Chapter 9:

The Road to Tor Alian

The Sapphire Legacy


With a knowing smirk, Cirus veered to the right. The group followed, forcing their way through a dense curtain of shrubs whose broad leaves whispered against their clothes. They emerged into a wide, sun-drenched plain, flanked on either side by tall, silent trees. A long dirt path cut a stark line through fields of golden grass that stretched to the horizon, shimmering under a clear sky thick with humidity.

"This is the Delanor Road," Cirus announced, setting a brisk pace. His stride was remarkably swift and even, a testament to a life spent on his feet that belied his apparent age. "It is but one section of a greater road connecting the northernmost metropolis with the southernmost city in Anolin. As I walked, I felt the myran here all but sing with movement."

"You can feel myran?" Wells asked, falling into step beside the old wizard. He strained his own senses, trying to perceive what Cirus described, but felt only the oppressive heat and the drone of unseen insects.

"In time, you will," Cirus replied. "The mind attunes itself to the flow, learning to recognize its currents and eddies. You are likely experiencing it even now—a faint thrumming just beneath the surface of the world—but you have not yet learned to name the sensation."

For hours, the relentless sun beat down upon them as they trudged along the Delanor Road. The open meadow eventually yielded to the welcome, dappled shade of the forest once more, but the relief was temporary. Questions came from everyone, though Nikolai seemed to possess an inexhaustible supply. Cirus answered them all with measured patience, even when it took several minutes of careful explanation to satisfy Nikolai’s insatiable curiosity.

"So the Sirunai gene is recessive, then?" Nikolai asked after what Vance’s watch declared to be three hours of walking. Sweat carved grimy rivulets down their faces, and the humid air clung to them like a damp shroud. They had already collapsed twice onto the grassy verge in the last hour, but the brief respites did little to combat their bone-deep exhaustion. Cirus, however, remained utterly unwearied, a fact Wells attributed to a lifetime of such journeys.

"For the final time, Mr. Volkov," Cirus said, his formidable patience finally fraying at the edges, "I have no conception of this 'study of genetics' you speak of! I might have thought that after an entire afternoon of inquiry, you would have exhausted your questions! Clearly, that is not the case." Nikolai shot a glare at Juliana, who had giggled at the wizard’s outburst; she responded by sticking her tongue out at him.

"Cirus," Vance said, mopping his gleaming brow with a sleeve, "what time is it here? My watch says it’s nearly seven, but the sun is still high."

Cirus stopped and rolled back his sleeve. Wells watched, half-expecting some magical display of glowing runes or a sunbeam bent to tell the hour. To his mild disappointment, the wizard simply reached into a pocket and produced an ornate silver pocket watch. He clicked it open. "It is just past noon," he announced before snapping it shut and tucking it away.

"Where did you get that?" Wells asked, amused. "We have those in our world."

"A gift from your great-uncle Jonas on one of his visits," Cirus explained. "He grew tired of my constantly asking him for the time."

A troubled look crossed Vance’s face. "What is it?" Juliana asked.

"We're operating on a seven-hour time difference," he clarified, the implications dawning on him. "Long before night falls here, our bodies are going to start screaming for sleep. We'll lose a lot of good traveling hours today."

"That is quite all right," Cirus remarked. "I am not opposed to an early night."

"Where will we sleep?" Juliana asked, her voice small.

"On the ground," Cirus said with a touch of wry humor. "It may lack for comfort, but I have no desire to parade you through the next town dressed as you are."

"Isn't there a tailor or something?" Wells ventured.

"Astalor's hoof, no," Cirus laughed. "The village ahead is desperately poor. Any tailor would starve for lack of custom; no one there can afford new clothes."

They walked on, and soon the town came into view. It was a portrait of neglect and decay, its buildings stooped and crumbling, the spaces between them choked with refuse. A palpable sense of poverty hung over the area, so oppressive that Wells couldn't imagine buying so much as a shoelace there. They gave the grim settlement a wide berth, continuing on as the sun began its descent.

