The Dawnflower and the Rose: Chapter 2

If Philippe hadn’t already known that the Grand Codex Library was tended by devotees of Shelyn, it would have been apparent the moment he set eyes upon it. Set atop a rise overlooking the Lake of Mists and Veils, and nestled within the Estrovian Forest, the single-story stone building was ensconced within an elaborate garden of topiaries and statues. The stone exterior was adorned with a vividly colorful mural depicting angelic figures engaged in song and merriment.

It was truly a beauty to behold, and Philippe felt a pain in his heart as he considered what he must do.

“If this goes the way it’s headed, it will be heartbreaking to see all this in ruins.” Besslyn spoke the words that Philippe was thinking.

Philippe turned to the dozen commanders that had been arrayed before him. “Tell your warriors not to harm the art or the books.”

The gaggle of commanders looked at one another in confusion before one stepped forth to speak. “Begging your pardon, General, but our soldiers are trained to fight, and fighting is bloody business. Archers will miss and strike unintended targets. As our footmen advance, they will take cover behind whatever they can in split-second moments between life and death. If the Magus summons any demons, the malevolent magic that they bring to bear will make art and books among the first casualties of this battle. Our soldiers will be unable to follow that order.”

The commander who stepped forward to speak returned to his comrades.

“Ignore that order.” Philippe sighed. “Warn them that the library is trapped with fireball glyphs. But impress upon your soldiers that Magus Izac will be brought to justice at any cost. His scourge ends today.”

“Yes, sir.” The commanders saluted and then dispersed to lead their units.

“We can only hope the Magus summons some demons…” Besslyn spoke out loud. “This whole situation gets a lot simpler.”

“He won’t.” Philippe was confident of that. “At least until we have defeated Alex, Arlen, and those under their command.”

“Maybe Alex will see reason and tell her people to stand down.” Besslyn replied.

“She hopes the same of us.” Philippe replied before raising his voice to a shout. “Magus Izac, surrender yourself into my custody or face the cleansing fire of Sarenrae.”

In response, the Mendev warrior formations began to advance on the library, archers knocked their arrows, and Philippe marched forward with Besslyn at his side.

A strange sound projected from the library. First it was gentle, but soon it matched the commotion of military activity. Philippe looked at Besslyn for her knowledge on the subject, and she nodded with an expectant expression, “Enthrall.”

Alexis emerged from the Grand Codex Library, clad in the heavy armor she had worn when she battled alongside Philippe long ago. She held her glaive in one hand and a shield in the other. She was not rushing to engage the advancing warriors. Instead, she was singing, and the sound of her music filled the garden surrounding the library.

Behind her came Arlen, a handful of armored and battle-ready devotees of Shelyn, and an impressive assembly of monks dressed in blue robes.

Philippe could not deny the beauty in Alexis’s song. Though he rationally knew that the magical energies contained within were intended to undermine his mission, her lyrics spoke to his heart. Those lyrics spoke of peace, kinship, prudence, and honor.

“Torag guide this mission, and steel his will!” Besslyn’s voice was powerful even without the divine energies that bolstered Philippe’s resolve. “Torag guide me, and steel my will!” She repeated the spell for her own benefit.

“Sarenrae, give me strength!” Philippe prayed for divine grace to further aid him.

Just as Alexis’s spell began to flood the area with mystical power, it loosened its influence on Philippe. Despite its enticing beauty and compelling message—a message he largely agreed with—the champion refused its effect. Unlike their general, however, many of the assembled soldiers were not as resilient and ceased their advance. Others threw down their weapons and basked in the beauty of the music. Some commanders began angrily shouting at their men to remain strong while others joined the charmed, and refused to continue their hostility.

The formerly organized and well-regimented army was now in disarray. Philippe looked to Besslyn for advice.

“We must disrupt her concentration.” Besslyn shouted.

Philippe spared a glance at the archer formations behind him. They appeared to be unaffected by the spell and were awaiting orders.

Besslyn gripped Philippe’s arm and pulled him in. “That will work, but it is a line once crossed, cannot be undone. She was our friend.”

