Footwizard

Book 13 of The Spellmonger Series

By Terry Mancour

Copyright © 2021

All Rights Reserved

Footwizard is dedicated to my amazing fans who have kept reading me even after 13 books.  Especially to the Superfans who have run the Ghost Rock Discord server, the Spellmonger Wiki, and other fan sites dedicated to the series, as well a special thanks to my beta readers.  Thank you all for supporting me, the work, and asking me such insightful questions.  It’s hard to believe we’re almost half-way through the series.

But I have the best fans on the planet, and this book is for you.

Contents

Chapter One                     A Poor Way To Begin A Quest

Chapter Two                     Pentandra’s Return

Chapter Three                  Preparing for the Expedition

Chapter Four                    The Opening of the Palace

Chapter Five                     The Concerns of the King

Chapter Six                       Departure

Chapter Seven                  The Edge of the Alkali Wastes

Chapter Eight                   Tyr Morannan

Chapter Nine                    The Realm of the Jevolar

Chapter Ten                      The Windmaster of Melleray

Chapter Eleven                 The Cave of the Ancients

Chapter Twelve                Malartu, Master of Midmarket

Chapter Thirteen              The Forgotten Folk

Chapter Fourteen             The Road to Anferny

Chapter Fifteen                   Kanlan, Lord of Anferny

Chapter Sixteen                        The Shaking Earth

Chapter Seventeen           Lakeshire

Chapter Eighteen              Grost Kilnuskum

Chapter Nineteen             The Hall of the Mountain King

Chapter Twenty                  A Prophecy of Doom

Intermission                             Welcome to Your Gateway to Adventure!

Chapter Twenty-One         A Grim Warning

Chapter Twenty-Two        Ordering the First Expedition

Chapter Twenty-Three      Into the Wild Desolation

Chapter Twenty-Four        Rolof the Obscure

Chapter Twenty-Five        Rumors of a Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Six          The Lost Scion of the Aronin

Chapter Twenty-Seven      The Pledge of the Aronin

Chapter Twenty-Eight       Avius

Chapter Twenty-Nine        The Arsenal of Kova Salainen

Chapter Thirty                     The Leshwood

Chapter Thirty-One           The Court of Leshi Fathers

Chapter Thirty-Two           A Parley with Pritikin

Chapter Thirty-Three        A Pack of Worries

Chapter Thirty-Four          News From the Sky

Chapter Thirty-Five             The Moot of Midmarket

Chapter Thirty-Six                    Three Pairs of Hearts

Chapter Thirty-Seven                The Song of Avius

Chapter Thirty-Eight         The Servants of Szal

Chapter Thirty-Nine          The Interrogation Chamber

Chapter Forty                       The Flavor of Distant Earth

Chapter Forty-One                    The Sorrow of the Alon

Chapter Forty-Two                    Ancient History

Chapter Forty-Three                 Madness and Death

Chapter Forty-Four                   What Wizards Do

Chapter Forty-Five            Defending the Vault

Chapter Forty-Six             Within the Vault

Chapter Forty- Seven        The Stolen Hope of the World

Chapter Forty-Eight          A Wonderful World

Chapter Forty-Nine           On The Road Again

Chapter Fifty                        Home to Vanador

Appendix A: Lilastien’s Discography

Appendix B: Promotional Brochure

Chapter One

A Poor Way To Begin A Quest

No quest arises without attendant challenges.  The footwizard knows that greater the difficulty involved, the greater the glory in our craft.  It is in overcoming these trials, not shirking from them, that the true wizard rises above the common charlatan.

Fondaras the Wise,

Footwizard of Alshar

For those who are interested, here’s a professional tip: never start off a grand adventure by arguing with your wife.

I have no doubt that many, if not most great adventures do begin that way.  I know that there were a few times, early in our marriage, that minor spats and more severe arguments sometimes gave me the urge to be in a land far away.  But those were transitory impulses, and I was wise enough not to yield to them.  Alya, too, could get so mad at me that she would find some reason to be away from home for a bit.  I recall one fight in Sevendor that had caused me to seek solace and advice from my father, when Alya had chosen to abruptly visit her sister for a few days.

He pointed out a bit of marital wisdom that I’ve come to respect, if not always heed: “Son, sometimes your wife just needs to miss you more.  She can’t do that if she doesn’t go away.  Or you do.”

As much as I appreciated that sentiment, this was not that kind of fight.  The problem wasn’t that Alya wanted me to go away.  Quite the opposite.

“You have left me constantly over the last six months,” she accused, calmly.  “The wars and your work have occupied your time and attention, leaving me alone to contend with the children and the household.  You’ve won your wars.  Now you want to abandon me again for two months?” she asked, the hurt she felt seeping into her voice despite her calm and reasonable tones.

“Alya, it’s dangerous!” Sire Cei said, shaking his head with concern.  The Wilderlord had come to look upon my wife as a kind of foster daughter, over the years, and he bore her a great affection. He was as troubled as I was by her insistence. “Minalan said that the passage to this mysterious valley, alone, could be deadly.  And no man knows what lies beyond,” he added, grimly.

“Have I not been in danger every moment since I returned to the Wilderlands?” she shot back, proudly.  “Two armies have come at us, now, and Duin alone knows when a third might happen by.  We are infiltrated by spies and assassins which, by the nature of my title and position, places me in peril.  And what unknown dangers lurk in a town where wizards work?” she reminded me.  “Danger is not a factor in this decision,” she said, setting her jaw.

I swallowed.  As a consequence of years of marriage, I knew what that jaw meant.

“Alya,” I began, gently, “It isn’t your bravery that I’m questioning, it’s your safety.  It will be dangerous.  And I won’t have magic to protect you,” I explained, reasonably.

That earned me a snort.  “Protect me?  My lord husband, I managed to protect myself for many years before I met you.  Indeed, there was very little need for protection until I met you,” she reminded me.  “Since our acquaintance I’ve—”

“I know what you’ve endured, Alya,” I interrupted, trying to head off the litany of deadly threats she’d encountered since we’d met.  The moment I spoke, I realized I’d made a tactical mistake.  And really pissed her off.

“Do you?” she riposted, icily.  “For my memory is yet clouded from my recovery,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.  “There are still many things I cannot fully recall.

“But the memories I do have demonstrate just how dangerous it has been to be the Spellmonger’s wife.  Yet in my recollections I do remember that while you have rescued me more than once from certain death, there were occasions where you would have been slain if I had not acted.  You won’t have the magic you have used since you were a boy.  I have lived without rajira my entire life.  Has it not occurred to you that you mayhap need me to protect you, my lord husband?” she asked.

I could hear Sire Cei swallow.  “Perhaps it would be better if I retired for the evening,” he suggested, uncomfortably.  No vassal wants to get involved in a marital dispute between his lieges.  It rarely ends well.

“As you wish, my lord, but this concerns you, too,” Alya said, sharply.  “I defer to my husband’s judgement, as Baron of Sevendor, but if the selfish arse gets himself killed in some godsforsaken desert, then it will just be me that you have to contend with in the management of our lands.  As our castellan and steward, I would say you have an interest in this,” she said, pointedly.

“Alya, why would you want to go?” I asked, pleadingly.  “Not only is it dangerous, but you would be away from the children for weeks.  Months, perhaps,” I predicted.  “All summer long.”

“They will survive,” she said, flatly.  I tried not to wince.  Though her recovery from her injuries had been remarkable, Alya had yet to recover the fullness of her maternal nature.  Or at least some of the more empathetic elements.  “We have a multitude of servants and stalwart guardians to protect and instruct them.  They will not suffer more than a few days before they are distracted.  They have grown used to not seeing their father for days or weeks at a time; they will endure the absence of their mother with the same grace.”

That was painful to hear because it was true.  Every time I returned from an errand or a mission, the children mobbed me to the point of distraction.  They did miss me when I was gone, Almina in particular.  It broke my heart to consider how much they missed me.  Her point was not lost on me.

“I still don’t understand why you want to go, Alya,” I said, my voice a little hoarse.

“To be with my husband!” she exploded.  “To be with you, for a change, instead of waiting for you to return!  You took me away from Sevendor and brought me back to the Wilderlands and have since left me either here or in Vanador while you pursued your work and your duties!  Am I safe?  Perhaps.  Am I happy?  Not as much as I’d like to be,” she warned.  That jaw was still thrust out.  She was not relenting.

“But what about your herds?” I countered.  “The creamery is just getting into shape.  You’ll miss weeks of cheesemaking.”

“They’re cows, Min,” she said, patiently.  “You are my husband.  My dairy maids know what to do.  And Bova herself has crapped blessings all over the place.  I am going with you, Husband.”

Sire Cei looked back and forth between the two of us, a barely-suppressed look of panic twisting his mustache.

I was enduring a moment of panic myself, as I envisioned all of the ways I knew Alya could get killed on the journey, and imagining dangers I couldn’t plan for.  But then I saw the set of her jaw.  She had committed herself to this.  If I said ‘no’ she might obey . . . but neither of us would be happy about it.

“All right,” I conceded with a sigh.  “You can go.  Please inform Master Fondaras to include you in the expedition.  He will likely give you a list of gear and baggage to prepare.  But I would forego any ball gowns,” I advised.  “This trek will make the Great March of the Kasari seem like a holiday picnic.”

“Thank you, my husband,” she said, with a genuine smile and a bow.  “I don’t make this request lightly, but I shall do my best to be as light a burden as I can,” she promised.  She gave me a quick peck on the cheek.  “Nor do I think you’ll regret it,” she added, as she turned toward the door.  She gave Sire Cei a quick bow before retreating.

“Minalan, you’re going to let her go?” Sire Cei asked, in disbelief once the door was shut and she was safely out of earshot.

“Did you not see her face, Cei?” I pointed out.  “Did you not see that jaw?  Armies would break on that jaw.  There was no way she was going to be dissuaded.”

“So . . . you just relented,” he observed, clearly concerned with my decision.

I sighed.  “It’s . . . complicated.  She wants a holiday with me, I suppose.  A dangerous quest to a land without magic would not have been my first choice, but I can’t deny the truth of what she said.  It’s not like we’re going to battle.  We’re going on an expedition to explore.  And it’s not entirely unknown territory.  I’ve gotten a little information on Anghysbel – very little, but it’s a start.  And Fondaras the Wise has been there four times, in the course of his wanderings.”

“You would depend on the word of a footwizard?” he asked, skeptically.

I could appreciate his doubts.  While Sire Cei had grown to accept professional magi as he had discovered his own sport Talent and had to learn how to use it, his associations had largely been with credentialed and trained magi: warmagi, enchanters, court wizards and other working professionals.  He even had a grudging respect for hedgewizards, particularly Zagor, who lived within his estate in Sevendor, Boval Village.  He had even been suspicious of men like Iyugi and Banamor, until they had proven their value and trustworthiness.

But footwizards were a different class, to the eye of a Wilderlord.  Often considered charlatans and nuisances, they wander the roads between villages, sometimes one step ahead of the Censorate, trading their spellwork for whatever they could get from the local peasantry.  They were poor, so poor that they walked everywhere – horses were an expense few could bear.

As a rule, they lacked formal training and many had no real grounding in the Imperial-style magic that the better-educated of us enjoyed.  Few were even literate.  They often depended on Wild Magic, and often taught themselves how to use their powers through trial and error.  Some were more packtrader than spellcaster, as Banamor once was, collecting and trading thaumaturgically valuable components such as weirwood, crystals and herbs with more established magi.  Others exaggerated their powers and their abilities and had to keep moving to avoid irate clients dissatisfied with the results of their work.  And until recently, there was always the danger of encountering the Royal Censorate of Magic, which had authority to arrest, fine, imprison, or even execute undocumented, unlicensed magi.

It was a difficult life, and there were plenty of cheaters who plied the roads in pointed hats.  But Fondaras was not one of those.

His rajira was well-developed and he knew quite a lot of Imperial-style magic.  He was literate – he kept meticulous notes of his journeys – and he was constantly purchasing and assembling new books, as he settled into a more stationary existence in my employ.  Since I had raised him to High Mage with the granting of a witchstone he had proven his ability countless times, usually in small, subtle ways.  He was not the kind of wizard who resorts to magic first.  Indeed, he preferred not to use magic, if it wasn’t needed.

Fondaras had wandered the Wilderlands since he’d come into his power, decades ago.  He had traveled as far south as southern Alshar, and as far north as Anghysbel in his years of traveling.  He had made many friends over the years across the Alshari Wilderlands.  His store of knowledge about the region was ideal, so much so that I’d hired him as a kind of guide for the Great March, when we led a few thousand Kasari youths across Alshar.  Before that he had survived the goblin invasion that had devastated the land where he had grown up.

Fondaras was the type of footwizard who could have settled down as a Hedgewizard on the outskirts of some prosperous village and made quite a good, secure living for himself, before the invasion.  But he kept on the road as long as he did because he genuinely enjoyed the travel: meeting new people, visiting old friends, seeing rare sights, and exchanging news and bits of craft with both his fellow footwizards and a wide array of other folk.  He was consistently warm, friendly, and engaging, as well as unimpressed by title or position.

He was just the kind of wandering wizard who epitomized the unofficial college of such men, known as the Good Fellows of the Road amongst themselves, and he had a sterling reputation among them.  He had counted several Wilderlords as friends, before the invasion, and they did not hesitate to call upon him for magical services and, more importantly, advice.  He wasn’t called “the Wise” out of sarcasm.  He really did seem to know how to do the right thing at the right time.

I’d been employing him as the head of my Field Wizards, as we’d worked to use magic to transform the Vanador plateau into farmland and orchards.  He knew how to lead, how to organize and how to see things done properly.  That was more than many of his credentialled colleagues could manage.

“Fondaras is different than many of the beggars who claim the title of footwizard,” I explained.  “And he has always been both highly knowledgeable and absolutely trustworthy.  If he says that he knows Anghysbel, then I trust him to get us there.  Besides,” I added, “the Kasari have an encampment, there.  They know the way, and they know the dangers.  They’ll be sending a small expedition through the wastes, themselves.”

“When will you leave?” he asked, accepting my judgement graciously.

“As soon as I’m done meeting with everyone.  You, Pentandra and then likely a bunch of other people who can’t live without me.  Honestly, I’m almost looking forward to a land without magic, just to keep the number of mind-to-mind contacts to a minimum.  It won’t be a large expedition.  Just me, Lilastien, and Ithalia, from the Beryen Council.  Masters Suhi and Azhguri, who want to go check on the Kilnusk clan living in exile there.  Tyndal, a couple of thaumaturges, an alchemist, and Nattia.  After two wars in succession, she deserves a bit of a break.  Hells, we all do.”

“And now Alya,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Yes.  And now Alya,” I sighed.  “I’m going on a serious quest.  With my wife.”

“It occurs to me that every marriage is a serious quest,” he said, diplomatically.  “My own, included.  But how does one measure the success of that quest?”

“If she doesn’t cut your throat in the middle of the night?” I suggested.  “If you don’t push her off a cliff when she’s not expecting it?  If you live to a ripe old age together and still want to be together?  I don’t know, Cei,” I admitted.  “Maybe ask Pentandra, sometime.  She seems to know a lot about that sort of thing.”

“Well, take care of her,” he sighed.  “She’s tough, but she’s . . . mending, still,” he said, trying to find the right word.  “Gods, she’s far better than she was, but she’s still not quite the same.”

“We never are,” I pointed out.  “We cannot endure experience without change.  We’re never the same person who entered the room when we’ve left it.  We can never read a book without being a different person at its conclusion,” I said, philosophically.

“Minalan, she didn’t just read a book,” he reminded me, unnecessarily, “she was mentally maimed in a magical battle.  And then spent years recovering from that.  It’s a miracle she’s even remotely as she was.”

“Change is change,” I shrugged, though I took his words to heart.  “It matters not whether it’s a great change, or a small one.  It’s the price of our experience.  Knowledge always has a price.  Alya is paying hers.”

“And from where is all of this philosophy arising?” he asked.  “Because it sounds to me – and of course, I could be mistaken – that you’re merely trying to rationalize the fact that you lost a fight with your wife.”  It was a token of our great friendship that Cei would speak to his liege that casually about something so personal.

“From Fondaras the Wise,” I answered, with a chuckle.  “Footwizard of Alshar.  He says crap like that all the time.”

Chapter Two

Pentandra’s Return

Secrets and intrigue are the common fare for the Good Fellows of the Road; indeed, knowing the obscure and appreciating its importance to the world is the essence of wizardly achievement.  What one man knows and another does not creates an opportunity for attainment.  The footwizard who does not indulge in such opportunities and their attendant risks abandons his hope at glory.  His life becomes little more than a succession of excuses for why his estate remains low.  For those footwizards who cultivate good friends and suspect companions, and do not shirk the opportunities that the gods send to cross their path, the potential for reward and glory is far greater than the ignominy of the failure of not trying at all.

Fondaras the Wise,

Footwizard of Alshar

“So, how do things fare in Enultramar?” I asked my best friend, casually enough as I sat down after pouring the wine.  Ordinarily a simple question about work between friends would be mere informal small talk.  I was hoping it would, in any case.

Pentandra fixed me with a stare, and just quietly sipped her wine while she stared.  It was a surprisingly effective strategy.  I started feeling uncomfortable almost immediately, as if I had just mentioned an awkward subject at an intimate family gathering.

“They fare,” she finally said.  I didn’t like the expression on her face any more than I had Alya’s, earlier in the day.

“Anguin has a firm grip on power and Rardine is loyally ensuring he continues to maintain that power.  There have been great challenges since the fiasco of their wedding.  Farise plagues our shipping with raiders, traitors hide in the shadows and snipe at us, Castal spies on us relentlessly, criminals prey upon our people in growing desperation, rebellion haunts us perpetually, and undead regularly appear in our streets and slay hundreds across Enultramar, seeking fresh bodies for the Nemovorti,” she replied, coolly.  “And how goes the great cheese experiment?” she asked, mirroring my tone.

I winced.  I didn’t mean to, but it was the kind of moment where a man of good character winces.

“The cows trampled an enemy army this winter and it didn’t get in the way of the milking season a bit.  We’re looking forward to a delicious production, this year,” I said, my voice a bit harsher than I’d intended.  “If you needed our help—”

“We didn’t need help,” Pentandra interrupted.  “In fact, you probably just would have gotten in the way.  But while you were up here crossing swords with the nice, straight-forward armies of our enemy, we were being assaulted by them in secret.  In our very homes.  Often within our most secret counsels.  It’s been tough,” she admitted.  “There are a lot of factions, even within the Ducal Court.  Anguin has had to make some tough decisions.  There have been executions.  Arrests.  And assassinations, under the Laws of Kulin, when the Laws of Luin won’t suffice.

“Thankfully, his bride is used to such work,” she said, with surprising admiration.  “Rardine has been superb at discovering opposition before it has had a chance to rear its head and strike.  And then she takes decisive action that our lad might have trouble with.”

“Like planning counter-strikes?” I inquired.

“Like signing execution and confiscation warrants by the hundreds,” she replied, flatly.  “I’ve referred a few to her, myself – only a score or so, mostly related to the assassination attempts—”

“They tried to assassinate Anguin?” I asked, shocked.

“They tried to assassinate me, idiot!” she scoffed.  “Thrice, now.  Anguin is on his eleventh or twelfth.”

“You, Penny?” I asked, in disbelief.  Ordinarily, a Court Wizard isn’t the target of such things.  Court gossip and political infighting, certainly, but rarely are magi considered important enough to murder.  I suppose I changed all that.

“Yes, Min, me!” she said, her voice hoarse.  It was part exasperation and part plea for understanding.  “Me, Arborn, the girls have all been attacked – three attempts, so far.  All three failed.  The former slavers who were making such good profits before we took over are attempting to convince us to restore their trade.  They’re taking very active measures to do it.  Bloody measures.

“That’s one reason I agreed to come to Vorone with the rest of the court for a few months,” she admitted.  Just to stay out of the line of fire for a while.  There are bodies dropping all over Enultramar, and we’ve had to replace a number of officials at the Ducal Court because they suddenly quit or turned up dead in their beds.  So I’ve endured three attempts on me and my family.  Only one of them originated from the Nemovorti,” she added.  “The other two were from other quarters.  But Rardine countered them all . . . handily.  She really does have a knack for that sort of thing,” she said, with reluctant admiration.

“Three assassination attempts . . . Ishi’s Tits, Pen, that’s horrible!  Why didn’t you let me know?” I demanded.

“Because you were busy where you needed to be busy,” she said, shaking her head.  “You needed to be focused on your Nemovorti.  I had to contend with mine.  And the Black Censorate.  And the Family,” she added.

“What?  Grendine went after you?” I asked, appalled and concerned.  That could spell trouble.  That violated the agreement I had with the royal intelligence service, run by our fair queen.  “Do I need to take action?”

“It turns out the order didn’t originate from her,” she conceded.  “Thanks to Rondal and Gatina, we learned that her local lieutenant – a woman known as an ‘aunt’ – made a policy decision without Grendine’s authorization.  Thankfully, we were able to identify her entire network in Enultramar and neutralize it.  Most of them are in a cell, awaiting Azar’s visit.  He’s scheduled for a few busy weeks in the south while we are at the Summer Palace,” she informed me.  “Don’t worry, he’ll be back before you will.”

That made me feel a little sick to my stomach.  I’d signed execution warrants – hells, I’d executed execution warrants.  But only of a few traitors at a time.  The idea of there being hundreds of necks waiting Azar’s grace in the dungeons of Enultramar disturbed me, for some reason.  True, a lord has to take direct action, to defend his domain, and to punish treason, and that went double for a duke protecting his duchy.  But hundreds . . . it made my soul shudder.

“I’m not worried about Azar,” I said, patiently, “I’m worried that someone has tried to kill you three different times – and Anguin eleven times!  What in nine hells is going on down there, Penny?” I demanded.  It really sounded as if I needed to be involved.

“A restoration, Min,” she explained, patiently.  “Enultramar endured five long years of rebel control.  Vichetral and his stooges managed to bend every institution to their will.  Corruption wasn’t just rampant, it was endemic.  Slavery, confiscation, assassination – it’s been going on all this time.  It’s the latest fashion from Enultramar.  We’re just catching up with it.”  She sounded disgusted, although I couldn’t tell with whom.  “Thank the gods for Rardine.  She just seems to know when something doesn’t smell right.  The court is filled with bad agents and traitors.  But she has a knack of getting them to expose themselves.  I’m impressed by how quickly she’s taken over the intelligence of the duchy.”

“So she’s establishing her own ‘Family’?” I asked.  I wasn’t really surprised, I just wanted confirmation.  I’d had intelligence issues, myself, up here in the Magelaw.  Now that I finally had a decent counterintelligence officer in Jannik the Rysh to complement Mavone’s command of battlefield intelligence, I was starting to appreciate what a good clandestine agency could do for a realm.  I had no doubt that Rardine would start her own, I was just curious about the timing.

“She doesn’t really like that metaphor, after she was abandoned in Olum Seheri,” Pentandra assured me, with a cold smile.  “But she’s surprisingly keen on gardening.”

“Gardening?” I asked, confused.

“Her Grace has started the Alshar Garden Society, to promote the beautification of the duchy,” Pentandra said, with a knowing smile.  “It’s by invitation, only.  Only the best and most prestigious gardeners are allowed in Her Grace’s society.  I’m honored to be a member,” she added, “as is Rondal.  And others.  We’re hoping to expand membership in the northern provinces, this summer.”

“A garden society?” I asked, not quite understanding.  “I’ve never known you to so much as plant a potato.  And Rondal isn’t exactly the earthy type.”

“Well, you can’t go around making it known that you’re assembling a spy network, Min,” she pointed out.  “People would talk.  So Rardine found a useful metaphor that most people will misunderstand.  It’s already proven useful cover for intelligence gathering, inside the duchy.  By this time next year, it will extend into Gilmora and beyond.  Once it includes sufficient resources in the Magelaw and the Wilderlaw, I think it will be a quite useful counter against the Family.  Rardine has an especial appreciation for them, after her long captivity in Olum Seheri.  So flowers are the order of the day,” she informed me.  “Anything but yellow roses.  Those . . . those have special meaning.”

“Of course,’ I nodded.  They were Queen Grendine’s favorite.  “All right . . . should I take up gardening, then?”

“Haven’t you?” she accused, setting down her cup.  “You live at Spellgarden, Min.  You were one of the reasons she adopted this ruse.  Each agent has a code name based on a flower,” she explained.  “It becomes your symbol, your clandestine heraldry.  It’s code,” she emphasized, as if I was an idiot.

“So, what’s your code name?” I asked, expecting a joking response.  The entire thing seemed a bit ludicrous, to me.

“I am Andrimony,” she said, quietly.  “The magical flower that seeks in secret.”

I was silent, for a moment.  Andrimony was, indeed, an important aid in magical research.  It was used to detect magic in a variety of ways, thanks to some chemical or compound or innate magical nature it possessed.  It was a pretty thing, too, I knew from my academy days, a natavia orchid that grew wild in the hot, humid climes . . . like Remere.  And Enultramar.  It had an elegant stalk and a flamboyant, flame-red bloom.  Its sap was highly prized, both as a yellow dye for cotton and as a component in many thaumaturgically-oriented spells.  I nodded.

“And Rardine?” I asked, intrigued.

“The Blood Red Rose of Enultramar,” she said, proudly.  “The Matidine Rose, to be precise.  Named for Rardine’s Alshari grandmother, Matidine, first wife of the Black Duke.”

I only recalled snatches of that dark and interesting time in Alshari history, and only because my allegiance to Anguin had forced me to read some of that history.  I recalled Enguin, the Black Duke, whose first wife spending her time in her country estates, famously devoted to her roses while her estranged husband fiddled with the results of the Gilmoran Secession.

“That seems . . . fitting,” I sighed.  “She really is bloodthirsty, isn’t she?”

“Rardine?  Not nearly as much as her mother.  And not as much as she seems.  Half of the executions that were ordered were commuted to compulsory service, on her orders.  Several hundred rebel traitors are now serving in the Iron Band, rather than losing their heads.  Their wives and sisters are employed with various holy orders,” she related.  “Rardine is more concerned about having access to resources than she is eliminating witnesses.  Trust me, every commuted sentence comes with a dedicated watcher,” she promised.  “One false move, and the weed warden comes and weeds.”

