blue for the dark purple that would indicate sympathy. He drew in the sorrow and could hear Anjor's thoughts. Why can't he just leave me to die? I'm done for. He won't let me go when we escape. He'll take my last hope and toss my body to the incinerator, like I never meant anything to him.

Tibelor was startled, to say the least. He had not meant to use telepathy, and yet Anjor's thoughts were in his mind. He hesitated too long, and holding the sorrow began to wash some of his tiredness washed away. He began to feel his own sorrow, but it was not for himself. It was sorrow for Anjor. This was a strange sensation and very uncomfortable, which soon turned to sympathy for the dying man on the floor, imagining the pain and anguish. He had never felt sympathy for another, only other's sympathy for him as he used it to heal them. He watched Anjor's eyes begin to flutter and fade, so he used his power to close Anjor's wound and restore some of the blood loss. He looked down in amazement at the quality of the healing as the wounds glowed with a bright purple light. The wound had closed without even a scar, and all of the blood nearby had crept back into the man's body. Tibelor was feeling so drowsy by now. He wanted to curl up on the floor and take a nap, but he had to reach the end.

“What was that?” Anjor asked with wide-eyed amazement.

“Just one of my talents,” Tibelor stated as he started walking down the hallway.

“That was great! I've been healed before, but it usually leaves a scar and a dull ache for a while. I didn't give you that empathy; you felt it yourself, but how?” Anjor's eyes flashed a light grey.

“Silence!” Tibelor roared.

Anjor cast his eyes to the floor and continued to follow in silence. Tibelor's confusion swam through the haze of exhaustion. He didn't know what to make of that; he just knew he wanted to go to bed. He was not used to casting healing spells of that magnitude, and it had taken its toll on his body and mind. He should just take another emotion from Anjor, then he would be awake enough to reach the end. Somehow, it no longer seemed right to take things from the man without at least asking. Anjor would recover if Tibelor just took the emotion to relieve his exhaustion, unlike the anger he used before. Anjor would never feel anger again, but maybe that would be for the best. Anger was such a dark and destructive emotion; although it did serve its purpose well this day. Why was he thinking so much? He had never thought about a situation so much, even when he was wide awake and well rested. Even so, his mind was still drifting, and he was beginning to lose consciousness.

“I need to recuperate.”

“I feel nothing; I have nothing to give”

“Give me that amazement or wonder you had earlier, I know I saw it...” Tibelor hesitated then mumbled, “if I may.”

“I'm sorry, did you just ask me for an emotion?” Anjor asked , leaving his jaw half open.

“I will not repeat myself to the likes of you.”

“I know I'm feeling amazed again, and you haven't taken it from me. What are you waiting for?”

“Just say yes, so we can get on with it. I do not have time for this.”

“No,” Anjor incredulously stated with an arched eyebrow.

“You dare … how could … I am....” Tibelor felt his feet give way, and he crumpled to the floor.

He was in a cage. The bars were cold. The ground scratched his feet with dirt, rocks, and straw. He wore a tattered sack as a shirt, and the rope around his waist barely supported the loose-fitting pants, if they could be called that. It was dark, and it stank like unwashed bodies. He wanted light, and heat, so he got angry. He felt the rage boil up, and he tried to form a flame, but nothing happened. His rage began sliding towards panic. He could barely see, the stench made it hard to breathe, and he wrestled with his panic to keep it under control. He tried to get angry again, but it wouldn't come, just more panic. What was happening to him? He had always had such good control of his emotions. His instructors had said so. Hadn't they? He couldn't remember anymore. Tibelor was caged like an animal, and for the first time he felt powerless.

“Chow time,” a gruff voice barked, as a tin full of sloshy mush clanged to the floor near him.

After recovering from his start, he glanced at the unappetizing gruel and began, “Don't you know who I...” and his voice trailed off. He couldn't speak, but worse, he couldn't remember who he was. He looked around for a way out. The bars were solid, and the lock held tight as he shook the door in vain. He tried to summon up desire, so he could open the lock. Panic again, useless panic. Then he heard his name. He scrambled around, clawed at the cage and door, but to no avail Distant at first, then stronger and closer.

“Tibelor, Tibelor wake up!”

It was Anjor, and Tibelor found himself on the dank stone floor. He wrenched his eyes open and saw clear blue eyes deep set in a tan face framed by dirty blonde hair staring down at him.