Philippe nodded in solemn agreement. He drew his scimitar and readied his shield. “With me, my warriors!” He shouted, “Charge!”

While most soldiers were enthralled, some were not. Inspired by the champion, those who could follow did so with weapons drawn. Shouting over the song, the gaggle of warriors led by Philippe dashed through the garden toward the gates of the Grand Codex Library.

The assembly of monks, who had thus far stood silent, vanished into blue blurs. In the very same instant those same blurs met the charging warriors in a clash of armor and fists. A desperate melee erupted as the monks unleashed a flurry of blows upon shocked opponents. Shields and armor were circumvented by speed and agility that connected fists and feet with vulnerable faces, knees, crotches, and armpits. Though weaponless, unarmored, and outnumbered, the blue-clad martial artists were far more skilled than rank-and-file soldiers. When those same soldiers, either through aptitude or dumb luck, did manage to land a strike, the clerics who stood with Alexis called to Shelyn. Rent flesh mended beneath bloody robes and broken limbs snapped back into position. Vicious wounds that would put the most battle-hardened warrior on the back foot were merely a fleeting discomfort.

Philippe brought his own shield up just in time to deflect the incoming blow from a shadowy figure he had barely perceived. Besslyn’s hammer swung through the empty space formerly occupied by the attacker, even as another formless blur connected his foot with the small of her back. The strike sent her sprawling, but it gave Philippe an opening.

The motion was instant. Muscle memory engaged like a steam engine built for a singular purpose: to fell agents of evil. The blue-robed figure, however, was no such agent.

Philippe withdrew his scimitar, now slick with fresh blood. The monk before him fell to his knees and then toppled face-down into the manicured grass. Philippe extended his hand to help Besslyn to her feet and looked around.

While some of Philippe’s soldiers, witnessing the onslaught, summoned the will to dispel Alexis’s song and join their comrades, many others remained spellbound. The clash of metal and bodies escalated into a crescendo of screaming combatants. Such was the ferocity of the Irori monks and the dedication of the Shelyn priests that the charge was blunted. All momentum belonged to the defenders of the Grand Codex Library, and without a turn, the attackers would be driven back beyond the garden.

Righteous warriors, whether devotees of Shelyn, Torag, Sarenrae, or Irori, were dying.

“We will be driven back!” Besslyn shouted as she squared off with her warhammer in hand against two approaching monks. “We must disrupt Alexis’s concentration so our warriors can join the battle, else the blood spilled here will be in vain.”

Philippe’s heart sank. Countless battles had taught him that haste was the essence of war, but the enemy of prudence. There was no time for a more thoughtful solution, only for the solution that was available. “Fire!” Philippe shouted at his archers with a motion toward Alexis and the priests around her.

A rain of arrows filled the sky. The first volley felled half the Shelyn priests. Those that did not die were forced to turn their restorative magic upon themselves. Deprived of healing support, the monks’ wanton onslaught was itself blunted beneath the weight of numerical superiority. The one-sided battle had quickly turned.

“Now’s our chance!” Besslyn screamed as she plowed through the monks she had been fighting.

But the song had not fallen silent. Philippe found Alexis standing at the entry to the library with arrows protruding from her armor. Blood dripped from her wounds, but still she continued to sing.

Besslyn led a charge toward Alexis. The devotee of Torag was a testament to her faith, and even Philippe struggled to keep up. Together they had mustered enough inspiration to draw a motley band of bloodied warriors toward the library.

That inspiration was short-lived.

A deafening shout erupted from before them, sending Besslyn and the warriors around her hurling backward. Bodies and weapons flew through the air. Beautifully sculpted bushes had their leaves stripped from their greenery. Flower petals and leaves fluttered amidst the turmoil. Even the grass was torn from the earth in a flood of green needles.

Philippe had reflexively taken refuge behind his shield. When the violent gale had abated, he found his warriors broken and lifeless upon the earth around him, Besslyn slumped motionless against a cracked stone statue, and a blue-robed elf before him.