“And the weed warden is . . . ?”

“A state secret,” Pentandra assured me.  “A . . . a disinterested party who is happy to execute the orders of the Gardener.  Rardine,” she added, just in case I was unsure.  “This is an ugly business, Min.  Did you know a highly toxic – lethal, in most cases – poison can be derived from the Matidine Rose?” she proposed.  “It takes skill and knowledge to know just how to do it.  But once you know, you also learn that the toxin mimics a heart attack.  That sort of thing happens all the time, in men of a certain age,” she said, pointedly.

“Well, that’s helpful,” I said, sarcasm lining my voice.

“I’d just as soon not involve you more than you have to be,” Pentandra insisted.  “You’re actually more useful if you are ignorant of most of what is going on.”

“Ignorant?” I scoffed.  “I know more about what is going on than just about anyone.  More than perhaps Rardine suspects.  But I’m a major count of the realm,” I countered.  “How can I not be involved?”  I didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea, but that’s how she chose to take it.

“Fine!” she said, crossing her arms with a sigh.  “Just for you edification, you are now Snowflower, one of those lovely six-lobed natavia wildflowers that look like stars.  All the magi in the network are named after natavia flowers.  Mavone is Nightwort.  Non-magi get importasta flowers.  And, according to a hedgewitch I know, it’s also a powerful purgative,” she added, with a sniff.

“Fitting,” I admitted.  “If a bit obvious.  So I’m Snowflower.  To whom do I report?” I asked, with practiced dignity.

“To me, you idiot,” she said, her nostrils flaring.  “Anguin and Rardine trust me to sift through all of the arcane-oriented issues facing the realm and report to them properly.  As you reminded me, you are a major count of the realm, one of the few in the north, at the moment.  But I’m still planting seeds,” she said, shaking her head.  “That’s another reason I’m spending my summer in Vanador.  And Vorone.”

“You need to meet my Arcanist and my Rysh,” I decided.  “They would be worthy additions to your garden.  To what purpose, policy-wise, is this garden being planted?” I asked.  I felt I should know what kind of clandestine organization I’d just been signed up for.

“To safeguard Alshar,” she said, with a sigh.  “Against all foes.  To preserve the Ducal line, but first and foremost is the security and prosperity of the duchy.  Rardine was clear about that,” she reported.  “One of the issues she had with Mother was how willing she was to oppress the general population to advance a political motive.  Once Rardine was entrusted with Alshar’s welfare, she made it a primary point of her intelligence efforts.  Especially against slavery,” she added.  “Her Grace has a very low tolerance for slavers.”

“We have a common ideal, then,” I agreed.  “One of the factors I had expressed in the new laws of the Magelaw forbids any formal bondage, outside of proscribed judicial punishment for crimes.  There are no serfs nor villeins in the Magelaw.  My people are free.”

“Yes, and that’s caused a bit of a stir, down south,” she frowned.  “The law itself was brilliantly written – I’ve been assured by a few lawbrothers that it is divinely inspired based on its elegance, alone.  But the implications are disturbing to lords who currently hold thousands of peasants in debt bondage.  Your status as a magelord is the only excuse they seem to accept for such a radical departure from tradition.”

“Yes, well, they can continue to suffer under that illusion,” I smiled.  “It pains me not at all.  I’ve already dealt with one Gilmoran count who took issue with my law.  I’ll have the same response to an Alshari count.”

“You are nothing if not consistent,” she agreed, finishing her wine.  “I take it with you going on this expedition, you’ll expect me to run things for you?”

“Well, as I’ve been running them for you in your absence, I thought it a fair trade,” I pointed out.  “You are the Baroness of Vanador.  With you managing civil affairs, and Terleman in charge of our defense, I’m fairly certain the place can manage without me for a couple of months.”

“Agreed,” she nodded.  “Minalan, you’ve done a magnificent job with Vanador—”

“Don’t credit me with that,” I interrupted.  “This has been the work of Gareth and Carmella, more than anyone else.”

“I wasn’t about to accuse you of brilliance in urban planning,” Pentandra snorted.  “I know who’s been doing the hard work.  But you’ve ruled over their hard work admirably,” she said.  It was what she was leaving unsaid that was unsettling.

“But . . .?” I asked.  “There has to be a ‘but’ involved in that thought,” I observed.  “Or at least a casual ‘however’.”

She snorted again.  “Very well.  While you have presided over Vanador’s inception, there are certain . . . civic matters that I think need to be addressed.  Matters that the Count of the Magelaw might overlook . . . but the Baroness of Vanador feels compelled to address.”

“Go ahead, muck around with the place,” I offered, with a certain pompous arrogance.  I was getting good at that sort of thing.  “This has been a collaborative effort.  One that you began,” I reminded her.  “Honestly, I’ve felt like I was watching your baby, more than mine.  Terleman can run the military, but as far as civil and political affairs go, you have my blessing.  You can’t screw it up more than I can,” I challenged.

“Thank you, Minalan,” she sighed.  “Not that I would have listened to you if you’d said otherwise.  But it does matter whether you endorse my . . . my rule, here,” she said, self-consciously.  “It will be important in the future that you have people you can trust running Vanador.”

“And it’s important to my sanity that I know that there are trustworthy people like you – and Arborn and Terleman and Azar and so many others – that I can entrust something that important to, and not have to worry too hard about disaster.  I want to return to Sevendor, someday,” I proposed.  “I’ll need good people running this place when I do.”

“Just don’t die,” she admonished, a very serious look in her eye.  “It would be bad, if you died.  For one thing, it would leave me running this place.  And everything else we’re involved in.  I have enough to do.  So do not die.  But you do have Anguin’s blessing – which he will tell you in person, actually,” she mentioned.  “He’s going to appear at the Opening of the Palace ceremony in Vorone, with his new bride.  He’s expecting you and Marcadine to be in attendance.”

“Agreed,” I said, with a reluctant sigh.  “But I do hope Their Graces understand that I am about to embark on an important expedition that could greatly assist with the war effort.”

“They do . . . mostly,” she admitted, cutting her eyes away.  “They take great pride in their good relationship with His Excellency, the Spellmonger of the Magelaw.  Both of them credit you with the restoration of the realm.  That doesn’t excuse you from certain social obligations, however,” she said, warningly.  “His Grace understands you need to go.  You can attend one party before you do so, to support his reign and celebrate his nuptials.”

“I will, I will,” I assured her.  “I just want it understood that I have other plans, this summer.  I won’t be able to attend a bunch of garden parties and tournaments.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very important, doing very important wizard things,” she said, without much sympathy.  “And I do know how important this journey is, Minalan.  Of all people, I know,” she said, a little too emphatically.  “But as tawdry as they are, our politics matters, too.  Our support of Anguin and Rardine early in their reign is vital.  It shows our enemies our unity of purpose and demonstrates to our allies and vassals that their leadership is united.”

“I understand the importance of politics, Penny,” I assured her.  “I just want to ensure the Duke understands the importance of my work – beyond the politics.”

“More than you know,” she said, firmly.  “Indeed, more than any other crown or coronet in the duchies.  Anguin appreciates how the arcane impacts the mundane, and vice versa.  The magi have proven themselves to him.

“That being said,” she continued, “His Grace cannot ignore the vital role the magi currently play in politics.  Especially when he is facing a hostile royal government and considerable number of rebels who persist in contesting his rule,” she stated, matter-of-factly.  “If he cannot count upon the support of the most powerful gentlemen in the duchy . . .” she said, trailing off.  I could infer the remainder of her argument.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go,” I conceded.  “As long as it is before my departure date.  That cannot be delayed, if what Fondaras says is correct.  We have a very narrow time of opportunity.  If I am to accomplish what I set out to, I will need every moment of it.”

“As long as you show up to the party at Vorone, you can do whatever else you want this summer,” she agreed.  “But you need to support the Duke.  Especially now,” she emphasized.  “There is a movement growing to supplant him.  Either based on his perceived weakness, or his perceived alliances with Castal.  But there is a large and growing number of the minor nobility in Enultramar that favors confrontation with Rard and Tavard.  Some of them backed the rebel counts, but more and more loyalists are coming to that opinion.  I’ve spent the last year putting down revolts and rebellion; I don’t want to see that work go to waste,” she admitted.

“There shouldn’t be much for you to do here, now that the wars are over with, for the moment,” I suggested.  “The Goblin King and I are going to sign a nonaggression treaty, and I think that Tavard might have learned his lesson after he meddled with the Magelaw.”  I explained to her my stratagem of employing the troops he’d paid to attack me against the forces of Shakathet.  “I sent him a lovely letter thanking him for the support.  Hopefully, that will keep him out of the way for the foreseeable future.”

Pentandra frowned – which was almost never a good thing.

“I don’t know, Min,” she sighed.  “I’ve probably got better contacts at the Royal Court than you do, especially after the Aunt Marladine Affair, but from what I understand Tavard is hells-bent on humbling you before he takes the throne.”

“A day I hope is long from now,” I nodded.  “In the meantime, I will continue to advocate for and protect my lands.  For all magelands,” I corrected.  “Vanador and Sevendor are a good start.  They give us some temporal strength.”

“They also give Prince Tavard a target,” she pointed out.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be glad to deal with Tavard and the Ducal Court of Castal while you’re gone.  With Duke Anguin at Vorone, I can’t imagine Tavard taking any action against the Magelaw.  Which is all the more reason you need to be at that reception.”

“We’ll be at the party,” I promised.  “I’ll even wear my funny hat.”

“We wouldn’t expect anything less of the mighty and sage Spellmonger,” she agreed, smiling.

It was good to have Penny back.  Even if it was just for a little while.

The next few days were largely devoid of drama and filled with pleasant memories.  After the hardships of war and the strain of politics, it was good to be back with some of my old friends again.

Having Sire Cei’s family and Pentandra and Arborn’s family all at Spellgarden at the same time meant an emphasis on the children that, I think, all of us welcomed.  The kids didn’t care about rank or station; they were far more interested in imagination and playtime.  I took endless pleasure in watching them contrive one impressive game after another, down in the courtyard, while the older, wiser, and decidedly more boring adults convened in the upper chambers of the tower.  I was commending my children to Pentandra’s care, while Alya and I were gone.  It was gratifying to watch them play so well together while I was plotting my escape.

“What, exactly, do you expect to discover in the wilderness, my lord?” Lady Estret asked, politely, as we stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard.  Faresa, her daughter by her first marriage, was contending leadership with one faction of the children with my daughter Ismina, and it was quite entertaining.

“I honestly am uncertain, my lady,” I admitted.  “Our expedition to Anghysbel is a multifold quest.  There are many secrets concealed in that secret land.  Secrets older than mankind’s tenure on this world, from what I understand. Secrets I hope will lead to some better understanding of our difficulties.  And some hint of how we might overcome them.”

“I do hope so, my lord,” Estret said, lightly.  “And I wish you Ifnia’s luck and the blessings of the gods on your quest . . . but I also hope you understand how many of us have worries revolving around the absence of the Spellmonger at such a crucial time.”

Her meaning was obvious.  I had presumed on Sire Cei’s time and attention for two solid years by making him the Steward of Sevendor during my absence in exile.  While the honor of the position was clear, so was the imposition.  Acting as the temporary baron had been a strain on Sire Cei.  While Lady Estret appreciated the necessity of the appointment, and understood the honor involved, she was also bearing the brunt of the inconvenience of it.

By all accounts, Sire Cei’s stewardship over my barony had been exemplary.  There had been no illicit attacks during his tenure, nor had there been any serious disruptions in the services the barony provided the domains within its frontiers.   The markets were packed.  The revenues were high.  The people were prosperous, under Sire Cei.

“You are not alone,” I admitted to the lady, in a fit of candor.  “I, myself, am unsure if this is the wisest course of action.  But I have to plead that there is more at stake than mere political advantage.  My lady, I assure you that I would not be undertaking this expedition at this difficult time if I did not think it would, in the long run, give us advantage.”

“Advantage for what, my lord?” she asked, pointedly.  “You are our greatest defender against the whims of the Crown.  I credit you, my lord, for the stability the Bontal Vales has enjoyed – more than stability, our general prosperity,” she insisted.  “Our folk have never enjoyed a higher standard of living.  Yet, in your absence, you invite the attention of forces that would see that diminished.”

“You speak of Prince Tavard, my lady,” I observed.

“The wrath of His Highness is well known,” she said, matter-of-factly.  “Especially toward Sevendor.  And the Spellmonger.  Though we endured the same desolation from the dragon that Castabriel suffered.”

“I have done what I can to shield Sevendor, and the Bontal Vales, from His Highness’ ire,” I sighed.  “Indeed, I have bribed him liberally . . . only to see those bribes used to raise an army against me.  An army that I turned against my more earnest foes,” I chuckled.

“It appears your children have inherited your devious nature, my lord,” she said, as she watched our two little girls argue amidst a crowd of other children.  “And perhaps your good judgement.  I wish I could say the same about our Prince.  Faresa!  Screeching is not ladylike!” she reproved, firmly.

“King Rard is a good man, but every father has his failings.  Allowing the Queen to take such a hand in Tavard’s upbringing has made him rebellious and arrogant.  I had hoped that marriage and family would temper his youthful impulses, but he inherited his father’s power as Duke too young, and is apt to listen to unwise counsel.  I think – Almina!  Almina!” I said, trying to get my daughter’s attention, “that is not a nice name!  Apologize!” I commanded.

“My lord husband agrees – privately,” Estret informed me, with a smile.  “Cei is concerned that Tavard seeks to strike at you through Sevendor.  He’s been quietly preparing for it since you went into exile.  He has had the Karshak accelerate their progress on the new castle and has been increasing the garrison.  He hopes it will not be needed.”

“So do I, but it’s not really up to – Almina!  Almina!  Stop that!  No hitting!  No hitting!” I said, and dropped the affairs of the world.  Someone needed a spanking.

Chapter Three

Preparing for the Expedition

Every Good Fellow of the Road knows these truths; they are what define our vocation, as we trade our meager talents for bed and board along the dusty trails of the hinterlands.  Every good wizard has a quest, or more than one, a calling beyond our immediate need to which we devote our efforts beyond mere survival, to enrich the lives of those who often castigate our efforts.  Our quest may be impossible, unlikely, or commonplace, but once we have committed ourselves to the sanctity of the mission, a good wizard does not withdraw his attention from a quest, no matter how impossible the fulfilment might seem.  Indeed, the more impossible the quest, the greater the honor and glory to the wizard for fulfilling it.

Fondaras the Wise,

Footwizard of Alshar

Fondaras and Gareth were waiting for me in Gareth’s office in Vanador, in a special room set aside specifically to prepare for the expedition.  I had devoted considerable resources to it.  Considering what was at stake, I wanted the best possible chance at success.  Surviving the trip would be nice, too.  Therefore a thorough preparation was essential.  Gareth was excellent at organization, while Fondaras had actually been to where we were going and knew it.

Visually and professionally, the two men were about as different as night and day.  Gareth was young, highly intelligent, Academy-trained and honed for his position by years of studious work and practical experience with enchantment and thaumaturgy.  Fondaras, by contrast, was an old, weather-worn footwizard whose wisdom was legendary, and whose magic was largely self-taught.  He had traveled the length of the Wilderlands and beyond, in long and storied career.

I had to count on both men to prepare for our journey to Anghysbel.  It might sound like bureaucratic excess to devote the resources I had to the outing, but then my initial plan had been for me, Tyndal and a couple of men-at-arms to head north.

That plan had changed completely.  It looked like everyone and their third cousin wanted to accompany the Spellmonger to a place where magic didn’t work.  I tried not to read too much irony into that.

Not only had Alya insisted on going, but the list of volunteers and interested parties had grown.  The Karshak and the Dradrien, for one, had officially requested that they send representatives with the expedition to inspect the welfare of the Kilnusk clan – once the leaders of all the dwarven clans, now in exile over some scandal a few centuries back.  Lilastien was also going as the medic for the expedition and representative of the Alka Alon Council – something I know had rankled several members, but I had insisted.  Ithalia would also be going as a representative of the Alka Alon Council, to search for the lost scion of Amadia, Ameras, only daughter of the late Aronin.

Gareth, himself, would accompany us as one of my thaumaturges, taking a well-deserved break from his duties as administrator of Vanador.  His . . . paramour?  Girlfriend?  Consort?  Sky Captain Nattia would also be going, flying her giant hawk overhead while we crawled our way through the alkali desert.  Tyndal was going, as he was technically the liege over the place as Viscount of Callierd.  He planned on bringing along a few of his gentlemen as guards.  And Fondaras, of course.  He was the only member of the party who had been to the strange land before.

But then there were others who had tacked themselves on to the expedition for various reasons.  Indeed, the composition of the company was our first matter to discuss.

“Ormar the Shroudmaker wants to go,” Gareth related, after we’d settled in to plan out the last-minute details.  “He’s interested in examining the geology and the alchemy of the wastes, and what lies beyond.”

Ormar was a former warmage whose passion was alchemy; he was in charge of the mysterious Stenchworks, a special installation somewhere in the foothills of the Kulines that produced rare elements and alchemical reagents for the duchy.  Its exact location was a state secret, one of the most closely held state secrets, at that.  I wasn’t certain why, but Pentandra had kept that knowledge even from me.

“Considering he’s providing the leather hoods that will help us get through the wastes, I would say it is wise to include him,” Fondaras offered.

“You really think those hoods will help?” I asked, surprised.

“He uses them when working on noxious chemicals,” Gareth explained.  “He has some method of filtering the air, so his alchemists don’t die while they’re working with certain reagents.  And they’re nonmagical.  Fondaras has said we can make the journey without them, but it will be a lot easier with them.  Besides, his expertise might come in handy,” Gareth reasoned.

“If you say so,” I conceded.  I knew very little about alchemy – it was one of my worst subjects at the academy.  But I also knew Ormar was well respected by my colleagues – Pentandra, especially – and if there were any alchemical issues, I’d be useless.  Alchemy was one of the few disciplines that didn’t rely completely on magic, which meant it might play an outsized role in a place where magic didn’t work.  And it was one of my worst subjects at the Academy.

“The Kasari also want to send a small group along with us,” Gareth continued.  “They have a camp there – it’s been there for centuries, apparently.”

“It’s where they send their magically Talented people, if their abilities are unable to be controlled,” Fondaras explained.  “It’s a small community, but it gives them an opportunity to live relatively normal lives without the burden of rajira.  They wish to send four or five of their folk with us, along with two rangers as escorts.  Both have also been through the wastes, before, so that will help.”

“Is it really that dangerous?” I asked, perhaps a bit anxiously.  I was taking my wife through it, after all.

“Yes, it is,” Fondaras said, frankly, as he stroked his long beard.  “It’s not impassable, but if you are unaware of the dangers, you can fall prey to them quite easily.  Many have, over the years.  Their bones still litter the wastes.  We will have to bring our own water, for instance, until we get to Tyr Morannan.  That’s the ancient depot the Kasari made at the midpoint of the journey that we can take some shelter in, but it’s the last place you’ll be able to do any real magic.  After that, you’ll have to rely on your wits and your wisdom.”

“Don’t forget to tell him about the beasts,” Gareth reminded him.  Apparently, they had already been discussing the trip.

“Ah, yes, the fearsome creatures of the wastes,” nodded Fondaras, sagely.  “There are only a few species who can survive the desolation, but those that do are strange and exotic.  And highly aggressive,” he added.  “There are some solitary predators and some pack hunters.  Some creatures lurk amongst the rocks and sand.  There are even plants that can be aggressive if you are unaware of their tricks.  And there are a few insects that are quite deadly if you are bitten.  But none of them are edible.  We must bring along our own food and fodder for any beasts, as well as water.”

“And remember, no magic, for the second half of the trip,” Gareth added.  “But I have some ideas about how we can maximize our efforts, when we reach this place, what was it called—”

“Tyr Morannan,” Fondaras supplied.  “It means ‘sanctuary,’ in Kasari.  It’s just a modest shelter over a very deep well, but it’s the only place we can get potable water during the journey through the wastes.  And it does provide some temporary protection from the surrounding wildlife.”

“Yes, Tyr Morannan.  I think we can expand the outpost and improve the journey,” Gareth proposed.  He then whipped out a scroll of notes and outlined his plan.  It was impressive, but it was well within our magical capabilities.  Especially after two magically-intensive wars.

“And don’t forget about Forseti,” I added, at the end of his presentation.  “He will be coming along.  He wants to inspect a possible installation built by the Ancients that may have survived.  A relic of the colonization,” I explained.  “He’s hoping to find some clues to lead us to the Forsaken.  Or at least shed some light on how their civilization fell.  He might be useful in your placements.  And he doesn’t need food or water, just a bit of sunshine.”

“I was counting on that, actually,” Gareth agreed.  “In fact, he’s already informed some of my plans.  If this works out, the journey won’t be so dangerous in the future.  We could see a bit more interaction between the domain in Anghysbel and the rest of the Magelaw.”

“Yes, tell me more about the people of Anghysbel,” I instructed Fondaras.  “I’d like to know what kind of welcome we can expect, once we get there.”

“Well, at a start, they don’t refer to their land as Anghysbel,” Fondaras revealed, thoughtfully.  “That was the duke’s name for it.  That is the name of the entire valley.  The Wilderlords occupy only one small corner of it.  They call their domain Anferny.  It lies in the southeast of the land, and in many ways, it is managed and arranged like other Wilderlands settlements.”

“How is it composed?” I asked, with genuine interest.  Those Wilderlords had had a domain there, without magic or much contact with the outside world, for over a century.  I was curious how they had contended with that.

“The last time I was there old Lord Sanduin was the lord, but that was . . . eleven years ago?  Twelve?” the old wizard asked himself.  “But he was already in his dotage.  His son, Lord Kanlan, is likely in charge of Anferny, now.  It has four or five villages, and one modest castle to protect them.  There’s a town, of sorts, below the castle.  And a market town nearby, to trade with the Kasari and the Kilnusk.  And the Tal,” he added with a chuckle.

“Yes, I’d heard there were Tal Alon there,” I recalled, with a smile.  I liked the Tal Alon.  I had many of them in my service.

“The Tal of Anghysbel are interesting.  For one, they make a very potent spirit from a kind of white beet that is favored by the rest of the land,” Fondaras reported, fondly.  “They do a brisk trade in it.  The Tal Alon of Anghysbel . . . well, they are a very different sort than the Wilderlands variety.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” I nodded.  “Indeed, I look forward to this entire journey,” I confessed.  “After fighting two wars one after another, and enduring a rivalry with Prince Tavard, I could stand a couple of weeks where no one can reach me by Mirror Array or mind-to-mind.”

“I’ll be interested to see if bringing along that pretty thing will have an effect on the anti-magic field of the jevolar,” he said, nodding toward the Magolith floating over my shoulder.  “No one has ever brought a molopor to a jevolar, before.  Theoretically, it could challenge its potency.”

“Oh, the field is very potent,” agreed Fondaras, thoughtfully.  “You’ll know the moment you enter it.  You can feel it – or feel the lack of magic, is perhaps a better explanation.  But the field is not constant, and there are a few spots where it is weak enough to perform some small, simple spells.  With great effort,” he added.  “I cannot imagine whether a witchstone or your Magolith might accomplish there.  But I’m curious about it, as well,” he admitted.

I regarded the Magolith, the pulsing green sphere of irionite that enveloped an ever-changing crystalline disk within.  As the center of the great Snowflake, in Sevendor, it radiated a field in which etheric resistance was ridiculously low in its proximity.  It was, to my knowledge, one of the most powerful magical artefacts ever constructed.  Only Sheruel, to my knowledge, was similarly potent.

I had my suspicions that the Snowflake – and, by extension, the Magolith – was becoming sentient.  My apprentice Ruderal certainly thought so.  Having the enneagrammatic impression of the Handmaiden, an ancient sea creature of tremendous power and ability, grafted into it certainly had a growing sentience about it.  I wondered if its unique construction would be enough to withstand the jevolar field.  And then I wondered how the Handmaiden would react to such a place.

I had to agree with my colleagues.  It would be interesting.

Making preparations to go on an expedition into the unknown is exciting.  But preparing to leave your home for a few months is perplexing.  Holding both emotions in my head at once was normal – it’s the kind of thing wizards do all the time.  Nevertheless, there was a long list of things that had to be done before I left, from the diplomatic to the mundane.

While Pentandra would have no trouble keeping Vanador Town running in my absence, there were other matters that needed my attention before I could depart.  Among these was settling my children into the care of my trusted friends and retainers during a time when I had more enemies than a whore has regrets, with more emerging all the time.  The normal servants and clergy who looked after them day-to-day would continue to do so, of course.  But I could not count on them to defend the children in case of concerted assault.

Thankfully, I had recourse to some of the best warmagi in the world.  Unfortunately, I’d be taking my first choice with me.  My friend Taren was at the top of the list to watch over them, but he was going with me because he was an expert thaumaturge as well as a warmage.  He had already become something of a foster-father to the Greenflower children, during their stay in that land.  My Sevendor children had also warmed to him during his stays at Greenflower Hall in Spellgarden.  While he was a little uncomfortable with their attention and adoration, he also had a genuine fondness for them.  I could count on Taren to defend all my children with his dying breath.  Unfortunately, he would be more valuable on the expedition than he would be babysitting.

So Ruderal was staying behind to watch over my children.  He wasn’t as adept a warmage as Taren, of course, but he had other means at his disposal to be a good watchman.

His unique expression of Talent allowed him to detect threats by their enneagrams, alone.  He was also sensitive to the undead.  Most importantly, he was extremely loyal.  I’d allowed him to keep the dagger he’d stolen, made by the Dradrien of a magical metal that destroyed the enneagrams of the undead.  He’d slain Gaja Katar with it, this past winter.  I had no doubt he would employ it just as adamantly should a Nemovort decide to attack.  Rudy doesn’t look like much, compared to the beefy warmagi who patrolled Spellgarden, but his dedication was not to be taken lightly.

I left nothing to chance.  I had also hired three additional warmagi to guard the premises in my absence.  And I doubled the number of Vanador Guards who patrolled the grounds and manned the towers of the small castle.  And I increased the defensive spells around the place.  And I took every other precaution I could think of to ensure I still had all the kids I’d left behind when I returned.

