The Heart of Mani

  (Planet Mani—Down Under

  Ver’Ta 1, 997—??? Season)

  Deep below the inhabited surface of Mani, beneath layers of stone and roots of oldest silver, within the great expanse of inner sky, a young man sat and listened. To what . . . he remained unsure.

  It’s talking again. Kaen couldn’t deny it anymore. In this land of lakes below the continent of Argent, he’d come to the ancient ruins of stone and silver whence a faint call echoed now and again. Three weeks he and his friends had been down here, half a Sol Cycle, and for nigh three weeks he’d heard the call—woken in the night to it and gone back to sleep, telling himself it was a dream.

  Now he frowned, glancing down at the stream that flowed from the great waterfalls. The descending torrent was close enough that its sound was a steady din, like the whispering voice of many worlds. But over it all, the impression of just one clear voice:

  Come to me.

  Kaen rose, turning in the direction of the ethereal voice, which originated from farther into the ruins. He strode past tall pillars thrust into the ground and square corners jutting up from the green turf, remnants of some ancient temple. At least, that was their best guess. Rhidea would have a better idea, if she ever woke from her long coma. . . .

  “All right, I’m going to find you this time,” he muttered. Not to the voice, but to himself in reference to it. He didn’t actually believe it existed—he just wanted to . . . well, get to the bottom of it, whatever it was.

  That is right. Closer.

  The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Did it have to sound quite this sinister? He didn’t think it was a monster. That seemed unlikely, unless the crusades against the wild monsters had been achieved by simply dumping them off the edge of the world. Although . . . if that had been the case, they would have survived. And there’d be a lot more down here, gobbling all the locals whole.

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  So, if it was true, then they were all in for a rude awakening soon.

  As he neared the falls, he poked his head around a surprisingly well-preserved wall etched in mysterious runes, scanning about for the source of the voice. Still nothing. Some stone blocks and crumbled wall fragments littered the ground.

  I am here.

  This time, the voice startled Kaen, causing him to jump. The falls were deafeningly close, and the voice came even louder in his head. Heart beating rapidly, he looked down at a specific piece of stone, what appeared to be a buried sheet with some two-by-one-foot rectangular section visible. Somehow, he knew that was the source.

  With a small sigh, he approached it and bent down, feeling specks of water land on his head and neck. This had better be it. Running his hand along the exposed grey stone, he shivered at the cold feeling of it. It was hiding something, though. Whatever was speaking to him in his head seemed to impress the thought upon him.

  An unsettling notion in itself.

  Bracing his feet, he grabbed the underside of the stone and attempted to wedge it upwards. He got it to budge, but it wasn’t easy. Grunting and pulling again, he loosened it more and was able to shift the dirt that had claimed it. But only a little.

  He gave up and began kicking and digging the dirt away. Soft and loose as it was—as well as messy and wet—he was able to force the dirt out past the edge of the stone, freeing up nearly a half-foot more.

  “All right, let’s see about you again . . .” He pried once more, levering the flat stone up on itself and finally achieving enough space to look underneath. Something glinted—like polished metal. The light down here, green and ambient, wasn’t such that it usually reflected clearly. With a great heave, he pushed the stone all the way up and tipped it backwards, giving it a low shove with his foot to ensure that it didn’t slide back.

  In the dark recess it had left in the soil, a round piece of metal was visible. It only took a minute of digging to reveal more—what almost seemed to be the pommel of a sword. Entirely silver and intricately worked. A solid yank freed the crossguard and then the entire blade from the earth.

  “Whoa,” he breathed, admiring the craftsmanship of the piece. It did not look like any modern or antique weapon he had seen. He brushed and flicked off the dirt as he inspected the sword. Its blade was long and delicate, two-edged and tapering smoothly near the tip. The hilt was crafted to look like one piece with the rest of it, silver twisting around itself. Was it . . . oh yes, he could tell that it was spell-forged. No sword buried down here at the bottom of the world would be a young blade made from cheap silver.

  The sword hummed as the voice returned, resounding in his skull: You will do. Not the soul I desired, nor the one whose presence awoke me. But you will make a sufficient Vessel.

  ??