“None will be permitted to step foot inside the Grand Codex Library.” Arlen repeated the words Alexis had spoken the day before.

“The Grand Codex Library will not be a refuge for evil.” Philippe turned from Arlen and back to his archers while leveling his blade at the monk. “Fire!”

The shadow of deadly missiles passed over Philippe toward Arlen in a seemingly endless downpour of steel-tipped wood and feathers.

Arlen twirled, bobbed, and wove untouched through the onslaught. Corpses of monks and soldiers shuddered beneath the impact of arrows, but Arlen danced amidst their lethality without so much as a scratch. He glared at Philippe as he moved. “Your lust for justice has cost the lives of many good warriors who would, in any other circumstance, fight by your side against the Magus. Now we are both diminished by your impatience.”

When the last arrow fell, Philippe closed on Arlen with shield and blade. “Your tolerance for the wicked endangers innocents. I cannot allow the Magus to scheme under your protection until he crosses some imaginary line that provokes you to act.”

Philippe felt the blows before he had comprehended that Arlen had moved. He was able to reflexively block some, and his armor took the most furious impacts, but each strike still felt like a hammer. In response, Philippe swung and thrust with his weapon, but the blade cut empty air and the occasional blue robe.

“You mistake your own fear for righteousness.” Arlen delivered a series of strikes that dented and rent Philippe’s armor.

Philippe spat blood. “You excuse inaction with caution. Your scrolls and paintings give scant comfort to Izac’s victims… past or future.” He then rolled away for a moment’s respite from the onslaught. He pushed himself to his feet, stood tall, and shouted in a voice resonating with divine power as he extended his hand toward Arlen. “Sarenrae impart your spirit! I am your instrument! Sanctify my purpose with your spark!”

Arlen screamed as an arc of fire erupted from Philippe’s outstretched palm and caught him full in the chest. Skin blackened, cracked, and smoked as the elf rolled and thrashed against the inferno engulfing him. Philippe offered no opening for recovery and resumed his attack. With a slash of his scimitar, Philippe ended the monk’s suffering.

And when he met Alexis’s gaze, his heart sank. The wounded priestess had stood at the entry to the library watching the battle. Tears ran down her cheeks as blood ran down her body, which was riddled with arrows, yet she continued her song. Its power remained and its message still spoke to Philippe’s warriors through a cracked and trembling voice: this death is needless and this destruction is wrong.

Philippe strode forward. A priest of Shelyn ran to intercede, but Philippe batted her aside. A monk with an arrow protruding from his back crawled after Philippe, but the champion kicked him away. He marched up to Alexis and stood inches from her as he spoke. “We are friends. Help me deliver justice to Izac. Bring an end to this senseless conflict.”

Alexis shook her head.

The song had become so ubiquitous that silence felt alien. Philippe withdrew from Alexis. He felt his own eyes well with tears as he considered the bloody blade in his hand.

Hierophant Alexis Sharp fell to her knees but refused to look away from Philippe.

“I’m sorry.” Philippe’s voice quivered with emotion. “The Magus is far too dangerous to be allowed to live. He must be destroyed.”

“At what cost?” Alexis replied in a voice so weak it was scarcely a whisper.

A long stretch passed between the two former comrades. A stillness filled the garden around the library, and Philippe considered Alexis’s question before he replied. “Any cost.”

Alexis’s eyes closed. She toppled to her side, and blood pooled on the ground beneath her.

*****

Armed with the knowledge that the library had been trapped, Philippe cautiously made his way inside. As he moved, he could hear a voice reciting some unknown magical incantation. However, the moment he stepped into the archway leading to the central part of the structure, the chanting stopped.

Philippe assessed the scene before him, cognizant that glyphs of warding were ready to erupt in a conflagration at the slightest misstep. Upon the sculpted relief walls were sconces glowing with magical light—for fire was forbidden within the structure. They illuminated a large ornate rotunda domed with magnificent stained glass that bathed the room in brilliant colors. A stadium arrangement of curved shelves surrounded a collection of marble desks dominated by a single circular table. The path between shelves created a focal point that ended—perhaps intentionally—upon the occupant of that table.