If you think I was over-reacting, or was perhaps too cautious, then I probably shouldn’t mention the daily overflights and constant patrols the Vanador Mewstower was providing for me.  That might seem excessive.

Just in case, I went over a dizzying array of contingencies if anything unfortunate should happen with Azar and Terleman.  I could count on them to avenge any attack or foil any attempt to kidnap my children as much as I could trust myself.

Even with all of that protection, I lay awake, at night, anxious about leaving them behind.

That wasn’t my only duty before we departed.  I was also meeting almost daily with Lawbrother Bryte, who was drafting a proposed secret nonaggression treaty with Ashakarl, the Goblin King.  Considered rebels by the Nemovorti and their leader, Korbal the Necromancer, the gurvan had led his regime into exile to the ancient, flinty hills of the northern Wilderlands.  He was supported by thousands of tribal gurvani, as well as a few loyal legions, shamans, and some humani servants who had joined his cause.

Ashakarl wasn’t looking for a fight; he was pursuing survival.  His realm was preserving the original tribal gurvani culture that the Enshadowed had perverted into an invading army.  That was little use to Korbal now that he’d taken the revered leader of the invasion and made him an ornament.

Without Sheruel’s great power behind him, Ashakarl didn’t have much keeping the tribal gurvani together, save the bits of human feudalism he’d adopted during his brief reign.  He was willing to put aside his enmity toward humanity in exchange for recognition and peace.  Neither one of us needed another enemy.  While that didn’t make us allies, it certainly took a couple of logs out of the fire.  Negotiations had been going on, clandestinely, for months, now, and a final version of the treaty needed to be approved.  Brother Bryte was insisting that I look it over before I left.

“We’re granting him title to the entire northwest, below the Osbury River, and everything west of this point, here,” he said, tapping on a new-made map of the Wilderlands.  “It’s called Sarluresh, in gurvani, but we know it as Makaman Mountain.  Not much of a mountain, but Ashakarl accounts it as the beginning of his folk’s sacred hills.  For us, it’s just marginal farmland and adequate pasturelands, so we aren’t losing much,” the monk admitted.

“How far south are we granting him title?” I asked, curious.

“The treaty is notably silent on that matter,” Brother Bryte said, diplomatically.  “Of course, our mutual enemy controls the Penumbra south of his hills.  If Ashakarl manages to expand there, the treaty does not forbid it.  He just can’t come east, or north, and bother the Kasari.  He can chew on the boot of Korbal all he wants, according to this agreement.”

“As can we,” I agreed, with a murmur, as I studied the map.  “What of the rest of the Penumbra, then?”

“We can take as much as we wish, until we come against Ashakarl’s frontiers.  In that contingency,” he said, flipping through his sheaf of parchment, “ambassadors from each side will convene and set the boundaries.  If and when such an occurrence arises.”

“Reasonable,” I conceded.  “What about trade?”

“While it’s not covered in this, the treaty leaves open room for further agreements.  Mostly, we get them to forgo their genocidal policies, end war on the Magelaw and other humani territories, free human slaves, and stop eating people,” he said, with a shudder.  “That’s what we get in exchange for some crappy farmland.”

“I count it a bargain,” I nodded.  “And perhaps we can consider some limited trade, if the treaty holds.  But that brings another issue to mind.  I am technically making peace with a sworn enemy of the kingdom,” I pointed out.  “They haven’t surrendered, and they might be a problem in the future.  What kind of trouble am I in with the Crown if I proceed with this?” I asked my lawbrother.

“I thought of that, of course,” Brother Bryte said, his eyes narrowing above his hawkish nose.  “Technically, as a Count Palatine, you are delegated certain state powers, including the power to conduct foreign policy in your region.  That’s the essence of a palatinate.  So you should be able to advance the treaty as an exercise in your sovereignty over the Magelaw.  King Rard’s own treaty with Ashakarl provides the precedent for this.

“But then there’s another way to look at it,” he continued, a small grin forming on his shaven lips.  “You are, in essence, granting Ashakarl the same rights you would a vassal,” he pointed out.  “Even though he’s not human, and he was at war with us, you’re giving him no greater rights or prerogatives than a normal vassal, under the law.  He is free to make his own laws, rule his own people for their benefit, and defend his interests, as long as he respects your ‘don’t eat people, eating people is wrong’ laws.”

“A vassal?” I asked, surprised.  “Are you certain that’s legal?”

“In the eyes of the law, it is,” he agreed.  “Well, mostly.  But you’ve already established precedent for it,” he reasoned.  “When you granted the Tal Alon their own little land to run as they see fit, under your auspices.

“Our agreement with Ashakarl is similar in scope.  They’re both nonhumans, they’re essentially vassals, under the law, and you are ultimately responsible for the consequences of their actions.  If they rebel, you invade.  If they appeal to you for judgement or justice, or to redress their grievances or beg a boon, you are obligated to hear them.  Technically, you should be able to call upon them for military service, but I would advise caution when considering that,” he said, laughter in his eyes.

“I wonder what Ashakarl will think of being my vassal?” I wondered with a chuckle.

“Oh, that’s just our side’s legal system,” he argued.  “He won’t even know about it, most likely.  The treaty will serve as his oath of fealty, as you’ve defined the terms.  But he need not know where he stands, legally, in our society.  He can keep ruling over the scrugs in the flinty hills with his accustomed brutality, and as long as he doesn’t enslave or consume his humani servants, he’ll likely never realize that he’s technically your subservient vassal.”

“That is an interesting perspective,” I agreed, nodding.  “Hopefully, it will never come up in court, but if it did it’s nice to know we have an argument.”

“Oh, we have more than an argument,” he nodded.  “I wrote the law, remember?  Including the section on foreign policy and the rights and privileges of your vassals.  I left certain parts of it purposefully vague, just for this sort of reason.

“Most Narasi law doesn’t even mention nonhumans.  We have a unique circumstances, here in the Magelaw, as we have to deal with the Alon both individually and as civilizations. And the law has to recognize that with appropriate circumspection.  Sometimes you must treat with them as allies, sometimes as enemies, but treat with them you must.  Your sovereignty as Count Palatine is required to contend with this unique situation.  You’re well within your rights,” he argued.

“I just hope the lawfathers agree with you, if it comes to it,” I sighed.

“Well, they had better,” he snorted.  “I happen to be right!”

That was the kind of confidence you like to hear in your lawbrother.

One of the last bits of preparation I had to do was a quiet meeting with my thaumaturgic council.  It wasn’t that they needed instruction or protection from me – they were well-funded and hopelessly uninteresting, to most people.

But I’d founded the Thaumaturgy Institute for some very specific reasons.  One of them was research into the snowstone spell I’d accidentally cast.  That was one main reasons I was going to Anghysbel.  There was a particular thaumaturgical substance I was trying to acquire that legend said could be found there.

Theoretically, it would give us the means to predict what kind of magical effect would manifest with the divine spark that apparently occurred during the birthing process.  I didn’t quite understand how, thaumaturgically speaking – that’s why I employed experts.  But my experts told me that I needed the stuff, so I was going to look for it.

“According to the records,” Master Theronial, the head of the institution, reported, “it should be a glassy substance, smooth to the touch, irregularly translucent with a vaguely yellow color.  It definitely came from Anghysbel, that much is clear.  But there is no indication what its origins are,” he confessed, apologetically.  “It could be an inorganic mineral, an organic mineral, a resin,” he listed, “a crystalline compound, or any combination of those.  So I don’t know if to tell you to search underground, in a tree, in a swamp, on a mountain, in a cave, or anything.  I’m sorry,” he sighed.

“If it was easy, it likely wouldn’t be a quest worth doing,” I pointed out.  “I’ll ask the locals, see what they know about it.  Of course, the lack of any magi, whatsoever, might be a problem.  I won’t be able to use magic to find it.  So asking around is probably the only way I’ll even have a chance of finding it.”

“Well, if you can procure samples of anything even similar, it might be helpful,” the mage pointed out.  “Indeed, from what Fondaras tells me, Anghysbel is filled with odd wonders and exotic substances.  All produced in a unique environment.  There’s no telling what properties they might have, once they are subject to the arcane fields,” he suggested.

“So bring back as much esoteric junk as I can?” I smirked.  “I don’t see why not.  What will you use it for?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” he shrugged.  “But we cannot hypothesize if we do not collect and observe.  Indeed, there might be thaumaturgically active substances that could lead to just about anything.  Or they might all be magically inert.  If nothing else, you’ll have an impressive collection of souvenirs.”

“A bit of exotic clutter around the workshop is nice,” I reasoned.  “I’ll be taking what readings and observations as I can.  So will Gareth, and maybe even Tyndal.”

“To that end, I’d like to present to you a blank record book I had prepared,” he said, pulling out a small but thick book from a shelf in his office.  “Just so that you can keep your observations in one place.  There’s a pen and an ink bottle built into the spine,” he demonstrated, pulling them forth before replacing them, “and the leather cover should protect it from the elements.  I placed some preservation spells and other useful enchantments on it, not that it will do you much good in Anghysbel.  But please be as detailed as possible when you make your observations,” he pleaded.  “And don’t restrict yourself to your own thoughts.  Record everything, from everyone that you can.  Sketches.  Maps.  Interviews with witnesses.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised, taking the neat little book.  “I’ll be busy, but I’ll try.  I can get Tyndal to add his thoughts and observations, too.”

“And Lilastien’s,” he reminded me.  “She has a neat hand, and she’s scientifically trained.”

“Good point,” I agreed.  “Well, I hope to bring it back to you stuffed with knowledge.  If I don’t make it back—”

“My lord!  Do not even jest about such a thing!” the old thaumaturge said, nearly offended.  “If you die on this expedition, then I lose this incredibly cushy job pursuing my life’s ambitions.  Please consider that when you’re considering doing something dangerous,” he begged.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to put your job in jeopardy,” I said, sarcastically.  I knew he was – mostly – joking.

But you never knew, with academics.  In my experience, their devotion to their specialty often colors their perspective in unreasonable ways.  Theronial had spent the last year amassing a library of impressive proportions, hiring a staff of expert thaumaturges, setting up laboratories and workshops, and employing sufficient support staff and craftsmen to support the endeavor.

I couldn’t argue that he had something important to protect.  So far, in the Thaumaturgic Institute he had produced what had to be the most notable cenacle of thaumaturgic and scientific wizards the world had ever seen, each a specialist in the most obscure bodies of magical thought.  And he was just getting started building the institution.  I had been openhanded when it came to funding, considering the urgency of the need to find out how to make snowstone, and Master Theronial had spent lavishly as a result.  While the snowstone project was the focus of his efforts, the institute had already blossomed a dozen theories in other areas of thaumaturgy, thanks to the deep minds involved in the effort.

I had high hopes for that.  For concealed even beneath the snowstone effort was a secret purpose for the Institute.  It provided cover for our search for the Forsaken, and a place in which we could frankly and candidly discuss the plight of the human colony on Callidore without oversight by the Alon.  That seed, I hoped, would bear fruit even if we never mastered the secret of snowstone.

To that end, I spent an afternoon writing out detailed instructions for the Institute, should I perish.  Including a generous endowment, going forward.  I also assigned patronage of the organization to Pentandra if I died.  She’d look out for it.

That reminded me of another piece of institutional business I had to attend to.  While in Vanador, I stopped by Master Thinradel’s residence, in the Thaumaturge’s quarter.  He had little to do with the Thaumaturgical Institute, although he dabbled in the discipline.  I had instead tasked him with developing the process by which magi in the Magelaw were trained.

As chancellor to the new magical academy I proposed to build in Vanador, he was in charge of preparing a curriculum and courses of study, as well as hiring appropriate faculty.  Carmella had yet to begin selecting a site for the actual building in Vanador – she had a thousand other projects going on – but when she did, I wanted the proper people in place to run it.

A new magical academy was an ambitious undertaking; one hadn’t been founded in more than three hundred years.  But I had royal permission to build not one but two.  The first would be here, in Vanador; the second would be in Sevendor, once my exile was over.  Thinradel would be responsible for founding both, which fed his Alshari pride and ego.  As a former ducal court wizard, there was little higher status or title . . . but Academy Chancellor and Founder of not one but two magical academies was a worthy capstone to a long and distinguished career.

Thinradel was also responsible for what came to be called the Tower system, in which talented magi were assigned to a particular tower in my realm for advanced study.  Each of the Pele towers I’d built a few years ago had a specialized field, from warmagic to herbology.  Thinradel was one of the few people I knew who was knowledgeable enough about magic, in general, as well as administration, to be able to organize and oversee the effort.  It was still in its early stages, but no one had blown up a tower, yet.  I found that promising.

“I’ll have a complete list of proposed faculty for you by the time you return from your little adventure,” he said, dismissively, as he poured wine for us both.  “I don’t think you’ll have any objections, so I will plan on contacting them with an offer of employment whether you return on time or not.  I’ll also include a list of alternates.  So far, I’ve fulfilled every major department, save for alchemy, elementary magic, and magical history.  I’ll have those soon enough,” he promised.

“I trust your judgement,” I assured him.

“I can’t, for the life of me, understand why,” he mused.  “Oh, I appreciate the fact that you do, but . . .”

“You’re loyal, for one thing,” I pointed out.  “That’s a rare commodity.  You’re also competent.  Another rarity.  More, you seem to understand what I’m doing and why.”

“Oh, that’s where you are mistaken,” he corrected with a chuckle.  “I really have no idea why you would want to inflict all of this on yourself.  A sane man would rest on his accomplishments, if they were even a tithe of yours, and enjoy his power and wealth without the burden of foresight or consideration of his grand legacy.  That said,” he continued, thoughtfully, “as much as it pains me to say it, I grudgingly approve of all of this education.  Two magical academies are not enough, now.  Not with all the High Magi.”

“The more academies, the more Imperially-trained magi,” I agreed.  “And the Tower system, gods willing, will produce more specialists.”

“And that will produce more problems,” Thinradel pointed out.  “You do realize that you’ve started a kind of revolution, don’t you?  Ruling classes don’t like revolutions,” he warned.  “The chivalry are already bridling at the rise of our power.  They will take action, eventually.”

“I’m aware,” I sighed.  “Prince Tavard already sent seven thousand knights against me.  Next time, it could be twice that number.”

“Or more.  Much, much more,” he said, shaking his head.  “I trust a man of foresight like yourself has a plan for that?”

“Be prepared?  Make ourselves too strong to be conquered by the sword?” I proposed.

“I was speaking politically, not militarily,” he countered.  “There are more ways to conquer than by the sword.  Remember, I played court politics for years in Alshar.  As much as I despised it, and most courtiers, it’s a necessary evil.  One the Spellmonger cannot afford to ignore.”

“I’m not ignoring it,” I insisted.  “I’m just avoiding it.  Pentandra keeps tabs for me, as do others.  When the occasion calls for it, I can intervene and exert some pressure.”

He looked at me thoughtfully and silently for a long time.  “I do hope so, Minalan.  For all of our sake.  You’ve built something remarkable, here.  Don’t let a bunch of lance monkeys tear it down.  Because they will, if you aren’t careful.  Mark my words,” he warned.  “That’s what they’ll try to do, the moment they think they can.  It’s in their nature.  The only thing they really know how to do is charge gallantly . . . and be arrogant.”

Chapter Four

The Opening of the Palace

The wizard has always been the ‘man who knows;’ our trade is in knowledge and its proper application.  But it comes at a cost.  For the acquisition of knowledge always comes at a price, be it merely our own ignorance or the shreds of our soul.  The true wizard evaluates the price of knowledge, and, with proper understanding, does not hesitate to pay all his purse can bear if the potential for reward is great enough.

Fondaras the Wise,

Footwizard of Alshar

Alya and I had very little time to discuss her decision – well, demand, let’s be honest – to accompany me in the few days after she made it.  That was fine, for me.  I considered my acquiescence an inevitable failure of my character.  I can’t refuse Alya anything, within reason.  Discussing it further wouldn’t help my case – a case I knew was weak when I made it – and it wouldn’t change her mind.

I will admit, just to you, that part of me was secretly elated at the idea of her coming away with me.  It was dangerous, it was foolhardy, it was needlessly risky . . . and for all of those reasons, it was undeniably exciting.  Do not mistake me: my initial impulse against throwing my wife into a situation where I could not protect her was daunting.  As her husband, I had vowed before Trygg and every important person in my life that I would protect her.  Allowing to tag along on a journey guaranteed to be deadly was a violation of that vow, in my mind.

Yet I’d also taken a vow not to abandon her, and I could see her point.  Throwing myself into danger, however required by my understanding of our world, was taking a risk that I’d never return.  If she came along, I wasn’t abandoning her.  We were in this adventure together.

I’m certain that such rationalizations would appall those who would take me to task for allowing my wife to venture into such danger.  I don’t care about their judgement.  I’m married to Alya, and they are not.

Nor did she display any second thoughts about coming, as I hoped she would.  She seemed just as determined to go as ever.  I resigned myself to it.  At least she was somewhat preoccupied about the Duke’s ceremony, if also somewhat nervous.  The last party we’d been to at Anguin’s palace in Vorone had been . . . eventful.

The Opening of the Palace was an important ceremony, as it prefaced the arrival of the Ducal Court for the summer, even if the court wasn’t actually coming to the summer capital.  This was the first year since the Restoration that Anguin felt comfortable enough leaving Falas for a few months, and tend to his northern provinces.  It was also the first year that his bride was reigning over the ceremony.  Rardine wanted to establish herself as the Duchess of Alshar, the social epitome of the duchy.  That meant a grand display to set her ducal style for the era.  Or something like that.  Pentandra tried to explain it to me.

“Just as a duke’s reign is defined by the battles he wins or loses, the laws he enacts, and the feats of governance he performs, a duchess leads the nobility in matters of style and fashion,” she told me, as we prepared to leave for the event from Spellgarden.

“So it’s all about the clothes,” I said, shrewdly.  That earned me a Pentandra Eye Roll.

“The clothes are a part of it – but a small part,” she admitted.  “The clothing style is certainly a visual and political statement of the duchess’ perspective.  When Duchess Enora embraced the double linen underdress at the beginning of her reign, and wore a longer wimple, it signaled renewed ties with Remere,” she pointed out.  “But her choice of a chain belt of golden roses as her favorite signaled an affection for Castal . . . one that faded, as her reign wore on.”

“And what is Rardine’s style of choice?” I asked, amused.

“That will be revealed at the ball, of course.  If I had to guess, based on her social events in Falas, she will enthusiastically embrace the traditional Alshari fashions in her quest to take command of Alshar not just politically, but socially, as well.  It will also be an opportunity for her to make an impression on the Wilderfolk and the Magefolk who will be attending.  And, of course, since this is Anguin’s first court in the north since he wed and his first in residence at the new palace, everyone in the minor nobility who can afford to will be attending.  So she needs to make a scene.”

“I’m sure it will be a busy social season – I hate that I’m missing it.  The balls, the tournaments, the hunts, the ladies’ teas, the itchy clothing, the boring speeches, the endless posturing . . . it will all be over with, by the time I get back,” I said, sarcastically.

“Yes, how terrible for you!” she agreed, her eyes narrowing as she smirked at me.  “Don’t underestimate the importance of that, Min,” she warned, more seriously.  “Rardine needs to impress the ladies of the Wilderlands, both in the Wilderlaw and the Magelaw.  Don’t forget that until recently she was widely blamed for the deaths of Lenguin and Enora . . . because the Wilderlands has not forgotten that.  This summer will be her attempt to win their loyalty and make them forget her association with her Castali family.  That means bribing them, showing them a good time, flattering their vanities, and granting boons.”

“But Anguin already has the stalwart support of the Wilderlaw and the Magelaw,” I pointed out, confused.

“Anguin does . . . but Rardine does not.  Yet.  She has won over Falas and most of the south, especially after the attack on her wedding.”

“Nothing like an army of undead to evoke sympathy on a girl’s special day,” I agreed.

“But then she had to convert that sympathy into something more,” Pentandra continued, ignoring my jibe.  “All the while she was secretly rooting out pockets of political resistance and discovering traitors and spies.  And dodging assassins,” she said, her smirk disappearing for a moment.  “But she has been successful.  Despite her resemblance to Grendine in both form and manner, her policies and personality have enchanted the nobility and the common folk alike.”

“I’m assuming that you had a hand in that – the enchanting part,” I inquired.

“I did my part, but not as much as you might guess,” she said, with a sigh.  “I had other priorities than garden parties and balls.  But I did my part.  Rardine has everyone convinced that her rejection of Castal and her antipathy toward the Queen has made her the duchess Alshar should have gotten from Grendine.  Only she’s far more passionate than her mother in how she rules.  And far less bloodthirsty.  Alas, as the leading noblewoman of the Magelaw, after Alya, I’m going to have to represent the magelords all summer long,” she said, tiredly.  “Somehow I think that factored in Alya’s desire to go with you.”

“She never feels comfortable at those things.  Not unless it’s back home in Sevendor.”

“I don’t mind sparing her from this,” Pentandra admitted.  “That will be one less thing I have to manage.  It’s going to busy enough zipping back and forth through the Ways between Vanador and Vorone for all of these events.  I’m going to have to look dazzling,” she complained.  “And bring along an entourage of fellow magelords to represent the Count and Countess.  But it will allow us to maintain an important presence in Anguin’s court, and that is valuable.”

“I agree.  Well, if Anguin and Rardine need the vocal support of the Spellmonger, they shall have it,” I agreed.  “I owe him that much for making me count.”

“And Anguin knows he owes you for making him a duke,” agreed Pentandra.  “A very good investment, you made.”

“It’s always nice to pick your own boss,” I agreed.  “So, are we going directly to the palace, or are we popping in down the street so we can make a grand entrance?”

“The latter,” she directed, as Alya and her maids joined us in the great hall.  My wife looked stunning.  Someone else had obviously done her cosmetics – she still had little skill with the art – but they’d done a magnificent job.  “Arborn will be waiting for us with horses, and several of the other Magelords are already there for the processional so that we can arrive like the aristocrats we are.  Oh, bring your flashy staff,” she reminded me.  “We can’t allow anyone to mistake you for someone else.”

“Is that even possible?” Alya smiled.  “My lord husband has a distinctive presence, wherever he might be.”

“I can be sneaky,” I said, defensively, as I summoned the gaudy, nameless staff that I used for ceremonial occasions like this.  Part of it had originally been a lamp at Pentandra’s aunt’s house, she’d told me once, but the gilded stick was now my ceremonial badge of office.  It had a number of useful enchantments laid on it, but nothing particularly powerful.  But it was shiny.

“Who else is going?” Alya asked, biting her painted lip nervously.

“The cream of the Wilderlands society,” Pentandra assured.  “Many old friends among them.  I’ll introduce you to the people worth knowing from the Falas court,” she added, warmly, as she straightened Alya’s mantle.  She activated the spell woven into it, and the cloth began to change colors from one bright hue to another.  The effect was soothing and interesting, not jarring, I noted.  My countess looked every inch a magelord in it, no matter what her face revealed.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Alya protested.

“Nonsense!” Pentandra said, as she led her into position.  “This isn’t trouble, this is a bit of fun before you go tromping off through the Wilderlands again.  It won’t be like last time you went to Vorone,” she promised.

I just stared at her, balefully, as she prepared the Waypoint spell.  “You just had to tempt the gods, didn’t you?”

“One is likely to be there,” she countered, raising her hands.  “And it wouldn’t be the first time.”

In retrospect, I have to admit that whoever Rardine had hired to oversee the Opening of the Palace had earned their coin.  Vorone looked transformed, and that wasn’t merely due to the new palace dominating the skyline.  There had been major repairs and rebuilding throughout the city, after the devastation of the dragon attack.  The streets were well-cobbled, the sewers clean of debris and blockages, and the shops and storefronts had been gaily painted and scrubbed for the event.

Banners flew everywhere in the brisk summer breeze: the Anchor and Antlers of the duchy, the red rose on a yellow field that was Rardine’s banner, the standard of the Lord Steward of Vorone, the golden antlers of the Wilderlaw, and the blue and red banner bearing a black hammer and magestars for the Magelaw.  That was in addition to the hundreds of banners of the nobility, petty and great, who had crowded into Vorone for the Opening of the Palace.

Music played from every street corner, and vendors and merchants hawked specialty wares for the occasion.  Ale flowed liberally, sometimes from barrels left unattended and free for all takers, an amenity certain to cheer the heart of any artisan.

More importantly, the townspeople and the travelers seemed genuinely well-disposed to the holiday and the presence of the duke in their city, again.  There had been some murmurings, I knew, from some quarters in Vorone who felt Anguin had clung to the city when it was all that he had, but then left it as soon as a richer portion of his realm returned.

This procession should dash that notion, I realized, as we slowly rode through the crowds on horseback.  There were two dozen magelords of note in our retinue, as well as brides and husbands of import who rode within open carriages Pentandra had no doubt arranged to deliver them to the palace.

Behind us rode Count Marcadine and a hundred leading vassals of the Wilderlaw in matching red cloaks bearing the count’s device in gold.  Each bore a lance with a pennant in the same colors, and four carriages bearing their wives followed them in the parade festooned with more antlers.  The throngs threw wildflowers at the parade, and alms were freely distributed to the crowd in return.

This was a happy population, I realized.  It had survived scandal, neglect, war, economic hardship, refugees, and dragon attack, but three years after Anguin had re-taken the coronet, the people of Vorone were once again prosperous and secure.  Their faces were well-fed, their children seemed happy at the sight of so many interesting visitors.  If any held resentments about Anguin’s return – much less Rardine’s – they kept them well hidden.

The palace itself was bursting with fresh cut wildflowers and magelights, both decorative and practical.  Indeed, they wound in a spiral around the elegantly blocky walls of the palace and winked in unison.  I didn’t know which of Pentandra’s staff was responsible for that, but it was a lovely effect.  I resolved to steal it for future use.

The vast Great Hall was far more representative of the Wilderlands culture than the old palace had been.  There was far more Wilderlord involved in the décor, and far less of the Sea Lord influence the old gaudy palace had boasted.  Anguin and Rardine were greeting their guests as they were introduced, each of them offering the visiting lords and ladies a few private words at the throne before they were dismissed to dance and feast.  With their words, Rardine was charming and Anguin was gracious.

When it was our turn, Alya and I lined up like cattle and awaited our long list of titles to be recited by the court herald’s booming voice before proceeding to the thrones of our sovereigns.