“Where am I?” he asked as he shook away the dream. Had it been a dream? It was so real.

“You passed out, I guess that healing really took it out of you.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Only a few minutes, but I heard sounds down the hallway... Yes...”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you can have my emotion to help you recover. It's our only hope of getting out of here alive.”

“I do not want your hope; give me something else. I need you alive if we are to finish this.”

“Ok, now I'm amazed again.” Anjor's eyes lit to a glowing cloudy-grey.
Tibelor hungrily took the amazed look off Anjor's face as his eyes drained from glowing to plain grey. Sensations flowed through him, he could feel his body awaken, and he quickly drew himself to his feet. He glanced back down the hallway and listened. He heard the scraping of claws on stone and knew another beast was getting close. He quickly and quietly padded down the hallway in his soft leather boots and shrugged off a shudder at the memory of straw and rocks scraping his bare feet. After turning down a few more corridors, they came to another dead end, but he noticed a golden circular symbol etched into the stone.

“This is the end, the way out. I need your hope.”

“Then it's the end for me as well...” Anjor trailed off.

Tibelor knew it was the only way. He would have to take Anjor's hope so he could escape and finish his trials. He felt a pang of regret and realized he didn't want Anjor to die. Was there another way? Of course not, this was by design. The final trial was meant to take the life of the Cathart, as the strong prey on the weak, to survive. It was the way of the Ondus. The scraping of claws drew closer, and he did not have the energy left to fight off another one of those. He hoped he could figure out something else in time. Then there it was: hope. He felt his own hope surge through him, a warmth and a light inside he had never known before. He stretched out his hand and pointed at the symbol with his index finger, and let the magic flow out of him. A beam of golden light lit up the darkness for an instant, so bright he could barely keep his eyes open. The symbol reactively glowed, and the wall ahead faded out of existence. He ran through the open doorway, with Anjor close behind, and they soon found themselves outside on a bright grassy meadow. The sounds of birds singing and wind rustling through the leaves of nearby trees dispelled the dark dungeon they just escaped.

“Congratulations my boy. You have survived the trials and are the newest member of the Ondus Mages, we...” the booming voice coming from the tall, pale-skinned man trailed off.

Another voice, equally booming and emotionless. “What is that filth doing still alive?”

Tibelor looked around in bewilderment. The winding hallways behind had vanished, and Anjor stood a step behind him with his eyes on the ground. “I did not need to take his life. I used my own power to escape the tunnels.”

“This is unheard of, only hope could activate the sigil, and Ondus mages do not have hope magic. We take it from the Catharts.”

“Yet, here I am.” Tibelor stood a little taller, a glint of pride in his eyes.

The three old men in black and red robes huddled together and talked hurriedly in hushed voices. After a few moments, they turned back to the disheveled pair.

“Tibelor, your success here this day is in question. We will review your trials for the merit in what you say. Until then, your title of Ondai Mage will be suspended pending a full investigation. You are ordered to retire to your chambers.”

“I have decided to let my Cathart, Anjor, go free.” Tibelor stood with his shoulders back and head held high.

Archmage Daustine narrowed his eyes as he glared, “You border on treason and heresy boy. You had best keep your thoughts to yourself. You are dismissed.”

Instinct kicked in, so Tibelor bowed and began walking away. What had he been thinking? He had never shown such defiance towards an elder. His marks were always the highest in his class, and he had never had any disciplinary action. He glanced back at Anjor as two guards approached with manacles and chains in their hands. Anjor gave a pleading glance over at Tibelor, but Tibelor just turned away. As they escorted Anjor towards the castle, he wondered what would become of him. Why did he care? He had never cared about a Cathart before and barely cared about the other Ondus mages. He had been ambitious, ready to ascend the rungs of power, perhaps even become the next Suppremage. If he did not shake off these thoughts and doubts his plans would be ruined. Like Archmage Daustine had said, they were treasonous and heretical. Yet, he felt a pang of emotion he could not quite describe as he inadvertently thought of Anjor going back to a dark, damp, smelly cage with nothing to eat but a bowl of gruel.

He realized he was comfortable with Anjor, and even relied on his constant presence. Now that Anjor was not by his side for the first time in eight years, he felt a different kind of emptiness than spell casting normally brought on. Sleep, that was all he needed. A little sleep and meditation to regain control of his thoughts and emotions. He would be back to normal in the morning; he could continue with his training and leave that blasted Cathart, Anjor, in the depths of his mind.