A lone figure in black robes sat at the table smiling at Philippe.

Philippe ignored Izac as he searched for glyphs of warding.

“You won’t find them,” said the Magus plainly. He was middle-aged with short brown hair. His expression was one of excited amusement, and he pulled himself to stand with the aid of a staff. The wizard was unassuming, and without knowledge of his heinous deeds, no one would suspect him of being a murderous fiend in league with demonic forces. “Your best shot is to rush me and hope you avoid the fireballs.”

Philippe took a cautious step toward his quarry with a reasonable certainty he would not trigger a glyph. “I will not destroy this place unless I must. Good people died to protect it.”

“You mean you killed them.” Izac took a step back. Though there were fifty feet between him and the champion, he would maintain what distance he could.

“They did not understand how dangerous you are.” Philippe took another step; this time he was less certain he would not trigger a glyph. “It is tragic, but evil men exploit virtuous people for their own ends. It is a terrible sacrifice that we cannot shrink from if we are to confront the wicked.”

“Their sacrifice, not yours… to be clear.” Izac chuckled. “Perhaps Rovagug and Sarenrae have some common ground after all.”

“Their only common ground is an interest in your execution, Magus.” Philippe spat. “Prepare yourself. Even if you defeat me… even if this library burns to the ground, I have an insurmountable force mustered against you. Your trail of devastation ends here. Why don’t you deliver yourself to my blade as your final sacrament to your vile god?”

Izac’s expression brightened further. “I like your perspective, Champion. I cannot lose, can I? Whether I die at your hand, or escape your ire and destroy this place, I still serve the Unmaker.”

Certain that conversation would only serve Izac’s interests, and not his, Philippe scanned the area for glyphs, and took a calculated risk. He readied himself for a lunge and sprang forward with blade in hand.

The expression of delight upon Izac’s face did not fade as Philippe crossed the span between them and swung his blade. The scimitar cut through empty air as the image of the Magus vanished instantly. Philippe swung wildly, hoping to hit something invisible, but he knew that the chance of Izac being within striking distance was low.

A deep laughter rose from across the library where Izac—presumably the real Izac—now stood.

Philippe readied for another lunge but stopped himself. A tiny rune etched upon the floor before him glowed faintly. There was no doubt as to what destructive power the seemingly insignificant glyph held.

“Come and get me, Champion of Sarenrae,” Izac taunted, as some magical force pulled him a few feet off the ground. “This is your only chance. Charge toward me and kill me before I take my leave to sow further devastation.”

“Sarenrae protects!” Incensed, Philippe steeled himself against the impending conflagration and sprang forward.

An explosion of fire erupted around him. Protected as he was through divine power, wooden shelves and paper books were not. A blazing inferno erupted through the rotunda, consuming everything it touched and spreading like a glowing orange and red flood. Roiling black smoke filled the dome and colorful glass shards fell like rain.

Once again, Philippe swung his scimitar through Izac.

This time the blade struck an invisible barrier. The air shimmered with the impact and deflected the attack harmlessly.

Izac rose into the air and well out of reach of Philippe. “Farewell, Philippe Ambrose. I have no doubt I will see you again.”

Philippe searched in vain for a way to reach the Magus, but the heat from the firestorm was beginning to overwhelm even his divine protection. Despite his commitment to exact justice, he could only move toward the exit. He shouted with fury as he withdrew, “I will hunt you to the edge of Golarion and beyond! In Sarenrae’s name I swear I will find you and destroy you!”

“Perhaps someday,” Izac nodded with a grin. “As you stated, my death would serve both my master and yours. Meanwhile we can both revel in the glorious destruction your zealotry has reaped.” As he rose further into the air, the Magus spread his arms wide to gesture at the burning contents of the Grand Codex Library. “You see, whether it is the Forge Father, the Master of Masters, or even the Dawnflower or the Eternal Rose, we all serve my master. We all serve Rovagug.”

Philippe could only glare with contempt as Izac vanished through the shattered stained-glass dome.

“And the Worldbreaker thanks you for your service.”