CHAPTER V
A KEY OF SCARS
Q I A N N A
Near Azdam, Alfirhavn, Eleysian Islands
Sleensday, 9th of Calfenaris, 1081 AV
I will find a way to touch my lost soul and return even a spark of what was and what could have been. I will find her. We will be whole once again.
— Excerpt from Anguish of the Heart, First Book of the Revelations from the Lost Soul
The air felt cool and moist on Qianna’s skin, a damp caress that clung to her like a second layer of clothing. She did not bundle against it, unlike the Nottsver men who grumbled and pulled their furs tighter around their massive frames. Their breath came in thick, white plumes that vanished into the mist, but Qianna felt the chill only as a distant, thrumming pulse of a world she acknowledged but refused to let master her. To them, the chill was an enemy; to her, it was just another sensation to endure, another discordant beat in the rhythm of her life. She leaned against the rough, salt-crusted timber of the mainmast, feeling the vibration of the ship's keel through her spine—a low, rhythmic groan that spoke of the heavy mass cutting through the lead-colored water.
The morning fog had lifted just enough to reveal the coastline—a jagged, tree-studded scar of land rising from the grey sea. For two days, they had navigated the labyrinth of the Sea Stacks peppering the eastern coast of Alfirhavn. They had spent one night moored in a suffocating inlet where the water was as black and still as obsidian, and the next on a narrow beach with a cliff looming overhead like a guillotine blade. Above them, Elos was a pale, filtered ghost behind the overcast skies, casting a weak, silver-grey light that turned the sea into liquid lead. There was no warmth in his gaze today, only the relentless, rhythmic thud of the oars against the water—a beat that matched the heavy, wet pounding of Qianna’s own heart.
Some of the stacks reached up like mountains, islands in their own right, crowned with wind-twisted pines whose roots clung to the stone like the fingers of a drowning man. Others were little more than obsidian spikes hidden beneath the water—waiting like submerged fangs to tear the belly of any unwary ship. They curtained seventy-five miles of eastern Alfirhavn’s coastline, a natural fortification of stone and treacherous current that ground with a low, vibrating force against the prows of the Dragonships.
“How long have we searched these bloody sea stacks?” Iskar snarled. His voice was a low rumble of seismic impatience directed at Vorik.
Qianna watched the self-proclaimed Storm King from the shadows of the mainmast. Iskar seemed carved from mountain rock and fury. In him, she saw the embodiment of all the Stornir legends she’d been forced to endure her whole life. This was the legacy of the bloodthirsty clans banished from the Nordlands, a people who had festered for centuries in the volcanic cold of the Blood Isles, honing their cruelty into a faith. Iskar and his Nottsver, with their dark skin and towering frames, were the terrifying heirs to that legacy—half-giants in their own minds, convinced they were the rightful avatars of a god who wished to return the world to frost and shadow.
She knew better. She had seen the gruesome wake of their passage, the macabre sport they made of death. Their claims of divine heritage were just an excuse for their carnage. She had seen victims strung up by their entrails, left to die as offerings to a silence that never answered. She had seen hearts torn from the fallen to claim their strength. The Stornir did not just kill; they unravelled the very life-song of their victims, leaving behind a Dissonance that stained the very air. To Qianna, the air around the Nottsver always tasted of copper and stagnant blood, their presence a knot of jagged, red Pulses that threatened to choke the very light from the sky.
Qianna found little difficulty in administering suffering when it suited her survival, but the Nottsver treated it as sport. Even the dead continued to amuse them. She looked at the giant sitting nearest her, his charcoal skin smeared with white clay in the shape of a ribcage. He doesn't see a girl, she thought, her fingers twitching toward the dagger at her back. He sees a Vessel he hasn't emptied yet.
“I know it’s here. We’ve checked nearly all the inlets among the cursed pillars,” Vorik said calmly. Yet, Qianna detected the hint of concern that matched the emotional tremor she felt radiating from him—a discordant anxiety beneath his smooth facade.
