Teller of Fate
Second Movement: The Last Templar
Chapter Nineteen
* * *
A dim memory from the Templar’s childhood brightened as he caught his first glimpse of the Teller. He knew her. The revelation of that moment solved long standing mysteries and gave him hope for a dream long thought dead. He let none of this show.
The elf before him appeared no more than a maiden child. She was as short as he and slender, though the sway of her hips when she walked and the swell of her breasts visible before she hid them argued for womanhood, even motherhood.
The Templar knew that looks were often deceptive with elfkin, who showed no signs of age until near the end of their long lives.
Though he knew she was his daughter, the moment of recognition was still a shock. That face, heart-shaped; those lips, a cupid’s bow; those cheekbones, an inheritance of the Dark Man; her stature and bearing exactly as they had been on Scorn. He attended to her new features.
The former Davida’s skin was a silver speckled white tinted pale blue in the hollows, her eyes scarlet gems, sparkling with gold. The deep red, gold stranded glory of her hair was restrained only by a pair of pale blue crystal combs. The scent wafting from her stirred his loins. With some surprise, the Templar realized she had to be a Leannán as well as a Seanduine, a combination unique and, he would have thought, impossible.
The blue in her cheeks deepened as she noticed his gaze; a blush, he realized. “Greetings to you, Templar,” she said. Her voice had not changed at all, with its odd cadence and slightly deeper tone than one would expect from one so small.
She dropped a slight curtsey; a courtesy he hadn’t expected.
“I’ll take my leave,” said the elf, Tathar. The Templar acknowledged his slight head bow. A moment later, he and the elf woman were alone.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Dævara indicated the large, padded bench within the study proper.
The Templar turned and descended the two shallow steps, sitting at the end farthest from the diamond-paned window. She joined him, sitting a little distance away on the same bench.
“You honour me with your visit, Templar. What might I do for you?”
He hadn’t expected to feel such strong emotion at this meeting. Knowing what he now knew—what she did not yet know—he realized the speech he had intended would no longer do. He began with his knowledge, easing into a revelation the elf before him was sure to find troubling.
“Though you may not recall, I remember meeting you once before, Dævara.”
She seemed a little surprised. Perhaps assuming he would have been in disguise. “Where was that, then?”
“Almost a hundred years ago. You were called Davida and told Fate on a world called Scorn.”
Dævara’s eyes widened, her mouth opened, and both hands snapped up to cover it. After a moment, her hands descended to her lap again. She had the intuition of a Teller. “You’re the Dark Man.” Her voice was flat, her eyes suddenly hostile, yet she made no move, either to flee or to fight.
“I was, yes.”
“But you’re not, now.” Her tone was frankly disbelieving.
“I was a passive part of his unconscious. I know it seems unlikely, but I was trapped inside the Dark Man by an enemy.”
“Who could do that to a Magus?”
He shrugged and didn’t try to hide his chagrin. “One greater than I.”
“Why did you—he—kill my mother? Why try to steal my Syrat?”
He had to be careful here. Any deception would be detected and would forever deny any trust between them. “I needed a Syrat.”
“You did.” Again, that flat, almost angry tone.
“Though my motives ruled him, the Dark Man’s actions were dictated by his character and judgement. I was powerless to stop him.”
She was silent for a time, staring at him, then looking away. Finally, “Why are you here now? What do you want of me?”
“The answer to that brings us to the subject of the Templar War.”
* * *
The Templar before Dævara recounted most of what she knew, adding little to her store of knowledge. He ended with the terrible bargain he and his sister had made.
The Templar before Dævara only had to exist to maintain his part of the bargain. He knew it would be eternity, so he created people to live as a normal mortal and to forget himself. The Templars had long ago mastered the creation of Life.
He rode in the minds of lesser beings and so became lesser, amusing himself one lifetime after another, to while away the millennia.
This was where the betrayal began.
A deadly immortal creature called the Wanderer in the Wastes had, for reasons known only to itself, decided to free the White God. It knew the only risk to its plan was the Golden Templar, so it played a gambit. The Wanderer looked to render the Magus impotent by trapping him in his own forms, essentially putting him to sleep, so that the Templar wouldn’t be aware of the danger until it was too late.
The will of the last free Templar became subservient to that of one of the beings that he had created. So, the Dark Man became dark, selfish, and a murderer.
As he had later learned, it was Wanderer who had seduced several Magi of the Silver Temple and so instigated the release of the White God from ITs sub-Reality. After the Templar War, the Wanderer began surreptitiously feeding energy to the White God trapped in Azhure’en, making it stronger.
Azhure’en would soon no longer be able to hold it. The Templar needed her services to make another trap. This one would only be temporary, though.
The plan was to drag it out along the Apian Roads and dump it back in the sub-Reality it came from.
Into the silence following this, Dæv said, “So you’re Phæthon, the Mó é Féin.”
“I am the former and was the latter, yes.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I have been searching for and visiting all the Tellers I could find. I have need of one. More specifically, of a Syrat.”
“If I give you my Syrat, it’ll be my death.”
“I do not mean to keep it. I only need it for a time. A day, maybe less. It will need to be augmented somewhat. After, I’ll return it.”
“Meanin’ no disrespect, Phæthon, but to what end? I thought the Templars had no truck with the Syrat.”
“That is true and there is good reason for that, but time is short and risks that were once unthinkable are now preferable, for if the White God is freed again, I fear nothing will survive. Once I have altered your Syrat, I’ll need your services to help make the trap.”
“What you ask is…”
“I know. As you’ve probably guessed, I have been asking other Tellers as well.”
“And they turned you down.”
“Yes. There’s something else, as well. Something that makes this meeting special—for both of us.”
“You’re my father.”
Unexpected, but not really shocking. His surprise must have shown on his face.
“I am a Seanduine. That means a Templar must be one of my parents.”
“And I’m one of only two left.”
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