“My dear friend Minalan!” Anguin declared, with genuine warmth.  “I am so happy you were able to attend.  Baroness Pentandra tells me you have important work this summer,” he added.

“The Spellmonger’s work is ever important, my lord duke,” Rardine assured the court.  “Even when no one else understands it.  Count Minalan has proven that a dozen times over,” she praised.  “If he sees need to skip this summer’s festivities, then I hope Countess Alya can fill the gap.”

“Alas, my Duchess, I have decided to attend my lord on his journey,” Alya said, with a bow.  “Baroness Pentandra will stand for the Magefolk at court, this year.”

Rardine frowned.  “That is troublesome news – I was looking forward to getting to know you better.  Perhaps you can visit us at Falas, this autumn, instead,” she proposed.

“I would like nothing better, Your Grace,” Alya assured her.  “But my lord husband’s work is very important.  I must need support him if I may.”

“As any good wife should,” agreed Anguin.  “Best of luck on your travels, my friends, and hurry back to us safely,” he urged.  “And Minalan, be sure to have a word with me before you leave, tonight.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” I bowed.  “And congratulations on your return to Vorone.  The city has missed you, as has all the Wilderlands.”

It was a good party.  I actually liked most of the people there, and for once I didn’t worry about hidden enemies popping up out of nowhere.  There were dozens of warmagi in the room, not to mention companies of knights and mercenaries.  Terleman had undertaken to construct the security for the palace, with Carmella’s help.  There were even defenses against dragons, I was told.

As the Count of the Magelaw, my second duty after greeting my prince was joining Count Marcadine and the Lord Steward Sir Kersal for a glass of wine and a quick discussion.  Marcadine thanked me in person for sending the Gilmorans and warmagi to assist him – apparently several unlanded Gilmoran knights had joined his court and had been given lands for their assistance, in addition to the bribes I’d loaded on them.

The Lord Steward was likewise thankful that Vorone had once again been spared any serious attack during the war.

“Do you think the truce is likely to hold, Count Minalan?” he asked, as we headed into our second cup of wine.  “Or can we enjoy a summer of peace?”

“It is less a truce and more a battlefield defeat,” I predicted.  “Korbal lies in torpor, unable to lead his forces.  The Nemovorti are scattered and bickering amongst themselves.  The bulk of the goblin army has been crushed; it will take time for them to train more.  And our forces have never been stronger,” I pointed out.

“And dragons?” asked Marcadine, pointedly.

“They have precious few left, and have retained them for defensive work, now,” I answered.  “At least, that is what my sources have said.  We’ve defeated them too often, now, for their liking.  To deploy them is to risk losing them and their great power.”

“Then we might have peace,” considered the Lord Steward.

“We might,” I agreed, “at least for a while.  Indeed, gentlemen, I have undertaken certain negotiations that might lead to a more lasting peace.  One I feel compelled to discuss with you, before I take action.”  After securing our privacy with a spell, I outlined the terms of my treaty with Ashakarl, King of the Goblins and judged their reactions.

“It seems a fair bargain, if they can be trusted,” the Lord Steward murmured.

“If he breaks my trust, we have lost nothing but time,” I countered.  “Removing an enemy from the field is as good as defeating him, in my estimation.”

“If they agree to free their slaves and stop eating our flesh, it is a worthy accord,” Marcadine said, thoughtfully.  “I approve, if His Grace does.”

“I plan on discussing it later this evening,” I nodded.  “But I wanted to hear your thoughts, first, as our realms are all affected in this.”

“While we are covered by your spell, Minalan,” Marcadine said, changing the subject, “I feel it is proper to inform you both that many of the Gilmoran knights who came into my service depart with a far better opinion of Alshar,” he said, with a quick grin.  “Many were set against us by politics, but once they enjoyed our hospitality, they may have reconsidered their allegiance to Castal.”

“Aye, that has been the gossip in the barracks,” agreed Sir Kersal.  “The Gilmorans came as agents of Castal, but more than a third return with changed minds.  They felt betrayed by the Count of Nion and cheated of their bounties.  Enough to shift their politics.  The impetus for Alshari allegiance grows stronger.”

“But what can we do about that, my lords?” I asked, simply.  “I would support such a transfer of allegiance, of course.  It would honor His Grace and add to his already impressive legacy.  But Rard forbids such things under the Royal Charter.  The duchies cannot fight amongst themselves.”

“But the counties can,” countered count Marcadine.  “As the Count of Nion proved.  If that is the case, then either one of us could claim sovereignty by conquest,” he pointed out.

“Or by recognition of allegiance and extension of sovereignty by rebellion, which was Castal’s own rationale for contesting Gilmora,” reminded Sir Kersal.  “It would not take much to fan the flames, should a spark be kindled.”

“I would never dare initiate such a momentous change of allegiance, gentlemen,” I gently scolded.  I waited for just a moment before continuing.  “Of course, if a rebellion just happened to arise, I might consider intervention.  Purely to preserve lives and prevent destruction,” I added.

The two exchanged glances and then smiled at me.

“Then we have an understanding,” nodded Marcadine.  “I, too, would welcome Gilmora back to Alshar.  Let us each consider that policy.”

“I can see I’m going to have an interesting time when I get back,” I chuckled, before I broke the spell and went to mingle.  Of course, seeing the three major nobles of the region speaking together under a privacy spell attracted plenty of attention.

“My lord Minalan, I must ask what you and Count Marcadine and the Lord Steward were discussing,” Lady Pleasure asked, as she approached me from behind.  Make that Abbess Pleasure, as she was in her clerical garb.  She looked splendid in her well-crafted habit, her brilliantly shiny symbol of faith hanging precariously from her impressive bosom.  While the priestess appeared as demure as the clergy of Ishi ever do, she twisted and wiggled like a little girl as she questioned me.

“Oh, matters of policy and state,” I shrugged.  “What are you doing here?  Planning on starting some trouble?” I asked, warningly.

“That’s the farthest thing from my mind, right now,” she said, biting her lip engagingly.  I could tell that this was the real goddess of love and beauty inhabiting her earthly avatar, and not the middle-aged former ingénue Baroness Amandice.  If you encounter the gods often enough, you can tell the difference.  This was Ishi, incarnate, visiting the mortal realm.

Likely that was because she loves a good party and she had inflicted that on Vorone, as her adopted sacred town.  She had a particular fetish for Anguin, for some reason.

“So what brings such an important member of the clergy to town, Abbess?” I asked, politely.

“I’m here to witness Rardine coming into her own sovereign power by winning the minds and hearts of the summer court.  She married the Fox Duke.  That makes her a vixen, by some rights.  One of my sacred animals,” she reminded me.

“Then please behave, and don’t embarrass our good duchess,” I chided the goddess.

“Credit me with more sense, Minalan,” she chided in return.  “I am already in my power, here in Vorone.  Just as Briga is in Sevendor.  Pulling any miracles would be redundant.”

“I’m not sure how you people assign such things,” I admitted.  “Who is the patron of Vanador?”

“Trygg,” Ishi said, defensively, with a pout.  “You can blame Pentandra for that.  But Vanador has plenty of room for more.  Perhaps a technical god, or a magical one.”

“Yes, a god of magic would be terribly useful,” I agreed.  “Much more useful than, say, a cow goddess.  Or mother goddess.  Or sex goddess,” I added.  Believe it or not, I think Ishi likes it when I tease her.

“I’ll see if I can seduce one out of the ether,” she said, rolling her eyes and waving her bust at me.  “Be careful, this summer, Minalan,” she added, suddenly frowning.  “You’re going someplace that is not only devoid of magic, but where the gods will have no power.  At least, none that I’m aware of.  That volcano is a big blank spot in the world.  Even the Otherworld.  It has a certain reputation amongst the gods.  That’s never a good sign.  But I know that there are . . . there are things there, Minalan,” she said, her head shaking slowly.  “Things unholy and alien.  It’s a bad place,” she assured me.

“And yet I must go,” I sighed.  “There are answers to be had, there.  Answers that might save the world.”

“Whence?” she pouted.  “Millennia from now?  When your descendants have fallen in estate and languish in hovels at the edge of the world?”

I could feel my eyebrows rise of their own accord.  “You have some divine insight, Goddess?  Perhaps a . . . prophecy?” I accused.

I earned a divine snort.  “Just working the worst-case scenario.  I’m a love goddess, that’s well within my purview,” she argued.  “My point is, why take the risk of death or madness in pursuit of a cure for some future doom, when there is glory at hand in the present secular realm?”

“Because the long-term survival of our people on this world is well within my purview,” I countered.  “Recall, that is part of what attracted you to my life.”

Ishi frowned.  “Briga completely ruined you with noble altruism,” she said, folding her arms under her bosom judgmentally.  “Had I gotten to you first, things would have been quite different.”

“As attractive as your divine charms are, Goddess, I confess my dedication lies beyond my loins.”

“No, it lies firmly within your heart,” she pouted.  “Trygg’s grace has siphoned off your promising lechery.”

“Alas, you come after inspiration and matrimony,” I said, sympathetically.  “If it’s any consolation, it was a very close contest.”

“In this case, I will have to yield to the whims of fate,” she sighed.  “Fate often takes away my fun.  It’s annoying.”

“There should be more than enough interesting propositions occurring at this celebration to keep you amused, Goddess,” I soothed.  “Don’t let one boring old married man keep you from enjoying yourself.”

“You speak more truly than you think, Spellmonger,” she said, with a disturbingly amused expression.  “As to the subject of fate . . .”

Before she could finish the sentence, the Ducal Herald announced, in a tone constructed of both determination and surprise,

“My Lords And Ladies of the Court!  It is my Privilege And High Honor to Present His Majesty, Rard the First of Castalshar, King of the Realm!”

“See?” Ishi whispered, as the assembled courtiers and nobles of repute gaped at the unexpected announcement.  “Fate is a far bigger bitch than I am!”

“Ishi, what’s going on?” I asked, confused.

“What’s going on?” she asked, petulantly.  Her lips contrived a smirk quickly enough.  “King Rard has come to toast his daughter and her husband at their new summer palace.  Without her mother or brother at his elbow.  If you can’t read the political importance of that, Minalan, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Well, this is a surprise,” I agreed, as the implications of the development occurred to me.  “I suppose the Court Wizard brought him through the Ways,” I concluded.

“A surprise to you, perhaps.  I had advance warning,” she boasted.

“And the true nature of his visit, if you could spare it?” I prompted.

“He’s reaching out in an effort to avoid civil war,” Lady Pleasure explained, quietly, as our monarch approached the thrones.  “Remember that letter you sent to Prince Tavard?  He read it.  He was not pleased,” she related, reveling in the gossip.  “He railed at his father at the royal palace for hours.  He’s threatening war.”  She sounded pleased at the prospect.  Ishi is weird.

“Well, I appreciate Rard’s attempt to stop him,” I sighed.  “I don’t want war with Tavard.”

“But you wouldn’t say no, would you?” she snorted, prettily.  “You despise him.”

“But I recognize his political importance,” I countered.  “I don’t require my liege lords to be likable.  Competent would be good enough.”

“Which is why you despise him,” she riposted, with brutal honesty.  “It’s not his life of privilege,” she explained, her eyes narrowed.  “It’s not his arrogance.  It’s not his ego.  It’s his incompetence that draws your ire,” she said, her voice a murmur.

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” I agreed, as I watched Rard make his way through the crowd.

“Grendine is a bloodthirsty bitch, but you respect her.  Because she is competent.  Rard is an idealistic visionary, seeing a common destiny in the uniting of the three western duchies.  And he made it happen.  So, you respect him.  Rardine is a scheming, conniving opportunist . . . but you respect her, most of all,” Ishi accused.  “For she has come from a position of weakness and – with a little assistance – become a rising political force when she should have been crushed by her family’s abandonment.”

“Goddess, your insights are annoyingly apt,” I sighed, with candid appreciation.  She was, after all, a goddess devoted to human relationships.  She understood the motivations of men and women, even when they were not overtly sexual.  I was a subtle enough wizard to understand the importance of what she said.

“Of course they are,” she preened.  “After being a student and a soldier?  A wizard and a lord?  Those experiences shaped you, Minalan.  They gave you a low tolerance for incompetence.  And Tavard has yet to display a sliver of ability.”

“I fear for the realm, more than my own station,” I admitted.

“Of course you do, you altruistic dolt,” she chided, her lips near my ear as Rard, Rardine and Anguin murmured between themselves.  “You’ve assumed responsibility for far more than you were allotted by the divine, Minalan.  That is highly attractive, in my professional opinion.  Not terribly smart, but highly attractive!”

“So how do I avoid a war with Tavard, oh blessed lady of discernment?” I asked, taunting her.

“I’m not certain that you can,” she admitted.  “But you might avoid blame for it if you are shrewd enough.  Rard is expecting to find here a belligerent Spellmonger, ready to ride against Castal.  Indeed, he’s terrified of it.  Nothing could challenge the legitimacy of his dominion as surely as a war of that magnitude.  Nor could he stop you, if he desired.  He knows this.  You know this.  All that remains is to establish your opinion in the matter.  Because that would require him to choose a side, and that is something he does not want to do,” she revealed.

“That’s . . . that’s actually quite useful intelligence, Goddess,” I admitted.

“It was meant to be.  I’m not just a pretty pair of peaches.  I overheard everything, as a guardsman was shagging one of the chambermaids in the linen closet of the royal palace, when Rard and Tavard came in,” she confessed.  “Thankfully the gentleman was unwilling to quit, even though half the royal house might have overheard and discovered him – good lad!” she praised.  I assumed that there was an appropriate blessing involved.  “But I heard the entire conversation as a result.  Rard doesn’t want war.  Tavard does.  Tavard doesn’t really have the funds to wage war.  But he’s demanding his father’s support, if he does.”

“So Rard wants to see how willing I am to fight.  And I’m rather unwilling to fight, having contended with two wars in rapid succession.”

“Convince him of that,” Ishi counseled, “and you may well avoid war.  Or at least blame for war.  If it is any consolation, Grendine has been steadfast against the idea,” she reported.    “She thinks you’d mop the field against Tavard, and she’s told him as much.  But the prince has his own mind on the matter.  Indeed, Grendine worries that he is slipping from her control.”

“As am I,” I agreed.  Tavard was a shit of a duke, but as long as Grendine was controlling him, he’d been tolerable.  If he struggled away from her control, I realized, he could be quite dangerous.  “Any insight as to whether fate sees a crown in Tavard’s future?” I asked.

“Oh, Minalan, you know I can’t tell you that sort of thing, even if I knew!” Ishi pouted.  “But he is a serious threat.  You cannot take it lightly.  But you cannot be aggressive in your defense, either, lest Rard favor his son in this contest over his Spellmonger as a matter of duty and pride.”

“I’ll do my best to appease him,” I promised.  “I’m going on holiday, tomorrow.  The last thing I want is some unfinished business left behind.  Oh, look, here comes His Majesty,” I observed, casually, as I managed one final dig.  “Do try to look pretty.”

Chapter Five

The Concerns of the King

Beware entanglements with the nobility, or men of great power; for while the status and wealth that might accrue to you from a grateful client is tempting, it also compromises a wizard’s judgement.  When your counsel can elevate such a noble patron, it also gives you the responsibility for the outcomes of the policies upon which you provide advice.  For politics is the enemy of Wisdom, though that is where it is needed the most.  Far better to be an honest beggar on the road than a nobleman’s wizard who prizes his career over the dictates of Wisdom.

Fondaras the Wise,

Footwizard of Alshar

“Your Majesty, may I present Abbess Pleasure, of the Vorone Temple of Ishi,” I introduced, as Ishi preened for the king.  I took some guilty pride in the act; as goddess of love and attraction, Ishi was inherently subject to one of the greatest forces in feminine sexuality: status.  And there are few higher positions than a sovereign king over millions of subjects.  Ishi gushed like a schoolgirl.

“Your Majesty, it is the greatest and most serene honor to make your acquaintance,” Lady Pleasure cooed.  “Welcome to Vorone, home of wildflowers and frolics!”

Rard looked good – better than the last time I’d seen him.  I suppose it is impolite and impolitic to reflect on the state of your monarch’s health and fitness, but Rard was the most important man in the Five Duchies, at the moment.  His health was the sort of thing a good wizard paid attention to.

His hair was still long, though trimmed at the shoulders.  The golden hue had taken on more of a silvery aspect, in the last few years, and there were furrows in his cheeks and brow that had been carved into his face by the plow of fate.  But there was also a calm resignation, a possession of himself, that I found encouraging.

“Lady Abbess,” Rard said, nodding his head in a way that was an acknowledgement, but not quite a bow.  “I’m always delighted to see the clergy support my daughter and her husband in such a splendid manner,” he said, with practiced efficiency.  I wondered how many asses of the senior clergy he’d had to kiss, over the years.  He seemed really good at it.

“We have always supported His Grace in his rule over Alshar, Your Majesty,” she assured him.  “He is a young and vital lord.  He has made a very passionate match with your daughter,” she praised.  “Countless blessings of love and passion be upon them,” she added, along with a flamboyant display of Ishi’s holy sign over her abundant boobs.

“Yes, I’m certain I’ll have another grandchild soon,” Rard agreed, patiently.  “My lady abbess, could you excuse me and Count Minalan for a moment?  I have an urgent matter to discuss with him, a matter of state.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.  If you need me, I’ll just be over there,” she added, unnecessarily.

“Ishites,” Rard said, shaking his head with a sigh.  “Pretty, and I admire their devotion, but . . .”

“Say no more, Your Majesty,” I chuckled.  “I’m thankful you rescued me.  What, may I ask, is on your royal mind?” I smiled.

“Am I that transparent?” he laughed in return.  “I suppose I am.  In truth, I was originally coming merely to celebrate Anguin and Rardine’s return to Vorone.   A bit of a lark, really, an excuse to get out of the palace.  But, then . . . well, Minalan, Tavard came to me.  With a letter.  And a tale.”

“Oh,” I said, lightly.  “That.”

“Yes, that,” he chuckled in return.  “I was very amused, actually, once I understood what had happened.  Not that I approve,” he cautioned.  “Tavard was in error, in sponsoring a war with you while you were in exile.  That contradicts the customs of the duchy of Castal.  A man can be sent into exile, but he cannot be further punished with war.

“But my son is . . . persistent,” he sighed.  “And you turned that persistence into opportunity, I see now.  Had he asked my counsel, I would have advised against the idea at the start.”

“I have no doubt of that, Your Majesty,” I assured him.  “I hold you blameless.”

“But instead of being cowed by the defeat of his plans, Tavard is incensed at your response.  All the more so for its eloquent sarcasm.  I fear that he might take further impetuous action, if provoked,” he added, warningly.

“Your Majesty, I have no desire to fight the Duke of Castal,” I answered, sincerely.  “I have done little to provoke your son, before this.  And it was the impetus of his own action that convinced me to take advantage of his misplaced ire . . . and funding.  I had need of troops,” I reasoned, simply.  “He was good enough to provide them.”

“Yes, so he was,” Rard said, laughing again at the impertinence of the move.  “But I would like assurance that you will not respond further to him.  I have already spoken to him about this; our kingdom needs no vendettas, when we face the challenges that we do.”

“Sire, I am about to journey into the wilderness for a few months,” I informed him.  “I shall not even be around to respond, should he provoke me.  Nor do I take offense at foolishness when the security of the kingdom is involved.  I am more than willing to write off this episode as the indulgence of youthful energies.”  I did my best to sound like the voice of mature wisdom.  Considering my opponent, it didn’t take much.

“I know, Minalan,” Rard sighed.  “But be careful, when it comes to Tavard.  I may not be around to rein him in forever.  I know of your power, and your importance to the realm, but he has a different policy.”

“I will take it under advisement, Sire,” I assured him.  “My goals lie beyond mere secular power.  I go into the unknown to seek answers in how to preserve the kingdom and sustain our world.  A petty feud does nothing to further that goal.  I will not seek retribution for Tavard’s efforts,” I promised.

“That is a relief to hear,” the king said, sincerely.  “In truth, Tavard has become a burden to the crown, not a support, of late.  Tragedy and misplaced blame have conspired with poor counsel.  Failure has compounded his will to act, to prove himself.  He bridles when even his mother attempts to advise him these days.  He listens only to his wife, and . . . others.”  It was increasingly apparent that his Ducal Court was filled with opportunists and flattery.  That was a common mistake a young monarch could make.  Thankfully, Anguin seemed to have more of a level head than Tavard, and he heeded wise counsel.

“If he spares the Magelaw and Sevendor his wrath, then we have no quarrel,” I said, as reassuringly as I could manage.

“But I will caution you, Sire: it is not me, alone, that need concern you.  The Magelords of Vanador know what Tavard did, through the auspices of the Count of Nion.  They take issue with it as unfair, an abuse of his power, though it served me in the end.  They are a reasonable nobility, and follow my cues in most things.  But they are also potent in their own right and used to following their heads.  I will keep the magi calm, but Tavard must soothe the knights of the realm against further rash action against us, lest matters spiral out of control.”

“Aye, I’ve said as much to my son,” Rard nodded with a sigh.  “Perhaps your absence from the affairs of the kingdom for a time will give him other distractions to concern himself with.  Farise, perhaps, or Merwyn.  Wenshar is always an issue,” he shrugged.  “I don’t know, Minalan,” he confessed.  “I’ve done my best to prepare my son for the throne.  But he resists the dictates of wisdom and my guidance at every turn, it seems.  He sees statesmanship as secondary to power.  And he feels entitled to that power, despite my constant lectures to the contrary.”

“Yet your daughter has drunk from that fountain in abundant quantities,” I said, nodding toward the smiling duchess.  “Alshar thrives, since her wedding.  Perhaps she will rule Castalshar, one day.”

“I can’t say it would be the worst thing, my legacy be damned,” he admitted.  “She’s smarter than her brother by half.  But she must be content with Alshar,” he said, shaking his head.  “She has a beautiful realm, here.”

“It is the only one I hear she desires,” I agreed.  “She is happy, from what I can tell.  Anguin is a good man, and a good duke.  More importantly, he is a good husband.  He holds her to account, and she values that.  She takes her responsibilities seriously.  She has become devoted to Alshar, and the duchy to her.”

“It is good to see,” he smiled, fondly, at his daughter.  “Out of the shadow of her mother, she blooms.  And Anguin is, indeed, worthy of her.  That was a wise move on your part,” he acknowledged, quietly.

“It was Ishi’s whim, more than anything,” I shrugged.  “Honestly, it was the last thing I expected.  But then no matter how subtle the wizard, life continues to be full of such surprises.  It keeps things interesting,” I offered.

“So it does,” agreed the king.  “Ah!  I think my daughter and son-in-law are finally done with the processional.  Perhaps now we shall have a moment to talk.”

“Is there some particular matter you wish to discuss with Their Graces?” I asked.  “Perhaps matters of state concerning my realm?”

“More that I miss my girl, and ponder the possibility of grandchildren,” he confided.  “The palace is just not the same without her.”

“I have no doubt, Sire,” I said, with absolute sincerity.  Rardine had abundant faults.  Being boring was not one of them.

I was privileged to watch a far more casual greeting of father and daughter than the officious introduction of the processional.  Rardine hugged Rard’s neck like any daughter to her beloved sire, and I could tell that Rard genuinely returned the affection.

“This was quite a surprise, Your Majesty,” Duke Anguin said, bowing deeply.  “And an unexpected honor.”

“What’s the point of having a court wizard if he can’t magically transport you to your daughter’s party?” he asked.  “I love the castle, Anguin,” he added.  I committed to passing that along to Carmella, who had designed and built the castle in a mere two years.  “It’s a dramatic improvement over the old palace.”

“It suits me, more,” he agreed, looking around at the grand surroundings.  “And it suits the Wilderlands better.  I honestly enjoyed ruling from Vorone,” he admitted.  “Things were a lot simpler, then.  So, how is the queen?” he asked.

We chatted informally at the edge of the ballroom, for a time, and I reflected on the importance of family in matters of the nobility.  Rard and Anguin chatted like any father-in-law to his daughter’s husband, with the same mixture of concern and pride that my dad had demonstrated to my brothers-in-law over the years.  Rardine was eager to prove herself to her father by extolling her accomplishments in her new life.  And Rard, while proud, also held a wistful demeanor as he recognized that his little girl had moved along in her life.  There was little solace for him but grandchildren, now.

But then I was drawn back into the conversation, rather abruptly.

“It’s unfortunate that Count Minalan will not be here for the summer,” he said, shaking his head.  “I have the most magnificent tournaments and entertainments planned.  I do hope you will attend a few, Uncle?  Count Marcadine has pledged to be here.  He has already proposed a grand hunt through the edges of the Penumbra, where it is said the game now lies thick.”

“I don’t hunt much anymore, nor have I been allowed to raise a lance since I took the coronet,” he admitted.  “But, with magic’s aid, I should be able to attend a few parties, this summer.  Trygg knows I go to enough at the capital.  And, of late, in Wilderhall.”  The way he said it spoke volumes.  I wasn’t the only one to pick up on it.

“Where Tavard the Moody yet reigns,” nodded Rardine.  “Has his new palace not been completed yet, Father?”

“He keeps changing the design,” Rard revealed, with quiet frustration.  “He’s driving the engineers mad with new ideas.  It may be years before he returns to Castabriel.  And the longer it takes, the more gold it costs.  When he does have business there, he rules from one of his estates, instead of visiting the city.  It’s troubling, to see a duke eschew his rightful seat,” he frowned.

“Many in Alshar would agree,” Anguin said, a subtle dig at his captivity in Castal after his parents’ assassination.  “I’ve always found it wise to entrust such decisions to those who have the expertise, and then support their efforts without much criticism.  Hence, this glorious new palace.  And the wonder I hear Vanador has become,” he added, giving me a nod.  “I plan on touring the place, this summer.  Baroness Pentandra insists upon it.”

“We are rightfully proud of the City of Wizards,” I smiled.  “I hope you can find your way there, one of these days, Your Majesty.  It is unique in your realm.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, with a grin.  “I find I’m growing used to these magical Ways of yours, Minalan.  And the Mirror Array.  They both have much improved the functioning of the kingdom.  I look forward to more such useful wonders.”

“It is our pleasure to provide them,” I agreed.  “Shall we chase down the butler?  I’m finding myself thirsty.”