She had been here with him once before, years ago in a memory that felt like a bad dream. She remembered how difficult it was to find the passage to the ancient ruins of Azdam. An optical illusion hid the entrance, a trick of light and perspective designed to fool the eye. She tried to find it herself now, scanning the horizon, but struggled to keep the focus she needed to see the hidden paths of the world, but struggled to keep the focus she needed to “see” the webbed Veins of the world. She did not have the passion at this moment, did not feel the immediate existential weight survival that so often drove her to reach for the world’s hidden strings.
“There,” Qianna said suddenly.
The word burst from her lips before she could stop it. In her Mind’s Eye, the grey wall of the coastline flickered. She wasn't looking at the stone anymore; she was sensing the hidden lines of the world. Scanning the space between the huge stacks and the water, she detected a flow that should not be there—a movement of wind and water through what appeared to be solid rock. It was a ripple in the elements, a subtle vibration that suggested a hollow space beyond the visual lie.
Vorik and Iskar turned to her, their gazes heavy and demanding.
“There? There’s nothing there, girl,” Iskar growled, mostly at Vorik. The Storm King scanned the dark seawater off their flank, seeing only stone.
“Yes, there,” Vorik confirmed, pointing to the same place Qianna had found. “Take us there.”
Iskar looked skeptical, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decide if Vorik was bluffing or simply trying to get them killed. No part of Iskar looked or felt like he believed the old Darkcaller. “I won’t take my fleet into a wall.”
“There is no wall, it just looks like it,” Vorik said, his voice tightening with an edge of command.
Iskar growled audibly, a sound like grinding stones, but he signaled the helmsman. The Dragonships turned toward the rockface.
A long silence followed, broken only by the slow, careful rhythm of the oars. The closer they got, the more visible the illusion became. By the time they approached what looked like a solid rocky shore, the perspective shifted. The "shore" they saw actually belonged to a tall, thick stack farther back, its striations and texture matching the two closer stacks perfectly to create the appearance of a continuous wall.
The Dragonships—larger, more brutal versions of the Nord longships, with iron-shod prows shaped like screaming dragons—pushed slowly between the huge pair of sea stacks. Each pillar was large enough to support a castle. The three vessels moved deeper into the inlet beyond. The ridges above them cast long shadows, swallowing the light until the grey day turned into a premature twilight. For a moment, Qianna thought she saw a flash of grey among the trunks of the gigantic trees crowded to the cliff's edge above them. A wolf? Or merely the mist playing tricks on a mind haunted by ghosts? She felt a sudden, sharp constriction in her chest, a phantom tug on the Black Vein that Loryssa had told her to watch.
Vorik’s mention of the klash-kal brought back years of weary memories: him dragging her through the endless, carved tunnels beneath the Lockstone, his voice echoing with obsessive theories about the long-vanished Stone People. He was convinced they held the key to everything, that they had a secret relationship with the Elowyn, that they had even forged the Silver Blade for them before abandoning their island empire. Vorik had spent her entire life chasing the ghosts of the klash-kal, and Azdam was just the latest ruin in his desperate search.
Once past the gigantic pillars, the mainland coastline of Alfirhavn became clearly approachable to their right. They followed the channel around toward the coast, where it narrowed once more before opening into another shallow lagoon. This one sat under the deep shadow of old, worn remnant stacks and a coastal cliff face showing the lasting remains of hidden stone carved with patterns she had only ever seen before in the Lockstone.
The air here felt heavy. It smelled of wet rock and a thousand years of decay. Qianna looked upon the wreckage of the once-great klashold, Azdam.
“There. There! Slow down,” Vorik called out.
Deep into the channel, the cliff fell away to a broad beach. The current flowed toward a wall of vegetation—vines, tree roots, and hanging moss covered an underground opening. The greenery was unnaturally lush, a strangling shroud that seemed to feed on the darkness of the cave mouth.
Vorik gave Iskar a skeletal grin. “This. This is it.”
“Before we send the brutes to parade through the caverns, I want to know what we’re walking into,” Vorik said, his gaze pinning Qianna in place.