As dusk painted the sky in shades of orange and violet, they found a small, sheltered grove of apple trees. They ate their fill of the crisp fruit for supper, saving the rest for the morning.

Eventually, they reached the forest's edge. As the path broke free from the trees, Wells saw it. A solitary, impossibly tall spire stood silhouetted against the darkening horizon. He pointed, speechless for a moment. "What... what is that?"

"That," Cirus said, his voice holding a note of reverence, "is the Tower of Meros, tallest in all of Anolin. It is part of the Royal Castle in Tor Alian."

"How far is it?" Nikolai asked, the question ending in a wheeze. He seemed to have the least stamina for long-distance treks.

"A couple more hours. But fear not, we will make our camp here for the night."

"Thank God," Nikolai breathed, staggering off the path to find a patch of flat ground. Using his folded sweater as a pillow, he was asleep almost instantly. Though it was only twilight, bone-weary exhaustion claimed the others soon after, and one by one, they followed his lead.

Cirus woke them as the first hint of light was peeking over the horizon, tinting the sky a delicate rose pink. Wells felt horribly stiff from his night on the hard ground; he stretched his aching back and gnawed on a crisp apple. As the others stirred, he saw the same pained rigidity in their movements.

Yawning and pulling on their warmer clothes against the morning chill, the group set out once more. After leaving the forest, the path quickly widened, becoming a broad road that could have easily fit four cars abreast with room to spare.

There was little conversation. About an hour into their journey, they encountered a small party of men traveling in the opposite direction. They were robust, middle-aged merchants who stared openly at Wells and his friends. "Lord Wizard," one of them exclaimed, his belly spilling over his belt, "why are your companions so oddly attired?"

"They are from beyond the Snowy Mountains," Cirus said smoothly. "It is the custom for youths to dress so on the Burning Plains."

The men accepted the explanation, though with visible skepticism, and continued on their way. They didn't see another soul until they were within ten minutes of the city. Here, the traffic swelled. The roadside had become a tumultuous market, with merchants hawking their wares from dilapidated wooden stalls. Wells noticed one proprietor had to physically prop up the front of his stall, while others were simply missing planks. They sold everything from vibrant rugs to strange, small humanoid figures carved from wood.

As they pushed through the throng, they began to attract stares, and a few curious onlookers started to follow them. "Cirus Crewe has returned!" a woman tending a stall of cloaks shouted as they passed.

Heads whipped toward them, eyes wide with astonishment. Wells felt his face grow hot under the sudden, intense focus of the crowd. Cirus’s expression was one of mild irritation. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

"Cirus Crewe, back in Tor Alian?"

"He has not been seen here in years!"

"Why has he returned? And where is Jonas?"

"Cirus!" A young man, a few years Wells’s senior, shouldered his way through the crowd. "It's me, Cirus! Do you remember? My father was your apprentice!" He rushed toward them, roughly shoving Wells aside as he eagerly shook Cirus’s hand.

"It has been too long, Cirus! I was but five when last you visited, but now I'm grown and—"

Wells’s eyes narrowed, fixing on the brash young man. A bubble of pure, hot irritation rose in his gut, but it was immediately chased by something else. A wave of freezing power surged through his veins, a familiar, terrifying coldness blooming from his ring finger—the same ominous prelude he always felt just before—

The sensation detonated.

It erupted from him in a silent, irresistible concussive force, a gale of unseen wind that threw him stumbling backward. The invisible tempest seized the young man, snatching him from the ground and launching him twenty feet into the air as if he were a weightless rag doll. He traced a helpless, flailing arc against the sky before he began to fall.

Screams tore through the crowd as people scattered in panic. In the same instant, Cirus thrust his left hand forward. A flash of violet light engulfed the falling man’s body. He hit the ground and bounced three times, as if made of rubber, before stumbling to his feet. His eyes were wide with terror, a mirror of the shock on Wells’s own face.

"Sorry," Wells stammered, scrambling back to his feet. His heart hammered against his ribs. "I—It was an accident."

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