“How did your discussion go with the king?” Alya asked, that evening once we’d returned to Spellgarden and settled in for the night.  “And the other nobles?  I barely saw you tonight.”

“It went well,” I admitted.  “I told Rard I wasn’t planning on going to war with Tavard, after his proxy attack.  And Anguin approved my treaty with Ashakarl, although he was nervous about it.  I explained that I’ll have to contend with the consequences, either way.  Marcadine and the Lord Steward of Vorone agreed with me that we’d prefer Alshari sovereignty for Gilmora to Castali . . . but we’re not willing to do anything about it, just yet.  All in all a productive evening.”

“Good,” Alya said, as she donned her nightdress.  “Pentandra introduced me to fifty women whose names and positions I’ve already forgotten.  The duchess was lovely,” she considered.  “And there were a few of them I recall, favorably.  Viscountess Threanas.  Lady Pleasure.  Some of them were very nice.  But some of them were just . . . mean,” she said, condemningly.

“It’s a ducal court,” I shrugged, as began taking off my itchy court clothes.  “Regardless of what people are wearing, deception and competition are always the style.  But Pentandra says you did very well,” I praised.

“I mostly just kept my mouth shut and smiled a lot,” she admitted.  “I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy court functions.  I prefer the milking sheds.”

“You’ll have better conversation,” I chuckled.  “I was wondering how you felt, though,” I added with some concern.  “I know that after the commotion at Anguin and Rardine’s wedding . . .”

“Oh, I suppose I am fine,” she said, after a moment’s consideration.  She retrieved her brush and began working it through her hair.  “Or, at least, I’m growing more used to useless things like official court functions.  I didn’t have any flashes, or moments of dumbness, or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.  The Handmaiden has really helped,” she observed.  “I still don’t feel . . . right, but then I don’t feel entirely wrong, either.  That’s progress.”

“That’s progress,” I agreed with a sigh.  “Are you certain you want to go on this journey, tomorrow, Alya?”

“If I don’t, I’ll be going to a lot more useless court functions this summer, and that I cannot abide,” she said, shaking her head as she brushed.  “No, you’ll just have to endure my company while you’re hiking through the wilderness, this time.  Lilastien said I was fit to go,” she reminded me.  “Indeed, she said it would do my constitution well.”

I winced at that.  I had secretly hoped that the Sorceress of Sartha Wood might find some good and compelling issue of health that would preclude Alya going with me.  Quite the contrary, she approved the exercise wholeheartedly.  Alya was as healthy as a woman her age could be, the good doctor had informed me.

“Besides,” she continued, “I couldn’t put the children through all of the wailing and crying today for nothing.”  While Alya’s native sense of maternal feeling had not quite returned, she’d been far more attentive to the children and their welfare of late.  I wish I could credit the Handmaiden for that – her treatments were, indeed, going very well.  But it would be more honest to recognize that the blessing of Bova, the Goddess of the Kine, was likely more to blame.  Alya’s sense of duty to her children had returned since the blessing.

“I’m sure they will be fine, after we’re gone,” I soothed.  “They will get to play with Pentandra’s girls while we’re gone, for one.  And Alurra.  They love Alurra.”

“Yes, she was telling them what the cows were thinking over at the byre, today,” Alya chuckled.  “They’re absolutely fascinated!”

“It’s good for the children of the magi to experience a wide range of magic,” I nodded, as I pulled my own nightshirt over my head.  “There’s no telling how their rajira will become expressed when they reach maturity.  And if they have rajira.”

“I sometimes think things would be less complicated if they didn’t,” she sighed.  “Look at how troubled poor Ruderal is with his Talent,” she pointed out.

“And look how enriched Alurra is by hers,” I countered.  “If she didn’t have her little animal friends, she’d be just another helpless blind girl.”

“That girl is anything but helpless,” Alya chuckled.  “But I take your point.  I suppose there’s no way to determine if it will be a blessing or a curse until it gets here.”

“No, there’s not,” I agreed, as she put her brush away.  “In fact, I’ll confess a little nervousness about going somewhere where magic doesn’t work.  I’ll have to depend entirely on my wits.”

“Then you’d be doomed, if I didn’t go with you,” she teased, as she crawled into bed.  “Really, magic is all you have.”

“Wealth!” I playfully protested.  “Power!  The undying admiration of my friends and family.  I have a lot going for me,” I said, with mock defensiveness, as I snuggled in beside her.

“All of which came from your magic,” she countered.  “Min, I know we wouldn’t be going to this place if we didn’t have to.  I just don’t really understand why you have to.”

I heaved a manly sigh.  Or my best attempt at one.  “There might be answers there.  There will be answers there,” I corrected, “just perhaps not the ones I’m seeking.  But I do need to go,” I insisted.

“And I do need to go with you,” she agreed.  “Don’t ask me how I know.  I just do.  Pentandra is worried about you going,” she added, after a pause.  “Not enough to try to stop you.  But she’s worried, nonetheless.”

“She worries about me too much,” I dismissed.  “Doesn’t she have enough to worry about?”

We drifted off, after that.  I didn’t arise until long past midnight, when I felt an uncharacteristic chill for such a warm summer night.  A little confused, I rose without waking Alya and realized that, yes, it was somewhat cool in our chamber.  Not enough to need a heatstone, but perhaps a bit of a fire might be in order.

There was wood already laid on the hearth – having servants can be a blessing – and it only took me a moment to kindle it with a cantrip.

“About time,” a voice said, from nowhere.  Before I could react, a shower of fire cascaded at the foot of my bed until it formed a woman with bright red hair and an irritated expression.  “You don’t use much fire, so I had to make it chilly in here to get your attention.  That’s a little insulting.  You were going to flee into the wilderness without speaking to me?  After you flirted with Ishi all night?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

“She flirted with me, and it wasn’t all night,” I said, defensively.  “Hail, Briga, Mistress of the Flame, Queen of Combustion, oh Princess of Primal Plasma.  Do you have some divine wisdom to impart to me, on the eve of my great journey?  Or did you just want to deprive me of sleep?” I asked, sarcastically.

“I wanted to warn you, Minalan,” she said, her expression unchanged.  “Anghysbel is dangerous.  Ishi was correct: the gods cannot see into that land.  Or have any interaction with you, while you’re there.  At least nothing overt, that I can tell.  That place . . . it concerns me.”

“It scares you,” I accused.

“It’s a volcano – I like volcanos,” she insisted.  “I should be able to manifest almost at will, there.  But with no magic, that includes divine magic.  And necromantic magic.  No songspells, no irionite, and certainly no Imperial magic.  So you will be well and truly on your own.”

“How come no one trusts me to go someplace without magic?” I complained.

“The same reason I wouldn’t be the best goddess to take to sea,” she pointed out.  “Magic is your greatest strength.  Therefore, you will be weak without it.”

“I will manage, I promise,” I said.  Now I was getting irritated.

“Perhaps you will,” she admitted, reluctantly.  “But your ancestors were wary of that place, when they first encountered it.  They studied it in depth, and were themselves concerned.  Do you have any idea of the destructive power of a volcano?”

“I saw Mount Renly erupt, in Farise,” I recalled.  “But I was miles away from it.”

“Renly?” she snorted.  “Mount Renly is a campfire, compared with what lies in Anghysbel.  It is what your ancestors called a super-volcano.  Where the crust of the world is thinnest.  Should it have a major eruption, it would devastate most of the Five Duchies,” she predicted.  “Your ancestors knew of it and were concerned about it even then.  Even a minor eruption could be problematic for your realm.”

“I promise I won’t make the volcano erupt,” I said, raising my hand in pledge and rolling my eyes.

“Don’t joke about it!” the goddess of fire said, seriously.  “The volcano isn’t even my primary concern.  There are a lot of things crawling up there in the realm of the jevolar.  The volcano might not even be the most dangerous of them.  There are things there that are found nowhere else on Callidore.  Ancient horrors.  Long-forgotten races.  You must be wary at all times.  Especially if trouble follows you there,” she warned.

“What do you mean?” I asked.  That sounded like a warning.

“I’ve seen through the fire’s eye a danger you are unaware of.  Though I might be mistaken, it appears as if your enemies, too, are planning an expedition to Anghysbel.”

“What?” I asked, no less confused.

“I’ve witnessed several conversations,” she reported, leaning on the post of my bed.  “The Nemovorti have reached the conclusion that they, too, need to explore this land, for their own reasons.  But once it was learned that you are going, they had the best reason of all: to capture the Magolith when it – and you – are at your weakest.”

“But you said that necromantic magic won’t work in Anghysbel,” I protested.

“Which is why the effort is being made with Enshadowed and gurvani agents,” she provided.  “A company of them is even now making their way to the edge of the desolation.  They seek to gain it ahead of you and then take you on the trail.”

“Will they?” I asked, surprised.

“Not at their current pace,” she admitted.  “They have yet to emerge from the Penumbra, and someone misinformed them that you will not depart for more than a week, yet.  But they will follow you, Minalan.  And they might catch up with you.  You should take that into consideration.”

“I will,” I agreed, after a moment’s thought.  “That is useful information, actually.  This quest just became more challenging.”

The goddess snorted.  “It will grow yet more challenging, that I can guarantee.  Yet the Enshadowed will be as hampered by a lack of magic as you will be.  That may give you some small advantage.  But you must be careful, Minalan,” she pleaded.

“I’ll pack an extra dagger,” I promised, tiredly.  “Anything else?”

She sighed, and folded her arms.  “You aren’t taking me seriously, are you?”

“Of course I am,” I replied.  “But a man can only hear so many dire warnings before they stop having an effect.  I’ve made every preparation I can possibly make, at this point.  I’m confident enough that I’m allowing my wife to go someplace the gods themselves fear.  Ishi is terrified of Anghysbel.  So are you.  I’m sure Herus will have to add his own dire warnings . . . but if old Fondaras the Wise can make the trip not once but four times, I’m going to have to presume my own competence on this matter.”

“The footwizard is renowned for his wisdom,” she pointed out.  “You are renowned for your power.  Which will be gone.”

“So perhaps I’ll cultivate a little wisdom to make up for it,” I shrugged.  “It is an opportunity to gain knowledge.”

“Fondaras might be just the footwizard to grant it to you,” she decided.  “I’ve followed the man for years, around thousands of fires.  His name was come by honestly.”

“So I hear.  I’ve always given more stock to the brothers of the road than most of us magi,” I pointed out.  “Besides, he knows the way.  And if an old fart like him can make it, then I’m sure a healthy young man like myself should be able to manage it.”

“Not all he made the journey with returned,” she said, sadly.  “There are reasons I am fearful about this.”

“Can’t you just whip up a little divine foresight?” I offered.  “Nothing as heavy as prophecy, but just a glimmer of whether I make it or not?  For my peace of mind,” I explained.

“I . . . I can’t, Minalan,” she said, with the utmost serious expression on her face instead of whipping out a snappy retort, as I expected.  “I’ve tried.  We all have.  Your journey defies our foresight.  We get glimmers of death and madness, joy and wonder.  Indeed, it feels as if this trip is enwrapped in prophecy already.  But none of us can even get a glimmer from . . . that place.  Nor of you.  Nor of the future, even in the roundabout ways in which we can glimpse it.  It appears as if everything just sort of . . . stops until you return.  If you return,” she corrected.

“That does sound serious,” I admitted, troubled.

“It is.  There is a kind of dark tangle of fate bound up with your journey.  The fate of everyone.  The Gods.  The Alka Alon.  The Kingdom.  The Vundel.  The Formless. Your Ancestors.  The Forsaken.  The entire human colony.  Life on this world.  Nothing will be truly determined until you come back with the knowledge you seek.”

“That’s not terribly helpful,” I observed, coolly.

“It’s frustrating, is what it is!” she corrected, angrily.  “Having some sense of fate and the future is implicit with almost all manifestations of divinity.  Some of us go beyond that, and risk foresight, or even prophecy.  Most of us flirt with the idea, even knowing how dangerous it is.  But all of us depend on our sense of fate to help guide us.

“But none of us can get a bead on this matter.  When the gods are in doubt, and fate itself has become entangled, that’s frustrating, Minalan.”

“And not terribly helpful,” I repeated.  “Well, you recall that happy confidence I felt about my journey?  If it makes you feel better . . . it’s fading, now.  Quickly.”

Chapter Six

Departure

The lands to the north of Vanador beyond the Maier River, are known from antiquity as Callierd.  It is a land of gently rolling hills broken by occasional rocky mountains. It is here that the vast forests of the Wilderlands give way to grassy hillsides, ideal for horses and sheep.  Within it is the reborn town of Nandine, ruled by Viscount Tyndal of Callierd, from whence the Spellmonger’s expedition to Anghysbel departed.  Viscount Tyndal, by all accounts a mage knight of most noble bearing, impressive virtue and uncommon bravery, boldly accompanied his liege northward, for by decree Anghysbel was recorded a fief of his.  All who beheld his handsome face and dashing figure felt confident in their safe return, for such a captain has rarely led a company so bravely as Tyndal of Callierd and none doubted his success in any endeavor he undertook.

From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Viscount Tyndal of Callierd

“Where do I sign?” Gurkarl asked, as he studied the long scroll detailing the terms of my treaty with Ashakarl, King of the Goblins.

“You know how to write?” asked Tyndal, surprised.

“It’s just like reading, just in reverse,” shrugged the gurvan as he continued to read the treaty.

“Just sign there, at the bottom,” I indicated.  “Just below my signature and seal.  I don’t suppose there’s a gurvani equivalent, is there?”

“Not with wax and a seal, but every literate gurvan develops a kind of pictograph to represent his name or position,” he said, as he expertly dipped the pen and signed his name in Narasi, then added a little picture the could have been gurvani writing.  I knew they had a written language, though it was crude in comparison to ours.  Their letters looked more like slash marks than pen strokes.  But I had to admit that it had a certain artistry to it.  “This one is mine, as Ashakarl’s ambassador.  Congratulations, Minalan.  You are at peace with the Gurvani Kingdom,” he said, as he sanded the parchment dry.

“Now if I could just claim the same with the rest of the gurvani,” I sighed.  “But it’s a good start.  Ashakarl remains in favor of the alliance?”

“If it means he can shift his focus away from the north and east, and redirect his forces southward, he is decidedly in favor,” Gurkarl reported.  “Since the wars in the winter and spring, many of those lands are nearly empty, now.  Ashakarl plans to take advantage of the disarray and expand his rule as much as he can this summer.”

“It looks like I will be missing out on many exciting things, while I’m gone,” I reflected.  “Please extend my good wishes to His Majesty, and wish him the best of luck in his wars.”

“In truth, we’re seeing it less as a war, and more as a recovery,” Gurkarl said, as he rolled up the treaty.  “Ashakarl doesn’t have the strength to wage a proper war.  But he will expand until he meets resistance.  Thank you for assuring that you will not attack him while he does so.  Don’t you have any proper ale around this place, Tyndal?” he asked, looking around at the inn.

“Plenty, Ambassador,” Tyndal grinned.  “As your host, I’ll even pour.  Probably my last chance at a civilized drink for a while,” he considered, as he dipped three mugs into the barrel on the bar and distributed them.  “To peace!”

“To peace,” Gurkarl and I both toasted.  It seemed poor form not to drain the mug.

“Now, off on our expedition,” mused my former apprentice.  “The wagons are ready, the teams are hitched, and Nattia’s bird is ready to fly.  Fondaras says we need to go today, if we’re to have the best chance of crossing.”

“I still think it is foolish of you to make this journey,” Gurkarl said, shaking his furry head.  “My people know of that place.  They say it’s cursed and avoid it.”

“Of course they do,” I agreed.  “Quite sensible of them, actually.  But I won’t be gone long, and any curses I happen across will be purely of my own doing.  Magic doesn’t work there, so neither do curses.”

“I think he was speaking in the metaphorical sense,” proposed Tyndal.

“No, no, I was being literal.  They think it is actually cursed,” insisted Gurkarl.  “But good luck, anyway.”

“Are you done in here, yet?” called a voice from the doorway.  “Pentandra wants to hurry up and say her farewells so she can get back to the palace,” Lilastien reported.  She had traded her white coat for more traditional traveling garb, leather riding trousers and a tunic.

“Yes, the treaty is signed,” I informed her, standing.  “We were just enjoying a celebratory ale, before we left.”

“Of course you did,” the Alka Alon sorceress said, rolling her eyes.  “You are also keeping everyone waiting.  That’s rude.”

“We’re making peace, in here,” I said, dismissively.  “It’s worth a few extra moments to ensure everything is properly signed.  But we’re done – let’s go bid our friends goodbye and start this journey,” I urged.

There were a goodly number of well-wishers who had arrived by the Ways in Callierd to see us off.  Pentandra was chief among them, of course, but she was not alone.

She had brought her husband, Baron Arborn, as well as Terleman, Mavone and Sandoval.  They were waiting just outside of Tyndal’s tavern, watching as the four wagons we were taking were lined up along the road.  At the head of the column were the warhorses of the six knights Tyndal was bringing along for security.  I had asked for the increase due to Briga’s warning.  If the Enshadowed were leading gurvani into the wastelands against me, I wanted to have plenty of steel to meet them with.

“They were having a quick ale, after signing,” Lilastien explained to the party as they shuffled around.  She sounded quite judgmental, but then I could write that off to anxiety about the journey.

“It was an important ceremony that required an adequate toast,” Tyndal said, defensively.  “Now that we are properly fortified, we are ready to depart.”

“At last,” smirked Pentandra.  “For all else is in readiness, according to Fondaras.  The dwarves are loaded into the wains, the alchemist has arrived with his wagon, Taren is lurking gloomily on his horse, Gareth has that toy of yours strapped in, the birds are ready to take wing, and the horses are restless.  It is time for you to go.”

“I consign my realm to your care, Baroness Pentandra,” I said, formally.  “Gentlemen, I trust you to follow her lead, in my absence?”

“She’s already my boss, as Deputy Court Wizard,” Terleman shrugged.  “She makes more sense than you, anyway.”

“You are still in charge of military matters,” I reminded him.  “But I would appreciate your deference to her advice on matters of policy.”

“I’m anticipating a long, boring summer, in all honesty,” Sandoval declared.  “Pentandra had better not interrupt that.  I’ve earned it.”

“Nine weeks, Minalan,” Mavone reminded me.  “You can only be gone for nine weeks.  Remember that, and don’t dawdle.”

“I don’t dawdle!” I said, with a sniff.  “I merely pause to appreciate the subtle things.  Farewell, my friends.  Pentandra,” I said with a bow.

She smiled in return, and then she looked troubled.  “What?  What is it?” I demanded.

“I’m just going to miss you, Minalan,” she said, with what seemed like a bit too much emotion for the occasion.  After all, I’d barely seen her at all in the last few years.  We’d both been busy with our respective realms.  Indeed, I’d seen more of her in the last few days than I had since she’d gone to Vorone.

“I’ll be back in two months,” I protested.  “I—"

“Nine weeks,” Mavone insisted.  “You have nine weeks.  No more.”

“The point is it won’t be that long.  You won’t have time to miss me.  It’s just a quest.  I’ll be back before you know it,” I promised.

“But you will be changed,” Pentandra sighed.  “That’s why I will miss you.  Just don’t die,” she reminded me, a note of seriousness in her voice.

“Travel always changes you,” I reflected.  “I expect this to be no different.  Dying is not on my agenda.  At least this time I don’t have ten thousand orphans trailing behind me.”

“No, just one small caravan,” Arborn observed.  “My people have made the journey many times.  It is perilous, even for us.  Be careful, my friend.”

“I’ll have my wife with me.  I’ll have to be careful.  She won’t let me do anything dangerous,” I pointed out.

“I’m counting on that,” Pentandra agreed.  “Very well, then: farewell, and may Trygg and Briga bless your journey.  And Herus.  He loves this sort of thing.”

With a round of embraces and a few private words for each of my counselors, I finally heaved myself into the wagon seat next to Alya.  She’d said her goodbyes, already.

“Let’s go!” I called to Tyndal, who was mounting his warhorse.  Then I turned back and saw the two giant falcons at the rear of the column.  “Ladies, if you’d like to take flight and scout ahead?”  Ithalia and Nattia both nodded, and climbed aboard their respective birds.

“We’re off, at last!” Alya said, clinging to my arm as I urged the team forward.  “It feels like it has taken forever to get here!”

“Just a bit of business to finish up,” I told her.  “I didn’t want to leave anything to chance while I was gone.  I don’t want to return from a holiday to a mess.  That’s always disappointing.”

“I know,” she sighed.  “I am just impatient.  We haven’t been on a trip like this in years.”

“I’m looking forward to it, too.  Ho, Fondaras!” I called to the footwizard, who was riding a rouncey up and down our caravan, dressing the column.  “How does it feel to be going on a journey with the greatest wizard of the age?”

The old man rode over to me, and matched our leisurely pace.  There was a disturbing grin on his face.  Or perhaps a smirk.  Fondaras is subtle, that way.

“Perhaps the greatest mage, but not the greatest wizard, my lord,” he suggested.  That made Alya’s mouth gape.

“Really?  You don’t consider Minalan a great wizard?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, he’s talented enough at magic,” considered the footwizard.  “But that means little, in wizardry.  Is he wise, my lady?” he asked.  “Wisdom is the measure of a wizard.  Not magic.”

“Oh, I’m tolerably wise,” I said.  I was a surprised as Alya at his assessment.  One usually expects a little light arse-kissing form one’s retainers.  It’s part of the joy of the nobility.

“You are . . . progressing, my lord,” he said, choosing his words carefully.  “Wisdom is a hard road toward an uncertain destination.  The mightiest amongst us can play the fool, if we are not careful.  Sometimes even when we are,” he mused.  “You may be a great wizard, someday.  If fate and fortune allow.”

“Well, by what token would you judge that sort of thing, Master Fondaras?” Alya asked, amused.  It was a glorious day for it, too – the kind of summer morning where all the world conspires to vibrant beauty.

“A wizard is judged on his actions, as a reflection of his wisdom, my lady,” suggested Fondaras.  “True mastery of wizardry has little to do with magic.  It has everything to do with knowing how all of the pieces fit together.”

“The pieces of what?” she asked, curious.

“Of all the world, my lady,” Fondaras said, as if he was stating an essential law of reality.  “A good wizard knows how all of them should fit.  How the sunshine affects the green grass, or how the flower seduces the bee.  Of the natures of man and beast,” he said, waving expansively.  “A good wizard knows all of these things.  A great wizard knows them so well, he need never speak of them.”

“So you find no value in my lord’s magical endeavors, then?” Alya asked.

“Oh, they are of great value,” Fondaras admitted.  “As I said, he works mighty wonders and brings the benefits of magic to his people.  There is some value in that, I suppose.  But is that wise, my lady?  Just because he can do it?  No, a great wizard would have considered the matter more thoroughly before acting.”

“I suppose I will just have to muddle along in my mediocrity, then,” I mused.  “Since I don’t have the potential for greatness.”

“In wizardry, my lord, I would have to say you have nothing but potential,” he said, thoughtfully, and rode toward the rear of the caravan.

“He is an odd sort of fellow,” Alya confided in me.

“Perhaps,” I considered.  “But is he wrong?  I honestly cannot say.”

“You know you are wise, Minalan,” my wife defended.  “Don’t let that old man tell you differently!”

“Oh, footwizards can be an eccentric lot, but there is a lot of value in what they do,” I countered.  “Not in their spells, necessarily, but in their knowledge.  Banamor was a footwizard,” I reminded her.  “Look at how well he’s done.”

“Only after he quit being a footwizard,” Alya pointed out.

“Fondaras is well-respected amongst the Good Fellows of the Road – that’s one of the things they call themselves,” I explained.  “But he’s also respected among the Imperially-trained magi.  If he says I’m a mediocre wizard, then I have to accept that at face value,” I said, philosophically.

“But you are the Count of the Magelaw!” she protested.  “You are the Spellmonger!  How can he say such things?”

“Because he really is wise,” I pointed out.  “I employ hundreds of magi, and almost all of them are happy to tell me how great I am.  But Fondaras?  I have to impress him.  That’s going to be hard.”

“Why would you think it necessary?” she asked.

“Because he has things to teach me,” I decided.  “And he knows wizards.  He’s been wandering the Wilderlands for over thirty years.  Even during the invasion, when everyone else was fleeing.  That, alone, gives him some credibility as a wizard.”

“I still think it’s silly that you would accept his judgement on that,” Alya dismissed.

“Perhaps,” I conceded.  “But the fact that I do is telling.  Fondaras is right,” I insisted.  “I am a great mage.  But a great wizard?  Perhaps not.  But he did say I have potential.”

“Actually, he said you have nothing but potential,” she reminded me.  “That’s hardly flattering.”

“Wisdom rarely involves flattery,” I observed.  “Oh, I’m not selling my accomplishments short.  I’ve done some impressive things.  But Fondaras has an issue with one of my philosophies: that magic should be in service to man.”

“And what is his competing philosophy?” Alya asked, pointedly.

“That magic is the wizard’s servant, and the wizard is the servant of all mankind,” I decided.  “Or something like that.  I can appreciate his perspective.  The history of the Magocracy is filled with incidents where magic actually made things much worse for the people.  Of course, sometimes it took generations to realize it, but . . . I cannot argue that there is something to be said for his philosophy.”

“And why is philosophy so important to you?” Alya prompted.  I think she was enjoying the conversation.  She sounded a lot more like the pre-maimed Alya than she had, recently.

“Because everything we do is a reflection of our philosophy, whether we recognize it as such or not.  I think it best to understand that.  It helps us establish our own motivations.  Or something like that – don’t forget that introspection is an occupational hazard of the magi.”

“I suppose when you contend with the abstract on a regular basis, such thoughts are natural to occur,” she sighed.  “It all seems terribly complicated, though.  Overly complicated.  You and Fondaras are both good men, and you both feel compelled to serve your society.  Should that not be enough?” she challenged.  “Why complicate matters more with idle discussion?”

“Well, I’m not certain it is idle,” I countered.  “It might be obscure, boring, and – as you say – needlessly complicated, but matters of philosophy are not idle.  They have meaning.  Nor is their discussion pointless.  Fondaras and I might disagree on many matters, and change each other’s minds not one whit, and still both of us can claim to come away from the discussion as improved men.”