The tip of the spear, Qianna thought, a familiar, bitter taste in her mouth. It was always her role. He had plucked her from the slave pits of Stornheim, the supposed sole survivor of the Elowyn of Lockstone, and had held that "rescue" over her for her entire life. He gave her an identity—the lost alfir girl, the key to ancient secrets—and she hated him for it. Every bit of protection he offered was just another link in the invisible leash that bound her to his will. Now, once again, the pet was being sent into the dark where the master feared to tread.
She met his gaze, her own expression carefully neutral. “What do you need me to do?”
The oars pushed back against the churning dark water, holding the three Dragonships in a drift within the lagoon. The silence felt oppressive. The roar of the open sea was replaced by the soft, rhythmic lapping of water upon the shore and the intermittent clack-drip-clack from the mossy overgrowth above.
Iskar moved to stand beside Vorik. More than a head taller and with skin that looked like fertile soil, the Storm King contrasted sharply with Vorik’s own pale, almost sickly fair skin. He spat a thick ball of phlegm over the side and watched it arc over the shallow water. The sound of its impact was startlingly loud in the quiet.
“This had better be it, Darkcaller,” Iskar snarled, his voice resonant and heavy. He looked on Vorik with hard, narrowed eyes. Qianna felt Iskar’s distrust rolling off him in waves—a low-frequency thrum of aggression. “My swords grow restless. I’ve had enough of your ghost stories and cliff-watching. This place smells like old death.”
Old death as opposed to “new” death, Qianna thought. Images from her past flashed unbidden—twisted bodies and blood splashed carelessly upon the ground. She had seen it enough for it to be normal, yet she never adapted. The sheer terror created a jagged discord that staggered her senses if she came too close.
Vorik never met Iskar’s gaze, continuing to stare ahead toward the sandy strand. He maintained absolute focus, like a predator with cornered prey. Suddenly, he glanced at Qianna. His dark eyes pinned her. It did nothing to make his expression readable, but she felt his feeling wash through her—a cold, sharp spike of satisfaction. Not praise, just acknowledgement. A tool performed as expected.
“You found the path here where I could not. You must be developing a natural affinity for the unseen. Can you see the way into Azdam? The entrance is shielded, intended to steer away those with ill intent. Can you do it again?”
He stepped closer, dropping his voice to a level only she and Iskar could hear. “I want to know what we’re walking into.”
Qianna reached out with her Mind’s Eye. She could feel the gentle breeze sailing toward the opening, carrying the smell of stagnant water, wet earth, and the cold, mineral scent of deep stone. She felt the passion of her hate carry her toward the cave mouth and opened her eyes. She felt the breeze passing through the closed vines and through a hidden hole. She smelled the rot from within. She may not know what had died, but death clung to the place like a physical weight.
She wanted to know how to get into Azdam. She wanted to know so she could control what Vorik knew. Qianna stared forward, letting the adrenaline of having even a tiny sliver of power over Vorik fuel her focus. She could hide in her secret knowledge. Secrets. Hiding. These were Qianna’s art, her passion, grown from expertise sired by the need to survive. It was enough.
“Yes, Vorik. I can feel it… and smell it. Iskar is right about the smell of old death. I can get to it.”
“Pull the boats onto the beach. Set up a camp. Set up a watch,” Iskar commanded. His voice brooked no argument.
The fleet beached on the sand, broken by ferns and bushes. The Dragonships skidded to a stop, and the Nottsver leaped out to execute the command of their King.
Iskar stalked down the beach; Vorik and Qianna followed in his wake. Qianna stayed in Vorik’s shadow and said nothing. When they arrived at the damp, green curtain, the obviousness of the cave became apparent. Just being near it proved enough to blow back Iskar’s hair like a strong ocean breeze. From where they stood, it sounded like the cavern might be full of water.
“Let’s see if you are right, or if this is just another Lockstone,” Iskar sneered at Vorik. He freed one of his huge battle axes and unceremoniously hacked an opening through the thick vegetation. The woody roots, rot, moss, and fern fell away. Several feet in, Iskar carved a path until it started to thin. He stepped back, covered in sod and damp bark.
“If this is what you’re looking for, it goes farther, but I can’t see anything. There are too many roots and webs. Send your alfling.”