“So, it’s like a spinning circle,” she decided.  “Where the women gather to spin threat, weave and sew?  And gossip inevitably erupts?  There’s a lot of talk like that, there.  That’s one of the reasons I dislike them so.  It all seems like an exercise in futility, discussing things like they were flogging them to death.  Only, in your case,” she pointed out, “you don’t even have thread and cloth, at the end of it.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Our ride was very pleasant, those first few days through the great grassy fields of Callierd.  We saw fewer and fewer people as the road turned to trail and then to mere track.  Soon it vanished altogether, and we were pushing across the plain to the northeast.  The weather held beautifully, too, with very little rain at all, and what little fell chose the late night to do so, when we were in our tents, and was blessedly brief.  The two giant falcons flew lazy circles overhead, one at a time, scouting out any potential dangers and guiding our track with precision.

I’d demanded an end to protocol, the first night around the campfire.  This was not a noble processional, after all, this was a small expedition, and titles and honorifics felt forced and unnecessary.  That was greeted with welcome by all, though it was hard to overcome the habits of a lifetime for some.

Mealtimes evolved into a routine, with only small portions at breakfast and luncheon, with larger, more substantial meals for dinner.  We relied heavily on pre-prepared meals from hoxter pockets, at first, as we knew the time when we could depend on them would end, and we’d have to survive on the stores we carried with us.  Thankfully, Gareth had carefully planned our provision for the journey, and there was always an abundance.

Each evening, dinner concluded with time around the campfire, where we quickly evolved a casual society that indulged in some remarkable conversations.  Listening to Masters Azhguri and Suhi argue, for instance, was always amusing.  Hearing Lilastien’s tales of ancient Perwyn before it sank enthralled us every evening.  She also took it upon herself to introduce us to some of the music of our ancestors, through Forseti’s prodigious memory.  That was a particular delight to Ithalia, who discovered she loved some of the musical forms demonstrated by the ancient machine.  I found a few of them pretty catchy, myself.  That became a nightly ritual.

Even listening to Tyndal banter with his men, Taren, and Ormar the Alchemist, proved entertaining.  I didn’t know Ormar well, but the sarcastic little warmage was utterly convinced of the superiority of alchemy over enchantment, which drew Tyndal into many wonderfully technical subjects, as well as annoying the non-magi among us.

But it was the conversations between myself and Fondaras that I quickly grew to favor.  Usually later in the evening, before we went to bed, the two of us would smoke our pipes and discuss matters of philosophy, wisdom, legend, and lore.  I found the man engaging, intellectually, but far from arrogant.  Indeed, his humility and willingness to admit to his own faults added to his persuasive charm.  I’d experienced it before – during the Great March, when I had first hired him, he had often entertained the Kasari children around the campfires at night with his tales.

The opportunity to converse with him at length, however, revealed a depth that one would not associate with a simple footwizard, no matter how well traveled he might be.  Despite his lack of formal education, Fondaras proved very well-read; indeed, he was conversant with classic works of magical lore that I’d only heard about, and had a broad knowledge of obscure subjects, both magical and mundane.  The other magi would join in the discussions, sometimes, as would the Alon and even those who lacked rajira, like Alya and Nattia, the Kasari rangers, and the knights.

On the third day, the landscape changed again.  The grasses got shorter and more wiry, and we began to see the effects of the alkali waste’s proximity on the rest of the land.  It wasn’t as if there was a dearth of life, yet, but the character had changed.  I made a point of stopping and collecting samples of particularly unusual plants and filling the expedition book with sketches.  I wasn’t the only one.

“We’ll come to the edge of the waste tomorrow,” Fondaras said, as he brought out an old, folded piece of parchment with his map upon it.  I knew he could use a magemap, for he had done so on the Great March and also as the head of my field wizards in Vanador.  But he had pointed out that those advantages would be lost, once we entered the field of the jevolar.  Parchment was more reliable.  “It will be an abrupt change.  And then perhaps half a day through the outer edge of the wastes.  After that, things will start to get challenging.  But not nearly so challenging as when we come to Tyr Morannan,” he warned.

“What sorts of beasts shall be wary of, Master?” Tyndal asked, thoughtfully.

“There are several,” Fondaras lectured.  “Firstly, there is a long, snake-like creature of great size, thrice the length of a horse, from nose to tail.  A vicious predator.  It is segmented and bony, like a living spine.  But its head is fearsome, with an overwide mouth filled with rows of teeth.”

“What is the name of this beast?” asked Ormar, intrigued.  He had an insatiable curiosity about such new discoveries.

“As there are no tribes who live nearby, the only name is from the Kasari who traverse the wastes: fiacail fal.”

“Fence tooth,” Nattia translated, her eyes wide.

“For its mouth appears as a grate of savage, jagged swords,” agreed Fondaras, nodding gravely.  “It moves fast, particularly at night, when it seeks water the most.  The fumes have no effect on it, and it goes into a craze of thirst during the summer.  While its shell is hard, it can be attacked and driven off.  Perhaps even slain.  But you will not outrun it, nor should you try.  It is sensitive to sound, some have said,” he added.

“Then there are the swarms of smaller creatures, the uafas,” Fondaras related.  “They lie near the center of the wastes, where they hug the shadows during the day in a lethargic state.  At night, however, they tramp across the rocks devouring everything in their path.  I’ve encountered them twice, and both times lost horses to them.  Their sacrifice preserved my life, but it also slowed my journey.

“They seem like hard-shelled crustaceans, almost like tiny skulls with many legs,” he said, his eyes narrowing.  “But their mouths are vicious, and lie under them.  They can strip the flesh off a man in moments.  Uafas fear fire, however,” he explained.  “They are sensitive to the heat.  If a man is vigorous with a torch and a sword, he can keep them at bay and outdistance them.”

“They sound lovely,” Ormar grumbled.

“There are worse things in the wastes,” Fondaras said, with a shrug.  “Those are just the dangers we are most likely to face.  I have rarely seen a bird in the wastes, but there are flying insects and a species of night-web, bone white, that appears like lace in the sky.  But neither of them are common, nor dangerous.  If we keep to the trails, the fiacail fal and the uafas are the most we might have to bear.”

“Both types of beasts seek water,” Ormar reasoned.  “Yet water is dangerous there.  That is fascinating, alchemically.”

“There is even a river that runs through a portion of it, fed from some underground spring.  One cannot get more than a hundred yards of it without choking for breath,” Fondaras reported.  “Both creatures are more abundant there.  Thankfully, it lies east of the route we have chosen.  And our party is large enough to keep them from striking, I would hope.  But there are static dangers as well.  Types of toxic plants and lichens, and stranger things yet.  They might not slay you, but they can drive you mad.  Indeed, most of the dangers remain unknown and uncatalogued, if I had to guess.”

“That’s why we are writing everything down,” I pointed out to everyone, hefting the journal for emphasis.  “Everything.  I want a detailed record of this journey.  From everyone’s perspective.”

“We know, we know!” complained Tyndal.  “Every morning, you remind us!”

“Some need it more than others,” I answered.  “But it might be the most valuable thing we return home with, if our other quests fail.”

“If nothing else, when they find our bodies in the wastes, they will know how we got there,” grumbled Ormar.

“I hope to find some way to make the journey easier,” Gareth proposed.  “I’ve prepared some items that should assist, for the first half of the journey, at least.”

“And I brought a cart load of alchemical supplies,” Ormar pointed out.  “And an entire rack of empty sample jars.  If the alkali wastes live up to their reputation, they have to be a figurative gold mine of minerals and salts!”

“I’m uncertain if the folk of Anferny would welcome such a change in circumstance,” reflected Fondaras.  “They enjoy their remote location and their infrequent interactions with the rest of the duchy.  They may not want to give that up.”

“I can’t imagine it would be a popular destination, even for pilgrims,” Tyndal considered.  “It would be hard to run a temple in a place where the gods are forbidden.”

“It’s not that they are forbidden, it’s just that they can’t manifest,” I argued.

“That sounds fairly forbidding, to me,” Tyndal replied.  “My point is, why would anyone go there?”

“There are wonders there, wonders not found in any other land,” Fondaras answered.  “I do not doubt you will find yourself enchanted by the land without magic.  Let’s hope you return to speak of the wonders, some day.”

It might have been wise, but it was not a particularly comforting thought.

Chapter Seven

The Edge of the Alkali Wastes

The stark nature of the great alkali wastes cannot be understated; it is not mere desert, but a vast sea that seeks to suck the moisture, the very life from your body.  Every step within promises death; the desire for rain, a well, a stream becomes profound.  Yet that very life-preserving water is the most certain way for the wastes to claim you.  Even the water from outside becomes tainted, over time.  A wise traveler learns to use his thirst and his yearning for relief to propel him forward toward less deadly lands.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Countess Alya of Spellgarden

Whatever strange ocean once covered the plains of the great wastes, it had possessed many islands at one time.  But at its edge, where its waves lapped the shore uncounted eons ago, it had left a silty deposit of soil and mud that, when the waters receded, had yielded a vast flat of fine particulates . . . and a dazzling host of alchemical compounds that seemed to shun the normal kinds of life.  You could see precisely where this vast lake or inland sea once lay.  Indeed, there was a kind of beach of lifeless sand that decidedly indicated the beginning of the arid wastes and the end of grasses and weeds.  Fondaras made us stop a half-day’s journey away at a spring he and the Kasari rangers assured us was the last potable water until we came to Anghysbel.

The horses did not like it – neither did the people.  It stank, and we smelled it in the air long before we arrived within sight of it.  The stench of Sulphur and other gasses began to fill the air when we were still in the verdant zone.  By the time we reached the dunes at the edge of the waste, the smell was overpowering.

“You’ll get used to it,” Ormar said, after he began to test the soil with his cart.  “Just a little hydrogen sulfide and some hydrochloride, perhaps some nitrogen compounds – no worse than a bad fart,” he assured, after taking a sniff.  “So far.  We don’t need masks, yet,” he declared.

“This looks as good a site as any for our first base camp,” suggested Gareth.

“If you mean it looks like virtually every other stretch of the waste, I cannot disagree,” Tyndal nodded, discerningly.  “The Kasari maps say this is the trailhead.  If we’re going to establish something permanent, this would be the place.”

“This is where the Kasari depart,” Fondaras agreed.  “There are other paths through, but this is the one they deem safest.  The one that leads to Tyr Morannan and thence to Anghysbel.”

“Then set up your outpost, Gareth,” I nodded.  “That little rise just before the trail seems best.  I’m anxious to see it.”

“This one is impressive, on the basis that those emerging from the wastes will need more care than those entering,” he reasoned, as he sketched off the proposed area with a wand.  “Therefore, this hostel will allow them water, food, rest, and respite, after their journey.”  He stepped back and activated the hoxter pocket in his wand.

Suddenly, a tidy two-story building appeared at the edge of the waste.  Not quite a proper tower – it was constructed of wood, not stone – it was still sturdily built.  After ensuring that the thing was stable, he threw open the doors and provided a tour.

It was, indeed, impressive.  It boasted a five hundred gallon cistern on the roof, as well as a small parapet that looked out over the wastes.  The upper floor was wide enough to sleep twenty people, while the hall on the lower floor had a small iron stove and cupboards stacked with food and supplies.  There were bandages and salves in abundance, and enough firewood for weeks in the woodshed attached to the kitchen.

I was amazed at the efficiency of the design.  It was not a fortress, but it could keep the wild at bay.  There was a small stable attached to the side, with enough hay to fortify our team and still leave plenty of surplus.  Gareth bragged about the remote resupply capabilities, all controlled by hoxter pockets back in Vanador.  We gleefully spent the night within, testing the utility and comfort of Gareth’s design and its amenities.

Most importantly, I installed a Waystone within it.  There were no natural Waypoints within days of travel, I knew – I had quizzed the Alka Alon thoroughly on the subject.  Should a High Mage be fleeing from the wastes, this would provide a means to transport away from the trailhead as quickly as possible.  And reach it from Vanador instantly, now.

“Now, the real test of the power of the jevolar is how far within the wastes we can go before our ability to activate a hoxter is tested,” I pointed out.  “And where I can place a final Waystone.  That will shorten the journey by half, I hope,” I pointed out.  “For the magi, at least.”

“And the Alon,” Lilastien added.  “The journey is just as arduous for us.  And our legs are shorter.  A Waystone that diminishes the trek will lead to more of us coming here.”

“And thus lose the remote nature that makes it special,” I predicted.

“Things change,” the sorceress shrugged.  “I have no doubt there will be a quaint little tavern here, someday, selling pilgrims’ medals and overpriced ale to the tourists.  But you should start taking etheric density readings, from here on,” she proposed.  “Probably a couple of times a day.”

“Gareth has been doing that for two days, now,” I chuckled.  “He wants to establish exactly where the anti-magical effect lies.”

Just before nightfall, Nattia landed her bird from patrol and sought me out at once.

“I spotted a column several miles behind us,” she reported.  “At least forty or fifty of them, moving on the same trail.  All on foot, but they’re making good time,” she said, worriedly.  “Gurvani.  Maragorku, to be precise.  But I don’t think they spotted me.”

“Their daytime vision is not the best,” I sighed.  “That must be the expedition that . . . that I was warned about,” I said, realizing that Nattia was not privy to the fact that the gods were giving me secret intelligence.  She did not need to know.

“An expedition?” she asked, surprised.

“Our enemy seeks to ambush me, in the wastes,” I explained.  “As well as pursue their own dark plans for Anghysbel.  No Nemovorti, I said, brightly.  “They cannot abide the jevolar.”

“Just a company of maragorku,” she said, wrinkling her nose.  “It would have been nice to have known that.”

“There are likely some Enshadowed commanding them, as well, from what I’ve been informed.  I figured that they were at least a week behind us,” I said, realizing that my figuring was wrong.

“They must be pushing themselves to make time,” she reasoned.  “At the rate they are going, they will make this spot in a day and a half.  Two days, if they tarry.”

“That doesn’t sound likely,” I said, frowning.  “All right, we leave at dawn and hope to lose them in the wastes.  Or prepare a trap to turn on them.  Keep a careful eye on their location.  But do not molest them from the skies yet,” I ordered.  “I do not want to alert them that we know they are following.”

Nattia nodded and went to inform Ithalia.  While neither bird was designed by nature or magic to fly at night, Ithalia’s, especially, could perform in the darkness with the aid of her songspells.  She would protect us from attack, for a few hours, and determine the position of the foe.

“We’re being followed,” I announced at supper, that night.  It was a bit of a feast, compared to our trail fare, conjured from hoxters for the purpose.  “A company of great goblins, and as many as a half-dozen Enshadowed.  They mean to catch us in the wastes,” I explained.

“That is . . . unfortunate,” Fondaras said, frowning.  “The journey will be difficult enough without pursuit.”

“You did say that there were several paths through the wastes, Master Fondaras,” Tyndal recalled.  “Perhaps we can obscure which we have taken?”

“At the very least,” the old man murmured.  “Haste would be our better ally than deception,” he counseled.

“We may have to indulge in a bit of defense,” Ormar suggested.  “I’m ready for a fight.”

“They will not attack until we are beyond Tyr Morannan,” I predicted.  “They wish to take me when I do not have the power of the Magolith.  So that they may steal it back to Korbal and free him from his torment.”

“Neither will they have access to their sorceries,” Fondaras observed.  “They will have to take you by force.”

“That might prove difficult for them,” Tyndal said, with a snort.  “They only sent one company of goblins.  Even without magic, we are more than a match for them.”

“Perhaps,” Fondaras nodded.  “But there are other factors at play.  I would not linger in the wastes for one moment longer than we need.  We leave in the morning as soon as the dew mists fade.  And then we ride relentlessly until dusk.”

He had told us about those.  Though this was the dry season, and it was unlikely to rain for weeks, the change in temperature and humidity still deposited a layer of water vapor over the ground at twilight.  Depending on its amount, the dew could react with the compounds in the waste and release a deadly mist of gas into the air.  Our masks should counter it, but until the sun burned away the last of it, the twilight mists were toxic.

Our biggest advantage was our mounts.  Goblins, particularly the maragorku, could cover a lot of territory on foot.  But that also burned energy.  They would need food frequently, I knew, and water that was difficult to come by.  As determined as they were, I felt confident that they would falter before they came upon us in the wastes.  Horses might be a weakness, but they were also a tremendous strength.  Even hauling wagons, they gave us the gift of speed.  Their long legs propelled us across the acrid sands the next morning while the maragorku struggled through the night on foot.

Do not take that to mean that I dismissed the foe as inconsequential.  Indeed, though I laughed and encouraged our teams to progress into the toxic desert as quickly as they could, in truth I feared meeting those goblins in such inhospitable terrain.  We had magic, for the moment.  But even that advantage paled with each step toward the jevolar.  There was a point at which my great power would be meaningless.  As meaningless as my title.

What use a spellmonger, even The Spellmonger, when no spells could be cast?  Therefore, if I intended to counter the Enshadowed and their gurvani minions, it needed to happen before we arrived at Tyr Morannan.

That would have to wait for later.  For now, the wastes, themselves, were our biggest enemy.

I don’t think I can sufficiently convey the desolation of the wastes in mere words.  The term “desolation” doesn’t even adequately describe the hellscape we quickly entered as soon as the toxic mist dissipated.  When we crossed the dunes that bordered them, the wastes unfurled themselves in all their savage glory.

Indeed, every mile we crossed brought ever more dire landscapes to our attention.  Not merely acres upon acres of dried, cracked plains, so dry they resembled a vast lot of well-shaped cobbles.  There were wide pits of salty sands, poisonous to the touch and achingly barren of even the simplest life.  There were ridges of rocks encrusted with untold centuries’ worth of deposits that seemed to grow like moss or lichens.  Some boasted wild colors, stark red ochres that challenged your conception of scarlet, or pale yellows that seemed to mock death, itself, in the severity of their tone.  After the miles and miles of verdant grasslands we’d traversed to get here, the brutality of the landscape in the alkali wastes was profound.

It had an effect on our dispositions almost at once.  Moving through an environment that makes a mockery of your very life, a landscape that beckoned you with a quick death in the parched environment, gave you a sense of perspective.  And urgency.  Even if we weren’t being pursued by bloodthirsty goblins, getting the hell through the wastes was a subconscious priority for everyone, regardless of what else may happen.  We were in a land that promised death.  Every breath we took affirmed that in the acrid pall that we were forced to breathe.

I inquired about donning our protective masks when we stopped for food and water, just after noon on the first day in.  Ormar demurred.

“I know it seems bad, Minalan,” he explained, as he checked his samples on his cart.  “It stinks worse than the Stenchworks, and every time you breathe it’s like you’re standing next to a forge.  But it’s not bad enough, yet.  Believe me, you don’t want to put those masks on until you absolutely have to,” he argued.  “Especially the horses.  They’re going to hate wearing them, and they will slow down.  If you want speed, then let’s make the most of it while we can.  I won’t hesitate to call for it when we have to.  But, in the meantime, I suggest we put up with the discomfort and press on.  The longer we go without them, the better.”

I had to defer to his judgement.  He was, after all, an expert in alchemy.  That was an odd field, compared to most of the disciplines of my craft.  It belied most thaumaturgy, in most ways, and depended mostly upon the dictates of the physical world.  Of all of the realms of magic, alchemy clung the most to the physical, and eschewed the emotional.  But I could not deny its efficacy.  Alchemy could work, theoretically, in places where true magic could not.  That was one of the reasons I’d approved Ormar’s inclusion in our expedition.

“My chest hurts,” Alya complained, that evening, when we finally made camp.  Taking advantage of magic to ease our passage, we had pressed on until well after dark before we pitched camp at the base of a sudden and sharply inclined hill.  “I feel like I’ve been breathing in the bottom of a privy, all day!”

“We all have, Love,” I soothed.  “There is nothing that can be done for it.  I am assured that the fumes are not potent enough to affect our health yet,” I related.  “It’s just unpleasant and uncomfortable.  But also blessedly temporary.  In a week, we shall be through this desolation and come to fairer lands.”

“Everything I eat tastes like I’m chewing copper pennies,” she added, sullenly.

“It will get worse, before it gets better,” I counseled.  “But it will pass as quickly as we do, through the wastes.”

She fixed me with a long, contemplative stare.  “I just thought I’d tell you,” she said, finally, when the silence became uncomfortable.  “This is . . .”

“I know,” I interrupted.  “We must endure.  This is the price of knowledge, until we get to Anghysbel.  I hope it is not too much to bear.”

That first night camping truly within the wastes was awful.

Our Kasari guides directed us to a small, barren hillock just off the trail which they used as a campsite when they crossed the wastes.  It was defensible, if inhospitable.  It was also, they explained, above the worst of the mists that would arise with the dew.  We lit a miserable fire with firewood from a hoxter, and let it burn out as soon as our simple dinner was warmed.  Summoning better fare than bean stew, bread, and mutton was within our capability, but it was decided that conjured delicacies would be a mockery in so stark an environment.

We spoke little, during the meal and after.  The heat and the appalling dryness had tempered our spirits.  The liveliest conversation occurred as Ormar boasted about the fascinating alchemical deposits that was the greatest wealth of the wastes.

“The salts, the pockets of acidic sediment, the calcifications . . . this place is an alchemist’s dream,” he sighed, as he finished his beans.  “There are compounds occurring naturally here that we can produce at the Stenchworks only with great effort.  I’ll be sending a prospecting party, after I return,” he promised.

“Ormar is correct,” agreed Forseti.  The smooth casing of his little chariot was covered in dust, but the machine did not seem to suffer any ill effects like the rest of us.  “The chemical composition of this region is remarkable, even for Callidore.  I have been taking regular readings on the samples he has gathered.  Many are beyond the limits of this unit’s capabilities to measure and identify.”

“You are welcome to them, and all the dust you can eat, too,” complained Gareth.  “It’s in my very teeth, now.  I can feel it with every bite I take.  It’s even in my ears!”

“Pray the winds stay tame,” chuckled one of the Kasari.  “A dust storm in the wastes is a terror.”

“I was caught in one on my second transit of this place,” recalled Fondaras, thoughtfully.  “It blew up suddenly, without warning.  It lasted hours,” he said, his eyes gazing into the darkness at the memory.  “Thank the gods it was merely a windstorm, and not a poisonous rain.  But we had to huddle under our mantles all night long and then suffer through the dew mists.  We lost two, to that storm,” he said, shaking his head.  “The fumes were not the worst, though.  That wind blew dust into your skin until it was shredded raw.”

“A rainstorm is worse,” agreed the Kasari – Captain Irimel, his name was.  He was as hardy a ranger as I’d ever met, save perhaps for Arborn.  An expressionless face, most times, armed with a stoic nature, broken only by occasional flashes of humor.  “My first transit we got three minutes of rain.  We lost two horses and a scout, from that.”

“Well, aren’t you an optimistic company?” Lilastien chided.  “We’re only one day into this wretched place and you’re already thinking about new ways to kill us off.”

“Our masks should protect us even from a rainstorm,” Ormar insisted.  “The horses won’t like them, but they endure them around the Sulphur pits.  And they’ll help keep the dust off you.  Small price to pay for the chance to collect reagents in such abundance.”

“Only an alchemist would see this place as worthy of pilgrimage,” Gareth said, shaking his head sadly.  “Now for bed, where I can enjoy a nice, distracting nightmare.”

Despite our fancy enchanted tents, the fumes made sleep difficult and uncomfortable.  Indeed, the dust that blew across our encampment was as fine as powder, but as sharp as glass when it penetrated the crevices of our clothing.  A chorus of coughing kept up all night long, as the dust and fumes choked our breath and made our lungs ache.  The strange noises from the depths of the wastes did nothing to add to our rest, that evening.  Odd clicks, cries and wild calls echoed across the flats.  Our sentries peered nervously into the darkness, and our wards were as secure as a battlefield’s.

Alya clung tightly to me in our conjured pavilion that night after supper and a treatment from the Handmaiden.  Neither physical comfort nor therapeutic enchantment kept her from moaning into my neck all night.  I barely slept myself.  She tried desperately not to complain, the next morning, after the dew mist cleared.  But I could tell she was miserable and getting worse.  This wasn’t the romantic jaunt she’d envisioned, but she did not want to give me a reason to second-guess including her in the expedition.

Instead, she endured.  And she glowered, a bit.  Perhaps some silent brooding.  But she did not complain.  That’s hard to do when you have to hold your breath just to take a piss, lest the fumes from the liquid overcome you.  I sure as hell wanted to complain.

The second day, the constant stench had faded as our noses became used to it.  The dust was no better, but no worse, as it collected in the corners of our eyes, our beards and hair, and any other place it could.  Our coughing persisted, but Ormar counseled no recourse to the masks unless we felt compelled to, yet.  Apparently, the special charcoal within the filters was of limited use, and while he had brought along plenty in his cart, he did not want to waste it without great cause.

That was fortunate, for on the second day the heat of the wastes drove away all thought of vapors and dust.  It was summer, after all, and with no shade to speak of and no breeze to blunt the edge of the sun, the heat became oppressive by mid-morning.

Lilastien insisted everyone drink as much water as possible, and ensured the horses drank as well, if we wanted to keep making good time.  The water tasted like chalk and gave only a bit of relief, as did some creative magic to shade us from the cloudless sky, but mostly we endured it and pressed on.  That didn’t make the horses very happy, of course, but the only way out of this hellish landscape was forward.

The giant falcons, too, were having difficulty.  Though they largely escaped the worst of the heat, Nattia and Ithalia were resting them frequently.  The dryness and fumes increased their thirst and weakened them.  They shook their giant heads frequently in irritation to contend with the dust in their feathers.  They were no happier than the horses.  Or the people.  The wastes sapped the vitality out of you with every step you took, until you felt like a dried up old sausage baking in the sun.

But we did make good time.  Indeed, it wasn’t until late in the afternoon on the second day that my wards at the base camp were triggered.  Our goblin pursuers had reached the edge of the wastes.  We had covered many more miles than they could.  I was dearly hoping we could outrun them once we came to Tyr Morannan and magic would fail.

It was also that second afternoon that Ormar finally agreed that everyone should don their masks, for as long as they could stand them.  We came to a dried-out riverbed that was apparently damp enough for some stick-like plants and some lichens to grow.  I allowed Ormar only twenty minutes or so to dig samples from its bottom, where he assured me a collection of sediments had been deposited and transformed.  He was almost gleeful at the little bottles of sand and dust he collected.

“We’ll camp tonight at the ridge,” Fondaras pronounced, as we returned to our wagons and mounts, after a brief rest.  “After that we will have to choose one of two routes to Tyr Morannan.”

“One wouldn’t happen to be relatively safe, and the other one ridiculously dangerous, would it?” Gareth asked.

“They’re both dangerous,” the footwizard shrugged.  “One is just a mile and a half shorter than the other.  But it will be harder to get the wagons through.  Indeed, there is one section that might prohibit them all together.  There are landslides in this land.  And frequent earthquakes.  Five years ago, a boulder partially blocked the trail.  We might have to abandon the wagons, if we go that route,” the footwizard explained.

“I need my wagon!” protested Ormar.

“And I need mine,” agreed Azhguri.  “We cannot abandon them!”

“The boulder is the size of a cottage,” Fondaras shrugged.

“I can contend with a boulder,” the little alchemist assured him with a snort.  “But I cannot contend without my wagon.  I’ll not abandon it to the goblins.  I’ll move the damn rock myself,” he declared.

“And if you cannot?” I challenged.  “We will waste half a day retracing our steps and going the other direction.”

“Or the Spellmonger can help and we can remove the offending boulder,” countered Ormar.

“It does lie in the region where magic still works,” sighed Fondaras, reluctantly.  “But if you check your savistator, my lord, you will see that the proximity of the jevolar have already begun to have an effect.  By tomorrow, you will notice a pronounced effect,” he predicted, direly.

“We have a stonesinger, an alchemist, a couple of thaumaturges, an Alka Alon sorceress, and half a dozen wizards,” boasted Ormar.  “If we can’t handle a big rock, we shouldn’t be on this expedition in the first place.”

It was hard to argue with that.  Among our company were some profound experts on everything from human biology to base alchemy.  And while our ability to use magic was fading already – something I realized, once Fondaras called attention to it – I had a lot of enchantments on me.  Not least the Magolith.

“What about the other route?” I prompted our guides.  “Can wagons pass that way?”

“The grade is steeper, and the bottom at the other side of the ridge is known to be frequented by predatory beasts, as well as lingering pools of toxic water.  Indeed, that is why I counsel we take the western route,” Fondaras explained.  “There is far less likelihood that we will encounter them, through the high pass.  But more likelihood the trail could be blocked.  It might take time to unblock it,” he pointed out.

I looked around at the bulky wagons, laden with supplies I knew we would need on the road ahead.  They would be difficult to even get up the ridge, I saw, and if there were obstructions ahead . . . but, at the same time, I reasoned, trying to defend five wagons from a lightning-fast giant bony snake with a fence of teeth in its mouth just seemed more dangerous.  Even if it took more time.

“We’ll take the western route and chance this boulder,” I decided.  “Now, let us construct a few spellfields and glyphs to convince our pursuers to take the other route,” I suggested.  “Those poor, vicious, thirsty creatures should get some chance of a tasty snack this evening . . .”

Chapter Eight

Tyr Morannan

Tyr Morannan, or “sanctuary” in Kasari, was the half-way point in our journey across the wastes.  Already, I can feel the potency of the jevolar sapping away magic.  It was subtle, at first, and after the rich arcane environment of Sevendor and the excitement of Vanador, it felt like a thick cloak was slowly being wrapped around me.  It was disconcerting.  Forseti reported in detail about the specifics of the alchemy, while we were riding in the wain together.  His current chassis apparently has very precise equipment for such measurements.  His observations about our party were even more intriguing.  He thinks this damnable waste, despite its alchemical richness, is making them morbid.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Gareth of Vanador

I appreciated Fondaras wanting to make for the ridge, that evening.  Like the little hillock we’d encamped upon the previous night, it kept us above the hazardous mist from the twilight dew and subject to a favorable breeze all night long.  We didn’t have to use masks, up there.  Likewise, it was less dusty, the higher we traveled.  There was a lot less coughing, that evening, as a result.

But there was already a noticeable decline in the etheric density, I could tell as I tried to activate the hoxters containing our pavilions that evening.  I was still able to do it, of course, but it took considerably more effort than normal.  And more power.  I noted my observations carefully in the journal, as well as detailing the spells we’d cast a few miles down the trail.

Three consecutive spellfields wove a garden of arcane glyphs that wound in and around the dusty track.  They were not designed to injure or harm, directly, but they were designed to make the hellish environs of the wastes even more confusing and dangerous.

Tyndal proved surprisingly adept at deploying the cunningly cast spells.  His knowledge of psychomantics was impressive, for a lad who loved charging into battle with a lance.  He explained the details of his design as he laid it, with Gareth and I aiding him when requested.  There were no explosions, or sudden gouts of magical fire.  Instead, there was doubt, resentment, confusion, and a liberal sprinkling of absolute certainty laid across the road like invisible cobbles.

“The first of them will encounter this rune,” he said, smirking as he drew it with a special wand of his.  “This will make them suspect that we went west.

“This next one, however, will overlay a growing suspicion over that idea.  That it is a trap.  By the time that they get to the third, they will be utterly convinced of it.  That conviction will be challenged by the fourth rune, which will inspire confusion – perhaps about some little thing, perhaps about the nature of the mission, itself.  It doesn’t matter – as long as they are confused.  They will become resentful, with this fifth rune, which will also include more misdirected doubt . . . and by the time they come to the fifth, they will be perfectly primed to revolt against any idea of taking the westward path,” he said, proudly.

“That’s some classy enchantment,” Gareth nodded, appreciatively.

“A bit of departure from your usual destructive tendencies,” I nodded.

“Subtle,” praised Fondaras.  “I can barely see them, in magesight.  Of course, it starts fading around here,” he admitted.

“The entire thaumaturgical field is sparse,” agreed Tyndal, mournfully.  “I had to nearly double the power of these glyphs to establish them properly.  And use a bit of snowstone,” he added.  “It helped.  Marginally.  But I think it’s enough to keep from attracting their attention until it’s too late.”

“What does it do, exactly?” Gareth asked.

“That field over there?  That’s where they get the assurance that they are on the right track.  By the time they get to the middle of it, they’ll think that there is cool, clear water in this direction.  It’s downhill, so they won’t have a problem believing that.

“But if they venture uphill toward the western path, they’ll come to the third spellfield.  That’s where they will damn near revolt if they’re commanded to press on.  Every single one of them will believe that it’s a ruse, that we’ve gone that way, That death lies around the next bend.  A trick.  A trap.  And nothing, and I mean nothing, will convince them otherwise.  Nothing is more deadly on the battlefield than doubt . . . except absolute conviction.”

“Sounds like someone has been reading,” Gareth observed.

“Someday I’ll be too old to ride,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Blue magic is a bit of a hobby of mine.  It’s useful, occasionally.  And it’s good for an old man to have a few tricks about him that no one suspects.  Master Minalan taught me that,” he declared.

That produced a guffaw from Fondaras and a chuckle from Gareth.  I didn’t dignify it with a comment.  The fact was, he was right, if also impudent as three hells.  I had taught him that.  And even though I had been the butt of the joke, I was proud that the boy had picked up a bit of wisdom from me, over the years.  I, myself, had tricks and skills no one suspected.  A good wizard is sneaky, like that.

“Not the sort of thaumaturgy I’d expect of you, lad,” Fondaras agreed.

“Blue magic is useful, sometimes,” Tyndal shrugged.  “Especially when you’re talking to girls.  But once you study it a bit, you realize that it’s really no different from any other discipline, when you know the rules.  In fact, half of it is just knowing how the human mind works – or, in this case, the gurvani mind.  They’re actually very similar,” he informed us.  “At least for the basic fears and desires.  It only starts to vary significantly in the abstract.  At the cultural level, not the personal,” he said, philosophically, as we started to walk back to camp.  “Not a lot of warmagic involves those kinds of subtleties.  I think it’s useful.  I learned a lot about gurvani society and culture, after talking with Gurkarl.”

“And fighting them, for so long,” added Gareth.  “Of course, these are maragorku, not true gurvani.”

“There is only so much an oppressive system can thwart,” I pointed out, carefully avoiding the spellfield.  “The maragorku may have been corrupted, but they are still gurvani, at heart.  You can stretch and warp the gurvani, but in the end, they’re still gurvani.  The same is true with humanity.”

“I hope you are correct, my lord,” Fondaras sighed.  “I’ve met many in my travels who might challenge that notion.  Men so twisted and warped by greed, desire for power, lust . . . they will stoop to anything to gain what they crave.”

“There is that element in every race, I fear,” sighed Gareth, peering up at the ridges around us as we walked.  “Even the noble Alka Alon.  The same race that produced Ithalia and the other Emissaries also produced the Enshadowed.  I shudder when I contemplate the same effect in a race like the Vundel,” he added.

“Wisdom dictates that the Wise reject such desires as pointless,” reflected Fondaras, as he used his staff to leverage his old body up the incline.  “Greed, power, lust, all are pointless pursuits when death threatens to take us all.”

“Why, Master Fondaras,” chided Tyndal, “it is death that makes greed, power and lust all the sweeter to the mind.  We wouldn’t pursue them so vigorously, were we immortal.”

“Like the Alka Alon?” Gareth prompted.

“The Alka Alon aren’t immortal,” I reminded, “just long-lived, compared to us.  Compared to the Vundel, they are as ephemeral as the gurvani.  And even the Sea Folk are mortal; just ridiculously tough and immensely long-lived.  All living things must die.  We are all mortal,” I proposed.

“I’m not,” Tyndal boasted.  “At least until proven otherwise.”

“That sort of thinking will get you killed,” Gareth snorted.

“That sort of thinking lets me know I’m alive,” countered Tyndal.

“That sort of thinking is the quaint conceit of youth,” chuckled Fondaras.  “Older, wiser men understand the bitter finality of death, and why it obliges us to better ourselves before that inevitable – and regrettable – day.  Regardless of what the monks and nuns might preach, when death comes to each of us of an afterlife death it is the end of the life we have had.  Whatever shadow of understanding might pass along to our shades in the afterlife is only defined by that.”

“This is all getting too lofty for my head,” I said, chuckling.  “That’s what I get for chatting with a footwizard, a thaumaturge and a warmage in the same company.”

“I’d be curious as to Lady Lilastien’s opinions on the subject,” reflected Gareth.  “And Forseti’s, for that matter.  Their perspectives might add dimension to our debate.”

“Another time,” decided Fondaras, as we mounted the last rise before the long ascent to our encampment.  “I’m hungry and passing thirsty.  Wisdom dictates that we tend to the base needs of our bodies before we seek to exalt the mind.”

“Master Fondaras, we may have more in common, philosophically, than you might expect,” Tyndal chuckled.  “And I foresee some conjured spirits in our future.  My treat.”

We made good time, the next day, after a hellish night on the ridge.  While the wind had no trouble whisking away the fumes the wastes produced at twilight, the weather chose that night to punish us with high winds.  Our conjured canopies and pavilions shook with the force of their fury, and I wondered at their integrity now that magic was fading.  Alya clung to me all night long in our bed as the pavilion rattled forebodingly.

But in the morning our sturdy little tents were still standing, and the breeze was steady enough to allow an early departure.

Alya did not look particularly hale, I noted with concern in the journal the next morning.  The restless sleep and the harsh conditions had turned her skin pale, where it wasn’t reacting to the caustic dust that seemed to get everywhere.  The spells on our clothes and ourselves were starting to fade, I noted with concern.  They were sturdy enough without magic, of course, but losing that element of protection was worrying.  Indeed,

I tested the conditions at dawn with both a savistator and through using a number of simple spells to measure just how degraded the arcane had become as we came closer to the jevolar and dutifully recorded it.  But we pushed on regardless; Tyr Morannan was near, and it would be the midpoint of our journey across the wastes.  We were all eager to achieve it, if for no other reason than to ascribe some progress to our suffering.

As the giant hawks circled overhead, protecting us from attack, our wagons rolled down the ridge and up the next one, after we traversed the acrid vale between them.  It was a beautiful place, in the abstract; encrustations of exotic salts and even fully-formed crystalline structures beguiled Ormar the Alchemist as we passed through.  He eagerly collected specimens, and he insisted Gareth sketch the things in his neat, accurate hand.

To the rest of us it seemed a pointless and annoying endeavor.  We just wanted to press on, and Ormar’s delight in the formations seemed to mock that idea.

All too soon we came to the boulder that Fondaras had warned us about.  Alas, it was just before a narrow pass that traversed one of the higher ridges of the wastes, and occluded the opening damnably.   Before Fondaras could dismount and consider the matter, Forseti rolled up and gave his assessment.  I had invited the ancient machine to ride in the wagon behind me and Alya, for a time.  Gareth, apparently, had grown weary of conversing with him.

“The wagons are nine and three quarters inches too wide to fit between the space,” he pronounced.  “If the wheels are removed from both sides,” he proposed, “they might be able to be dragged through the gap.”

“Conversely, we could just get rid of the boulder,” I pointed out.

“We lack proper equipment for that,” Forseti predicted.

“Let’s try to take advantage of the remaining quantum field effect,” I proposed, using the term Forseti used for magic.  “If that fails, we’ll use our alchemist.  And if that fails, I’ll turn Azhguri loose on it.  That Karshak eats boulders like that for breakfast.”

I ended up examining the boulder and the resulting gap myself.  It did seem a stubborn problem – compounded by loose rock along the route beyond.  But magic finds a way when even the gods are perplexed.  It took a lot of power from the Magolith, but I managed to stuff the cottage-sized boulder into a hoxter long enough to allow our entire train to go through.

“We did not have access to such mighty spells, last I ventured here,” Fondaras said, as he rode along beside us on the other side of the pass.  “You have simplified the passage, my lord.  Good work.”

“Just a little applied enchantment,” I shrugged.  “The hoxter stones were, perhaps, some of the most useful things the Snow That Never Melted produced.”

“They did make the magical chamber pots,” agreed Alya, grudgingly.  “Those are nice.”

“They allowed us to do everything from attack a dragon to capturing Nemovorti to . . . to . . . advanced thaumaturgical sewage management,” I agreed.  “Apart from the Waystones and the Snowflake, they are the biggest blessings of that night.  And my son,” I added, out of duty.

“Oh, how I miss Minalyan and the other children,” Alya sighed, her voice muffled under her leather mask.

“Not a much as they miss us, I’d wager,” I chuckled, loudly, just to be heard through my own protective mask.

The masks were difficult to breathe in, but they did allow me to draw breath without my lungs tingling and eventually aching.  The charcoal smell seemed to cut the worst of the acrid fumes I could readily smell when I removed it.  The relief from that miasma was just barely enough to allow us to endure the early summer heat in the thick leather coverings.  The cloudy crystal lenses that were sewn in gave us a decently wide view of the wastes when they weren’t fogging up with our own breath.

Even still, we regularly doffed the things to allow a few breaths of fresh, cool air.  Until the stinging resumed.  Then we reluctantly donned them once more.  Only Forseti escaped the punishing protection of the things.  The horses in particular resisted wearing them.  But, like blinders and bits and other indignities, they endured at our command.

Just after noon, we began ascending the second rise of the day, a long ridge that provided a plateau at the top: the squat little shelter the Kasari called Tyr Morannan.

Calling it a “tower” is misleading.  It’s a two-story building that happens to be round because that’s the easiest shape to build with rocks when there isn’t a twig in sight.  There was lumber involved in its construction, but it was reserved for important structural elements, not decoration.  The rest was native stone, gathered, not cut.  If this miserable land needed some capital, this unhappy little tower seemed appropriate.

To make matters worse, the savistator indicated that the etheric density was more than half of what is considered normal and standard in the rest of Callidore.  By the time we achieved the rocky gate of Tyr Morannan, magic had become damnably difficult.

Thankfully, the threshold where we could not activate a hoxter had yet to be achieved.  Once we arrived at the barren courtyard of the place, Gareth was able to produce a series of snowstone slabs around the tower from pre-prepared hoxters that gave the place at least some respite from the effects of the jevolar.  By the time he was done, etheric density had declined by more than a third in the compound.  That made the rest of what he conjured that much easier.

Before nightfall, Gareth had produced a slender, almost elegant refuge next to the squat stone shed.  Boasting three stories instead of two, its slate-covered roof dwarfed the original structure.  The conjured cistern that was included had been specially designed to be refilled at need through a second hoxter wand, back at Vanador, that was tied to a nearby well.  Thanks to Gareth’s cunning spell, it would refill automatically once it was depleted two-thirds of the way.

None of it would have been possible, had he not placed the snowstone slabs.  But it made Tyr Morannan a true outpost, and not a mere respite in the midst of the wastes.  Indeed, a Waystone incorporated into the magical pillar in front of the place allowed access to the base camp outside the wastes, or anywhere else a High Mage or Alka Alon could wish to travel.  Practically speaking that meant that the time it took to cross the wastes was halved.  Future expeditions could transit to this point; or should they be retreating from Anghysbel, it had halved the journey for those who could use the Ways.  That, alone, was worth the cost of the expedition.

Gareth was not done, though.  A second hoxter produced a small stable, complete with hay.  Our horses enjoyed a relatively normal evening munching oats and maize and sweet hay from the south while we relaxed in the mage-constructed hall of Tyr Morannan.

“You realize that the Kasari are going to be jealous of this place,” warned Fondaras that night, while we were smoking around the tidy little hearth in the new hall.  Supper had been conjured – with similar effort – to celebrate the midpoint of the journey.  “They spent centuries fortifying it for their journeys across the waste.  Countless journeys that added to Tyr Morannan, stone by stone . . . and here the magi have bested their efforts in one day.”

“We do that sort of thing,” I shrugged.  “The Kasari and all who require it shall have use of this new installation.  Not the sort of place I would go on holiday to, but it might ease the discomfort and deadly nature of the journey.  And make trips into the lost land more frequent.”

“I am unsure if that is a good thing or not,” confessed Fondaras.  “There are places in Anghysbel that would be spoiled by too much of such commerce.  And there are things within the lost land that should not be permitted to escape.”

“The Waystone merely shortens the journey for those who know the secret of the Waystones,” pointed out Lilastien, who was enjoying the relative normalcy of the hall.  Half of her greenish face was red with irritation.  Even the bodies of the Tera Alon, for all of their resilience, were subject to the penalties the wastes imposed on us.  “The Wise.  Others must cross as usual.  Only, they can rely upon water being here, now.  And food and fuel.  That should not much affect interactions between the remote land and the rest of the world, overmuch,” she predicted.

“I do hope you are correct, my lady,” Fondaras sighed.  “Anghysbel is a special place,” he insisted.  And it is special precisely because it is so remote.  Too much interaction with the rest of Alshar and I fear that its distinct character will be lost.”

“I am rapidly coming to the opinion that the very presence of the Spellmonger has an effect on the world,” mused Lilastien.  “Where he goes, revolution follows.”

“And I am of the opinion that change, as remarkable as it can be, is not always an improvement,” countered the footwizard, as he packed his pipe from a leather pouch.  “This land is unique, in all of the Five Duchies.  More commerce could ruin that special character,” he warned.

“You think Vanador will tame Anghysbel?” I scoffed.  “Nay, the few who may consider traveling to this desolate place already have power.  To come to a place where that power is removed is hardly an allure,” I argued.   “The very fact that some Narasi have managed to take root in such a place is remarkable – but it is not the sort of place that attracts the Wilderlords, or the Magelords.”

“You cannot make it easier to get to a place and not expect it to have an effect,” argued Fondaras.  “The only solace I take is that those who might seek to exploit the conditions and peoples of Anghysbel will discover a country that has seen such turmoil that a few Magelords – bereft of our power – will have little effect on the land.  No more than the Kasari, or the Narasi, or the Ancients.  Anghysbel rejects such temporary incursions.  The residue of ages collects there,” he promised.

“Then let us have what effect we can,” I argued.  “If Anghysbel reflects the eternal, then let the Magelaw have what effect it may.  Our mark on this world is ephemeral enough.  In a mere few thousand years, it will be an afterthought, at best, if what I understand is true.  What matters if we disturb a pristine land when it will all be gone soon enough?”

“That’s a gloomy perspective,” Lilastien observed.

“Is it in error, my lady?” Fondaras asked, surprisingly.  “Humanity dwells on Callidore as aberration.  Our existence is, by design, temporary, if what I know is true.  It is clear that we exist at the indulgence of greater powers.  While I worry about the onslaught of the Magi on Anghysbel – a realm where magic is utterly immaterial – my lord Count is not incorrect.  This development may well be disruptive.  Ultimately, it will have little effect on the doom of this world.”

“And you have knowledge of this cosmic perspective, Footwizard?” Lilastien asked, amused, her eyes sparkling in the light of the fire.

“Only a fool believes that his life has an eternal effect on the universe,” the old man argued, as his pipe obscuring his unruly beard.  “Much less on one little world.  The Good Fellows of the Road have centuries of rumors of our fate,” he revealed.  “They may be cloaked in mythology or legend, but they come from prophecy, quietly whispered in groves and hedges across the Duchies, and across the ages.  We brothers of the road know full well how tenuous humanity’s tenure is upon this world.  It would take a remarkable and wondrous stretch of events to avoid our fate.”

“That is beyond gloomy and flirting with fatalistic,” chuckled Lilastien.  “This is why I love your race.  I appreciate the potency of the humani indulgence in existential questions, Master Fondaras, But surely no race can expect to leave a mark on the vastness of the universe.”

“Does that include the Fair Folk, as well?” the footwizard asked.  “For all things must end, even the fairest.”

“As long-lived as the Alka Alon might be, we are content with our lack of importance to the greater universe.  As conceited as it might sound, we feel our connection to the greater universe is superior to the other races,” she said, amused and skeptical at the same time.

“To my people it is more important to live well in the face of ignominy and destruction.  We feel we can always elude our eventual destruction, for some reason I cannot fathom.  As if our songs and poetry can stave off the inevitable extinction of our race.  As if we will always find some escape from the mortality of the universe.  Korbal’s answer to the existential questions might be repugnant, to any sane observer, they are not beyond the frontiers of the rest of the Alka Alon’s approach.”

“Who is being gloomy now, my lady?” I chuckled.  “You are drawing comparisons between the worst of your culture and the best, and mingling their motivations.  Certainly, the Alka Alon seek to preserve themselves, as every living thing does.  But Korbal’s approach is, indeed, repugnant.  It is one thing to seek to preserve your life; to do so at the expense – nay, with the eager pursuit – of another being’s life . . . well, that is abhorrent to any good-hearted creature.”

“Do your cattle feel that way, as well?” Lilastien asked, one eyebrow arched.

I winced, realizing she had scored a point.  “Perhaps,” I admitted.  “I suppose all of our ethics and morals have limits of scope and scale.”

“Life often requires death, in order to survive,” Fondaras agreed.  “It is our approach to such matters that is important.”

“All living things struggle to survive, though death is inevitable.  All civilizations struggle to survive, though they, too, are finite – as Master Fondaras wisely points out.  The lengths that we will go to in that pursuit cannot be imagined.  Because we know not where our moral frontiers are until we confront them.  Death haunts us all.”

“And life beckons,” I countered.  “Indeed, it is persistent beyond reason.  Anghysbel will survive a little more commerce and interaction, I think.  Now, as delightfully morbid as this conversation is, I think I need some rest,” I declared, rising.  For some reason I had a sudden desire for some life-affirming snuggling with Alya.  Existential dread is good for that.

Chapter Nine

The Realm of the Jevolar

No one who has lived with magic for most of their lives can fail to notice it, when it is gone.  It is as if the air around you is tainted with the mundane realm, and you are no longer able to escape it.   A wholly unsettling experience.  While you get used to the effects of the jevolar in Anghysbel, as a mage, you never lose the feeling of abandonment when magic does not come at your command.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

The fourth day was hard.  It was the first day where the jevolar’s effect began to affect our journey.  The little spells we’d employed to aid in our comfort and safety failed, and even the powerful enchantments began to wane in potency.  Our traveling wards fell almost at once, and soon activating hoxter pockets was impossible.  Personal protection spells I cast daily vanished.  Magesight would not work unless you were physically touching both snowstone and witchstone.  Indeed, snowstone’s effects were depressingly limited.

There came a point just after we descended the ridge from Tyr Morannan where I had to carry the Magolith, because the enchantment that kept it floating would no longer work.  It was still pulsing, but the power it radiated was greatly diminished.  Within three miles, I could not feel it at all unless I exerted tremendous will – and then I received only the slightest bit of energy from it.  Far less than a regular witchstone.  Less, even, than I could have drawn unaided.  And the effort was exhausting.

Worse, it gave me a sudden sense of alarm and vulnerability.  I felt naked, and that led to fear and dread.  My perceptions were curtailed, and everything seemed less . . . tangible.  Vibrant.  Being in a horrific desert didn’t help.  It was almost as if I’d blundered into one of Tyndal’s glyphs, only I knew that the effect was due to a lack of magic, not its expression.

As much as the jevolar dampened magic, it did not do so uniformly, we discovered.  There were occasional pockets along our route where the savistator would rise ever-so-slightly – enough to manage a brief, dim magelight, for instance, or a simple cantrip.  Gareth kept careful track of the readings along the way, which was helpful.  There was even a spot we encountered late in the afternoon where, with the help of the Magolith and a block of snowstone Ormar dropped from his wagon, we could access a hoxter pocket.  It took tremendous effort, but it could be done.  We placed a sealed cask of water there, just for emergencies.

But that did little to raise my spirits.  Alya and I rode in silence, as it was too difficult to speak and be heard through the leather masks.  Indeed, breathing was difficult enough inside the damned things.  Sweating, on the other hand, was ridiculously easy.

Every few minutes each of us would raise our masks and mop our faces with a cloth, and occasionally sip from our water skins.  It was a miserable ride, without magic to ease our passage.  There were no more cottages conjured from wands, from here on.  We had the simple tents and tarpaulins that would have to serve until we crossed the wastes.

The horses hated it, and before the end of the day we lost one poor rouncey, though Lilastien tried her best to save it.  Camp that night was grim and sparse, as the Kasari took us to a little cliff in a hill that overlooked the trail.  Very little was said, around the fire that night.  Indeed, we extinguished it immediately after dinner was done cooking to conserve our firewood.  The cliff provided some shelter from the winds at night, but only some.  As we were all exhausted, without magic’s aid, we curled up as best we could under tarpaulins and fell into a deep sleep.