“Qianna, please let us know what you see,” Vorik said, nudging her forward.
Qianna gave a quick nod. She avoided Iskar and pulled her hood over her head to keep debris from her face and hair. She pulled it tighter as she stepped through the short passage Iskar had hacked.
She freed the dagger from the small of her back. She had never had any other weapon. The blade might have been attractive once, but it had grown tarnished years before Qianna claimed it. Sometimes, she stared at the barely discernable iconography. On one side, a dedication to the Sky Father and a depiction of the sun. The other side bore a dedication to the Earth Mother with an image of a large rock. The script was klash-kal—gibberish to her, save for the feeling of meaning: “as above” on the sun side, “so below” on the rock side. She gripped the hilt, the cold iron a grounding weight against her palm.
The deep growl of Iskar’s voice followed her into the dim light. “I still don’t know why you let your pet carry a weapon.”
“Are not many pets kept as weapons?” Vorik countered.
“Baaah,” Iskar huffed, stomping away. The crunch of fern fronds and sand grew quieter as he retreated to the camp.
“Qianna, please do be careful. And um, if you find anything particularly interesting, let me know as soon as you come back. Before Iskar finds you. I’ll see you upon your return,” Vorik called from the “outside” world which was rapidly being swallowed by the impenetrable formless grey blanket.
Qianna climbed deeper into the cavern. The air grew thick and heavy, oppressive enough to dull any noise from beyond. She found herself in a clearing where she could stand fully upright without roots poking her. Through the falls of undergrowth, she saw a little light trickling through layers of root and foliage above. Below lay a huge mound of stones filling the passage entirely. There would be no way to explore the depths by boat. Away from the water, further in the darkness, she made out the mouths of tunnels.
Time passed slowly as she carefully climbed over slick mounds of moss. She slipped once, her foot peeling away a layer to reveal stone beneath. In the dim light, she saw symbols carved deep into the rock, now worn to mere divots.
She reached the closest tunnel. It was pitch black, choked with roots and webbing. She needed light.
She closed her eyes. There was no natural light here to use. This required a different, more terrible flow. Her hatred for Vorik rose within her, a familiar, surging warmth. She brought the point of her dagger to her forearm and dragged it across the skin—a sharp, deliberate line of pain over a lattice of old white scars.
With a hissed breath, she became a host for her own cold fury, willing the darkness itself to bleed. This was the Symphony of Oblivion, the art of drawing power from loss.
When she opened her eyes, the cave was bathed in a stark, silvery-violet light. It was not a warm light, but a brutal chill in visual form, a ghost-light born of her own agony. The world was etched in stark, impossible detail, and where her own blood welled from the fresh cut, it cast a faint, crimson glow. A bloodlight. It was a terrible, beautiful, and necessary violation.
Qianna pulled the vines aside and trudged into the tunnel beyond. Numerous tiny creatures scattered away from her, fleeing the giant invading their domain. The thought made her smile.
After the effort to create the ghost light, what came next astounded her. Before long, the carpet of moss parted to reveal carved stones. The mortar holding the bricks together suddenly began to glow a soft blue—the shade of a summer sky. It was an answering glow, the Harmonium masonry responding to the presence of a living being. Her blood had paid the price for the connection, and only when she eased up on the point of her blade did her own ghost light fade.
Guided by the blue glow, she recalled a path like it in the Lockstone. She followed the corridor. A layer of dust lay upon it, but nothing more than what one might expect in a home left open for a season.
As far as Qianna could determine, the tunnels illuminated by the glow focused on a large central circular chamber and included several ancillary rooms. She supposed the light must exist for the benefit of those who needed it.
Another of the many things Vorik had given Qianna was an education in useful herbs. One grew only in the Lockstone: Darkblooms. Beautiful black flowers that needed darkness for a very long time.
In the first chamber, where no ambient light could reach, Darkblooms grew in a rich bouquet unlike anything she had ever seen. She had helped Vorik harvest blooms on stems between one and two hand spans. These had grown wild for an unknown length of time. Some blossoms spread one to two hand spans wide, with many shoots sprouting as many as five blooms. The petals were like velvet shadows; they felt cold to the touch, like traps for the light.
Qianna’s mind ran wild. With this many blossoms, Vorik could probably wipe a town’s worth of people before he needed more. Hiding the flowers would be impossible. She needed to make them seem trivial. So as her last act before leaving, she took a smaller blossom and snapped it free, sliding it into her hair behind her ear, hiding the dark power in plain sight.
She explored other tunnels leading away from a cave-in at an old dock, but none were lit like the first. She had to take numerous breaks and give in to the stinging pain on her arm to see. Among the halls she illuminated one by bloody one lay more than enough space to contain all of the Nottsver.
For most of the next hour, Qianna explored. Azdam was far too big to safely search in a short time. She figured she had seen enough. She decided she would tell them the other tunnels were impassable. She wanted to make them her personal domain. A place where the master’s gaze could not reach.
She left the same way she came in. When she emerged back onto the shaded beach, the light felt blinding to her sensitive eyes. The beach had turned into a camp. Supplies had been unloaded, tents pitched. Qianna moved through the camp, ignoring the Nottsver who looked at her with malicious intent. She projected a strong, serious demeanor and moved unhindered toward a long tent.
Just outside the flap, she paused at the sound of voices.
“Find me the blade like you said you could,” Iskar was saying, his voice a vibrating snarl of murder. “Or tonight we shall see how an Agonyan tastes.”
“You’ve repeated this every time, Iskar. I am here because you are the Storm King. I am here to lead you to the Nottirbar so you can claim your birthright as Skorn,” Vorik said in a tight, calm tone.
“It’s because young ones born when we started are old enough to sire their own—and nothing has changed!” Iskar said in agitation, like a volcano seething.
“This is it—” Vorik started.
“No, there won’t be another time. No more of your games with the alfir. No more trying to make the dead walk. Find me the blade like you said you could, or tonight we shall see how an Agonyan tastes after I tell all of them you’re a fraud,” Iskar hissed like a venting thermal crack.
“If this is a klashold and Qianna confirms we’ve found Azdam, there are Elowyn here. Nearby. Your sword is with the Elowyn on this island, I promise you. Never have I made that promise before, have I? Then we’ll just need to find some. Draw them out. Draw out the wielder. And take it,” Vorik said.
Qianna slipped through the folds of the tent. She caught him making a gesture with his hand as if snatching something from the air. Neither appeared to notice her appearance.
She cleared her throat, breaking the gathering storm. She faced them both and spoke in her clearest Stornir.
“My liege, the cavern and tunnels beyond bear the hallmarks of having once been a large vergir compound. Like the Lockstone.”
“Is that so?” Iskar asked, visibly relaxing.
“It is. The Lockstone is the only other place I’ve seen things like this in those ruins,” she smirked and pulled the Darkbloom from her ear. She handed it to Vorik. “I got you a present while I was there.”
Vorik reached out to grab it absentmindedly, then awareness flooded back. He focused on the flower and took it gently. She knew the blossom was larger than any she had picked with him.
“There are more of these?” Vorik asked, pointing at Qianna with the light-drinking bloom.
Iskar crossed his arms and huffed.
Qianna spared Iskar a glance and nodded to Vorik. “Chambers full. Some as tall as me.”
Vorik’s eyes grew wide. Still holding the flower, he said to Iskar, “This is proof, Iskar. Proof she found Azdam. Only in such a place would such a flower grow. If this is Azdam, we can find Elowyn. We can find the alfir with Nottirbar.”
“What condition are the vergir caves?” Iskar asked.
“A mess,” Qianna answered. “But there is a large area with its own light source that could be cleaned up easily. I can show you.”
“First, Qianna, show us,” Vorik said.
Iskar added, “And if it is as you say, I’ll send some in to start trying to make something of the place.”
“Tomorrow, Qianna,” Vorik said, reaching for his staff. The old shadowmancer kept his crystal blue eyes set on Iskar. “We’re going inland. We’re going to recruit some locals to be our discreet eyes and ears on the island.”