“We’ll come to a bit of trouble, later today,” Fondaras warned us over a cold breakfast of pickled eggs, cheese, and bread which all tasted bitter.  “Just as we encountered that spot where a bit of magic was achievable, ahead there is a vale where some magic can be done.  But not all magic,” he said.

“What does that mean?” complained Tyndal.

“The jevolar doesn’t just dampen the arcane field, there are places where it changes it.  The vale ahead is one such place.  There, it is as if the Otherworld joins with our world,” explained the footwizard.  “It is subtle, but many men have found themselves speaking to the shades of the dead, there.  Or odd creatures with no tangible form.  Or merely hear voices from the emptiness.  It is best to take care, there, lest you wander from the trail seeking the voice of your grandsires, or the shades of travelers who died near here.”

“Why weren’t we told about this earlier?” asked Ormar, frowning.

“There is no way to avoid it, and I thought it best not to concern you overmuch before we got there,” reasoned Fondaras.  “We should pass through it quickly, though,” he advised.  “Lingering there tempts fate.”

“Does other magic work there?” Gareth asked, curious.

“I’ve never tried,” admitted the footwizard.  “I’m wise.  I went through it quickly.”

We were in the deepest part of the wastes, now, as I assured Alya as we climbed aboard the wagon after hitching the team.  Ithalia and Nattia were already overhead, scouting the route in front of us.

The Sky Riders had reported their birds were feeling the effects of the jevolar, too.  Without magical support many of the spells that allowed them to fly so long and so well had forced them to rest more frequently and fly less far before landing.  Thankfully, the jevolar did not reduce them to their former sizes; transgenic magic apparently was a permanent effect, in the realm of the jevolar.

We came to the grim vale Fondaras had spoken of near noon, and we did tarry there, against his advice.  It was a long, dry gulch that split the land between two ridges, and during the wet season I had no doubt that it was a lively little stream of death.  The air did seem to get thicker, when we took off our masks, and I could feel a heavy sense of foreboding that had no foundation.

Indeed, the place did have the feel of the zone around Castle Salaisus, where Dunselen of Greenflower and his bride had failed to replicate the snowstone spell.  I wondered what a shard of bluestone, the magical calcium that had been the permanent result of their experiment, would do in the vale.  I wasn’t the only one with that thought.

“He’s right, the savistator shows slightly less ethereal density, here,” reported Gareth.  “But it’s erratic,” he frowned.  “Without more advanced equipment I don’t think I could tell you how.  But I can believe that the kind of bluestone effect would be present here,” he admitted.  “This place is creepy as hell.”

“There is an unusual strata of sedimentary rock along the bottom of this stream bed,” noted Forseti, as the little carriage rolled across the lowest part of the vale.  The face-like appendage extended above the six-wheeled wagon in a surprisingly human-looking way.  “There is a significant amount of limestone matrix, but with a substantial amount of impurities.”

“He means it’s shabalathar,” grunted Azhguri, tiredly, as he peered at the trail of bare rock.  “A degraded kind of Ghost Rock.  Not pure,” he dismissed.

“Make sure Ormar gets a sample,” I instructed Gareth.

“That would explain the reputed effects of this vale,” he reasoned, rubbing his chin.  “Depending on what the impurities were.  It might also mitigate the jevolar effects, somehow.”

“Try to do ordinary magic,” I challenged.  “See if there are any other areas that might work, here.”

“Good idea,” Gareth said, wandering down the rocky strip.

“Not too far!” shouted Azhguri.  “Shabalathar is notorious for messing with your mind!”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

The old stonesinger nodded.  “Aye, it’s frightful stuff.  You don’t ever want to sing it,” he revealed, “lest your ancestors come to you and relate to how disappointed they are in you.  Or sometimes past lovers,” he sighed.  “It can trick you if you aren’t careful.  Sometimes even if you are,” he said, wistfully.  I was certain there was a story there, but I was cautious about getting Azhguri going.  I wanted to get out of the wastes, someday.

To that end, I ordered the party to continue after only half-an-hour’s delay at the vale.  To my knowledge no one experienced the reputed effects, but everyone agreed with Gareth.  The place was just creepy.

“How much longer?” Alya asked, loudly, after pulling her mask up that afternoon.  Her face was red and pouring with sweat, and she looked miserable.

“Two days,” I sighed, “if Fondaras and the Kasari are right.  “Not much longer,” I promised.

“I don’t mean to complain,” she said, her voice wavering.  “I just didn’t . . . I didn’t know . . .”

“I know what you mean,” I nodded, my mask pulled up over my forehead.  “I haven’t been this bloody miserable since Farise.  And I’ve seen a lot of miserable battles, since then.”

Alya bit her lip.  “If I had known it was this bad . . . Min, why did you let me come?” she asked, her eyes crinkling.

“My wife made me do it,” I said, glumly.  “I tried to warn you, Beloved.”

“I know,” she said, with a heavy sigh.  “I have no one to blame but myself.  And . . . I don’t regret coming, exactly.  But I had no idea it would be this unbearable!”

“I knew it would be challenging, too,” I agreed, “but I had no idea . . . in some ways, this is worse than Farise.  At least in Farise I had magic.  Not much, but it was something.”

“Is it really so bad, without magic?” she asked, her curiosity overcoming her desire to complain.

“Worse than I’d anticipated,” I admitted in a murmur.  “I feel weak and helpless, like a child.  It’s going to take some getting used to.  I hope it is easier to bear when we come to greener country.  This is . . . it’s a nightmare.  And one we must endure.”

“At least we’re together,” she said, stoically.  “As weak as you might feel, I feel stronger for you being here.”

“And I, you,” I agreed, sincerely.  “I just worry about you, and I curse myself for letting you come.  That was foolish of me.”

“Foolish?” she sniffed.  “Perhaps.  But I don’t truly regret it.  I’m glad I came, despite the torment,” she said, bravely.  “We’ve been through so much.  I honestly could not stand the thought of you risking everything without me here.  Is that selfish of me?”

“No more selfish than me foolishly letting you come.  What kind of weak-willed wizard am I?” I chuckled.  “What kind of mage brings his wife into danger, for no better reason than his own comfort?  Not exactly the stuff of legend.”

“I’ve been more burden than comfort,” she said, shaking her head.  “I want to claw my own skin off, pull my hair out, plunge myself in a stream and scream at the top of my lungs . . . if my lungs didn’t hurt so badly for doing so.”

“I appreciate your sense of discretion,” I laughed.  “Alas, we are beyond the Handmaiden’s aid, if you should do so.”

“This has nothing to do with my . . . infirmity,” she said, firmly.  “That would be a perfectly natural and appropriate response to this wasteland for any sane woman.”

“I cannot argue with that,” I conceded, after a moment’s thought.  “Indeed, it might be the most appropriate response to this desolation.  But it would also hinder our completing our journey,” I pointed out, “so I doubly appreciate your forbearance.”

“You are welcome to it – with the understanding that I reserve the right to do all of those things, once we are through the wastes.  And I shall do so absent your judgement,” she declared.  “By the gods, I have earned that boon.”

“So granted,” I agreed.

By the time we made camp that night, we moved with the alacrity of the undead.  Every joint now ached to the point of distraction.  Our skin was painfully inflamed, and our throats parched.  Despite the uncomfortable masks, there was still a stinging in our lungs with every breath and our eyes were severely irritated.  All our tissues seemed parched beyond all reckoning.

Both that horrible night and the interminably long day we endured the next morn conspired to tax the last of our patience and endurance.  We lost two more horses that day, one in the morning and one by afternoon.  Some of the men had to walk, after that, and Tyndal wept over one of the beasts – a warhorse he especially prized.

Our Sky Riders were likewise somber when they landed at dusk.  Apart from their weariness and the poor conditions of their birds, Nattia and Ithalia were able to report that our pursuers had gotten bogged down in the wastes, the victims of Tyndal’s spells.  They had missed Tyr Morannan entirely, they said, and were struggling against both creatures of the wastes and the desolate landscape.

That cheered us little.  Even the resilient Alon were showing signs of the effects of the wastes.

“Not much longer,” promised Fondaras, that evening.  He was the only one who attempted a pipe anymore, although the flasks of spirits were popular.  Our lungs hurt too much for smoking.  “Tomorrow, by dusk, or the morning after, we should come to the cliffs that lead to Anghysbel.  There is a beacon,” he revealed, “a few miles from the valley’s mouth.  We will light it tomorrow night to alert the Kasari to our presence.”

“What if we did not?” asked Gareth.

“Then they would know whoever was moving up the cliffs was not privy to their secrets,” Fondaras chuckled.  “That might not end as well for us.  The Kasari do not have a large force, here, but there are enough to discourage casual visitors.”

“If the alternative was to travel back through the wastes, they’d better have an army,” proposed Tyndal.  The lad looked more drawn and tired than I’d ever seen him.  “Nothing less would keep me from fighting for at least a glimpse of green grass.”

“The last two miles of the wastes include a steep ascent,” Fondaras reminded him.  “There are many places that lend themselves to ambush and traps.  The kind the Kasari excel at.  They do not lightly suffer intruders.”

“That’s my hope,” I agreed.  “If the goblins do not perish in the wastes, perhaps they will end their journey at the hands of the rangers.”

“I’m just glad that we are nearly done with this unhappy place,” mused Gareth.  “If the gods had chosen a place for a tenth hell, they could not have picked better.”

“You speak more truth than you know, Gareth,” Fondaras assured him.  “The last few miles are the worst.  That is where the land turns acidic.”

The footwizard was correct.  The next day the land we traveled through was a vast plain of dark-tinted sands, powdery ash that had accumulated from some long-forgotten eruption of the volcano to the north.  That did not diminish the hazard of the journey – on the contrary, the dark soil seemed to fight with the alkali bed to the south, and the result was insidiously toxic.

I don’t think we would have gotten through it, without Ormar’s masks.  The horses, at least, would have likely perished.  Our water supply was running low by the time we found the beacon Fondaras had spoken of.  We lit it with flint and striker, not magic – an irony I was keen to appreciate.  I had no more magic than my father did, I realized as the little lamp in the little tower atop the little hill was finally kindled at dusk.  Indeed, I felt half the man my ancestors had contrived after the long, dry passage through the wastes.  My wife was no better; her skin had become enflamed and irritated, but that dwarfed the change in her mood.  She endured, it was clear, but just barely.  Of all of our company, it was her health that worried me the most.

Of course, I couldn’t say that.  The most I could do was mention it to Lilastien, as she conducted her nightly medical survey of the company.

“Alya is fine,” she assured me, before I went to bed that night.  “Well, not really fine, but no better and no worse than any of us, after the last few days.  We’re actually holding up fairly well,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood declared.  “I’ve been monitoring fluid intake for everyone, even the horses.  We have enough to get through tomorrow with at least five, six gallons to spare.  Thanks to those poor beasts dying along the way,” she added.

“She doesn’t seem fine,” I insisted.  “She’s barely spoken, today.  She’s reminding me of how she was after . . . after her accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” she chided.  “She made an attack on an enemy, and she was wounded as a result.  But she’s as well as you or me,” Lilastien insisted.  “Quit worrying about her, Minalan.  You do her a disservice.  In fact . . . there is an argument to be made that she’s doing better, in the absence of magic,” she proposed, warily.  “I don’t know why, exactly, but . . . well, this hellish trek may actually help her, in some ways.”

“How?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” she said, testily.  “But I’m watching, okay?  She just seems to be . . . to be more sane, for lack of a better term.  It’s subtle,” she said, shrugging.

“If you say so,” I conceded.  But I vowed to pay close attention to my wife’s condition.

As we rounded the sharp bend in the trail, the great expanse of the slope that led finally to Anghysbel revealed itself between two mighty cliffs.  The actual trail was mostly obscured, from our perspective.  But there was green, at the heights in the distance, we could see it even without magesight.  A green that appeared vibrant and entirely at odds with our experience of the wastes for the last week.  It beckoned to us with nearly religious attraction.  The promise of cool grass and clean water summoned us as if with divine command.

“Almost there,” promised Fondaras, that morning, his voice creaking as if it was made of leather.  “A very gentle transit through the wastes,” he assured.

“Gentle?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief, as he saddled his horse.  “Dear gods, if this passage was gentle, I don’t want to meet her sister!”

The path ascended four or five hundred feet to a plateau, a rocky mountain on either side.  It appeared as if some great flood had poured out from between them in ancient times, creating the slope that bridged the distance between the wastes and the mountains.  The rocks were strangely formed, too, unlike any I’d seen before.  And I’ve seen a lot of rocks.

We pressed on, perhaps with more enthusiasm than actual speed.  Indeed, our pace seemed to slow interminably, once we were in sight of the northern cliffs.  The horses seemed more than reluctant to proceed – indeed, every step forward that they made they seemed to conduct with decided reluctance, if not resentment.  I couldn’t blame them – without magic, hauling the heavy wagons and fat arses of our party seemed a tortuous task.  But they did so without the knowledge that there were better pastures ahead, so I could appreciate their diligence under such harsh conditions.

For the rest of us, the faintest glimpse of green plants in the distance was enough to propel us forward.  The pallid palette of the alkali wastes had gotten into more than our skin; it had infected our minds.  Everywhere we looked there was a bone-colored landscape that mocked the very idea of life.  Greenery, in any variety, was such a novelty, such a contrast to the last week of our lives that just the promise of actual grass and trees was enough to compel our every step up the slope.

It was hard not to be excited – well, at least eager – to see the end of the wastes within sight.  The trail switched back thrice as it ascended the slope, just barely wide enough for our widest wagon to traverse it, and the horses were not happy . . . until we removed their masks – and ours – half-way up.  The air still stank of the wastes, but there was also a cool breeze with the scent of grass that occasionally cut through it.  It became stronger the higher we trekked.

On the last stretch of the last switchback there were three Kasari waiting for us.  They saluted their fellow tribesmen who had guided us through the wastes, and had fresh water for us, as well as bread and bandages, if we needed them.

Their leader was named Captain Kereru, who led the rangers of Anghysbel – or Melleray Champa, as they styled their settlement.

They spoke little Narasi, we found, unlike the Kasari of Bransei or Kasar.  Captain Irimel had to translate much of what the Melleray Champa rangers said.

“Welcome to Camp Melleray,” the man who’d shepherded us through the wastes translated as we followed the Kasari up the last few hundred yards of trail.  “Well, the actual camp is a ways from here, but the sentry camp, the one that watches the wastes, lies just over the edge of the embankment,” he indicated.  “There you can find water, food, and take some rest if you need to.  And a bath,” he added, with a smile.

“A bath?” Lilastien asked, suddenly intrigued.

“It is for medicinal purposes,” Captain Irimel explained.  “If the dust doesn’t get washed off as soon as you leave the wastes, a painful rash can cover your body.  The rangers recommend that everyone strip off, wash their clothes, and curry the horses before we proceed.  It can be particularly bad on horses.”

“I need a bath more than I need food or water,” Alya agreed.  “Dear gods, I feel like every part of me is covered in grit!”

“I also explained to Captain Kereru about the goblins following us,” Irimel added, quietly.

“Will the Kasari contend with them?” I asked.

Captain Irimel conversed with his fellow tribesmen for a moment, then shook his head.  “No, they are honor bound to assist all who come from the wastes.  ‘Chun cabhrú le daoine eile’,” he quoted in Kasari.

“What?” Ormar asked, from the wagon behind us.  “They’re going to help those bloodthirsty bastards?”

“If they require assistance, they will receive it,” agreed Captain Irimel, gravely.  “If they become belligerent, the rangers will retreat.  This settlement is not arrayed for war, nor is it terribly large.”

“The Kasari are all honor bound to render assistance, in an emergency.  To anyone,” explained Fondaras, who was walking with our guides ahead of us.  “That doesn’t mean they won’t defend themselves, but they take their oath to aid very seriously.  Particularly in Anghysbel.  It is a dangerous place,” he warned.

“I thought we just crossed through the dangerous part?” Tyndal complained.

“We just crossed through a dangerous part,” corrected Fondaras.  “The perils of the wastes are fairly straightforward, if arduous.  Anghysbel itself can still kill you a multitude of ways.  Particularly when you lack magic,” he added.  “I advise caution in all situations, after we leave the camp.”

Tyndal’s grumbling ceased once we crossed the threshold of the entry vale.  The first few tufts of grass gave us a welcome sign that the journey was, indeed, over.  The path continued through first sparse and then abundant grasses, until we topped the rise and saw a beautiful meadow sprawl out between the cliffs.  Wildflowers were blossoming across the expanse of green like multicolored stars in a verdant sky.

“A tree!” called Tyndal, excitedly.  “Dear gods, I never thought I’d miss seeing a tree so much in my life.  The Land of Scars is desolate, but at least it has trees!  I think I need to pee on it to celebrate,” he decided.  “This is my domain, after all.”

“It all looks so beautiful,” Alya agreed, a misty expression on her face.  “Beautiful, green, and clean.”  She turned her head to look back at the insidious waste, which spread out behind us like a sickly cloak.  “I am not looking forward to our return trip.”

As we found our way to Tyndal’s precious tree, under which the Kasari kept their sentry camp, the air became cool and refreshing, though the moisture in it began to make my skin sting.  A spring nearby would provide water, Master Fondaras explained, and two great copper tubs would be provided, one for baths and one for washing clothing.  A merry fire was already heating the first batch, I could see.  As we watched Ithalia and Nattia landed their giant falcons near the tree, startling the brace of Kasari rangers tending the fire.

We had arrived at Anghysbel, at last.  Our quest could now begin in earnest.

Chapter Ten

The Windmaster of Melleray

The Kasari of Melleray are similar to their southern cousins in culture, no doubt due to their mutual reliance on the Book of the Hand.  Indeed, the only variance from their southern kin is the design of the insignia on their complicated native dress, a stylized fountain in front of a smoking mountain.  Their community is commanded by their ranger captain, who keeps things orderly, and supported by a council of men and women who oversee everything from food production to educating their children to trading with the other local tribes.  Despite their insular nature, they are every bit as friendly as the Kasari of Bransei or Vanador.

With certain exceptions.

From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Gareth of Vanador

We came to the Kasari camp cleaner, certainly, but completely exhausted, like a rag that had been rung out and then hung to dry.  We felt limp from the ordeal of the wastes, and while the bath and cool gulps of water from the spring were refreshing, it would be days before we would feel healthy again.

Melleray Champa was set high up on a small plateau on the western side of the wide vale.  It was perhaps only three hundred feet or so up to the place, about ten acres of nearly flat land overlooking the meadows below, nestled against a steep cliffside to the west that soared hundreds of feet higher.  It was a small, protected little slip of land; while our ride up the incline was easy and pleasant enough down the well-traveled trail, I saw it would not take much resistance to defend the place.  A few men with spears and bows would make anyone think twice about coming up that steep path.

We came to the elaborate structure that served as the entry to the Kasari settlement.  It was made of logs and lashed together artfully, and while there were sentries posted to overlook the trail, it was not a defensive structure.  An ancient metal sign hung from the gateway proclaiming, in ancient High Perwyneese, CAMP MELLERAY HIGH ADVENTURE CENTRE, CSA.  EST. CY 41.

It was hard to believe that that sign was older than the Five Duchies.

There was a general commotion as the first horsemen – Tyndal, of course, flanked by Fondaras and Lilastien – arrived through the gateway.  Apparently the Kasari didn’t get many visitors, and everyone in the settlement (no more than two or three hundred, I learned) wanted to lay eyes on the strangers from the wastes.

We were an odd lot to look at, too: Magi, knights, Kasari, Karshak, Dradrien, Alka Alon, and then – suddenly – two Sky Riders and their airborne steeds, who landed in the main square just as we rolled into it.  Moments later, Nattia dismounted her bird and tackled one of the Kasari.

“Her brother, Travid,” explained Gareth, as we finally climbed off the wagon seat.  “The Talented one.  When his rajira arose, about the time of the invasion, he chose to exile himself here, rather than learn magic.  He was a windmaster,” he confided.

I nodded.  That was a rare Talent, more rare than pyromancy or beastmastery.  Controlling the winds doesn’t sound like a serious endeavor – all competent, Imperially-trained magi can call a breeze or raise a wind.  Windmasters could raise massive storms.  I didn’t know why the lad’s Talent had driven him to this place, but I was certain there was a story behind it.

Nattia was ecstatic as she embraced her brother.  “They haven’t seen each other in years,” Gareth explained, as we watched the happy reunion.  “The last time was when Travid escorted her to her apprenticeship to a falconer.  She feared she’d never see him again.”

While Nattia’s reunion was particularly joyful, the Kasari of Melleray were extremely friendly, even to the nonhumans among us.  Surprisingly, they had a set of guest hostels set aside for the use of newcomers and visitors.  They were crude little cabins, compared to the conjured pavilions we were used to, but they were clean, tidy, and comfortable in the summer’s heat.

The settlement was laid out like the other Kasari settlements I’d seen, with small huts spaced regularly and neatly in a row, little gardens surrounding them.  There was an orderliness to their camp that was a contrast to the often haphazard way the Wilderlords settled.  Every hut had a neatly printed sign in High Perwyneese script indicating who lived within.

They had prepared a feast for us, that evening, with every family in Melleray contributing a dish in the little iron kettles they preferred.  It was rich and intriguing fare, with exotic herbs and spices I’d never encountered and meats and vegetables I was unfamiliar with.  But it was good and hardy fare, and they served it with some rye bread that was passable.  There was also a starchy paste that was a popular dish, from some tuber or plant I’d never encountered before.  It wasn’t bad if you added a lot of salt.

Alya and I enjoyed sitting together on a blanket around the great campfire in the center of the square.  We weren’t count and countess, baron and baroness, lord and lady, or spellmonger and wizard’s wife, or even father and mother; we were husband and wife, boy and girl, with our responsibilities and duties far away.  The strange-tasting beer that Captain Irimel brought us as a gift from the camp soon made things even cozier.

Soon after dinner, pipes were produced, and songs were sung.  Instead of a single singer or even a duet, the Kasari all sang together, in their own language.  It was entertaining, even if I didn’t understand it.

“They are speaking a derivative of Irish,” Forseti informed us, when he rolled over to where we were sprawled.  “Southwestern dialect, most likely.  Which means they are descended from the Celtic League cultural group of colonists who settled western Perwyn.  Although there are some Welsh loan-words in their speech and even some Narasi.”

“It’s pretty,” Alya agreed, as she leaned into me and watched the fire.

“It’s an old folk song,” Forseti continued, it’s “head” – or, at least, the appendage that seemed to house his “eyes” – facing us.  “It denotes an uncommon amount of cultural retention, compared to the other ethnic enclaves I’ve encountered.”

“How is that useful?” I asked the machine.

“It gives me context,” Forseti assured.  “It allows me to track the evolution of culture across the centuries.  By comparison, the Narasi Wilderlords and Riverlords have lost much of their original culture.  Most of it appears to have been fabricated in the wild.  The Kasari, on the other hand, have maintained a strict history and culture that is largely unchanged from their ancestors.  It is academically interesting.”

“I suppose we should start looking around for that installation you want to find,” I sighed.

“It is not far from here, according to my maps.  This geophysical monitoring station was proposed, at the time, but not yet built.  It was deemed a sufficiently geologically stable location to be considered safe by colonial planners.  It would theoretically provide ample warning for any potentially disastrous eruption.  It is doubtful the warning system is still in operation.  It is interesting that they seem to have turned the aircraft landing pad into a goat pasture.”

“I’ll speak with Captain Irimel in the morning about it,” I promised, yawning.  “No doubt some of the locals will have an idea how to get there.”

“The sooner I can evaluate the station and determine the extent of the damage, after six hundred years of abandonment, the sooner I can establish what befell the early colony,” Forseti continued.  “If the antenna is intact, it is possible I can establish a connection with the Calsat network and even locate the New Horizon.”  Though the proposal was delivered with a complete lack of emotion, as Forseti usually spoke, I could infer a certain eagerness and hope in its voice.

“It’s one of my highest priorities,” I pledged.  “I have great hope that you can help me find some answers, in this strange land.”

Once the little carriage rolled off to speak with Gareth about something, Alya confided in me.

“You know, I find that thing more disturbing than your magical constructs,” she said, in a whisper.  “I don’t think I entirely trust it.”

“Forseti?” I asked in surprise.  “He’s been nothing but helpful.  And he’s my firmest link to the Ancients,” I reminded her.

“I know, Gareth and Ruderal have explained why it’s so important,” Alya nodded.  “But your constructs are stupid.  That thing is smart.”

“My constructs are based on ancient sea creatures.  Forseti was a constructed intelligence.   Constructed by our ancestors.  That carriage isn’t even his original . . . body,” I said, trying to find the right words.

“Perhaps that’s why I mistrust it, then,” Alya decided, as we watched the machine get Gareth’s attention.  “I suppose because it’s just too human.”

“Those things once were entrusted to run most of human civilization,” I pointed out.

“And where is that civilization, now?” she countered.  “And where are the rest of . . . them?”

“Perhaps we’ll find out, while we’re here,” I admitted.  “Those are some of the questions I wanted Forseti’s help with.

“Just watch him, Minalan,” Alya said, after a long pause.  “He’s not a servant or a vassal.  He’s not even alive.  What loyalty does it owe to you?”

I chuckled.  “He considers me the regional colonial administrator, actually.  He’s not wrong, from his perspective.  But as such, he’s duty-bound to assist and serve me.”

“So it says,” Alya said, shaking her head.  “But what guarantees do you have of that?”

“No more than I have in any of my men,” I considered.  “I just have to trust him.  And watch him,” I added.  “I’ve learned an awful lot of helpful things from Forseti.  Gareth has pillaged his ancient knowledge like a vault.  Even Ruderal likes him, for some reason.  And Lilastien trusts him.”

“I suppose I’m just being paranoid,” she sighed.

“No, you’re being cautious, and concerned about something you don’t entirely understand.  That’s not a bad thing,” I pointed out.  “I appreciate your insight.”

“I don’t have insights, I just have suspicions,” she said, reclining back into me.  “I do trust Lilastien.  I trust Gareth.  And I do trust your judgement.  It’s just strange to see that thing moving in a place where magic doesn’t work.”

“Our ancestors didn’t even use magic when they came to Callidore.  That’s one of the things Forseti taught me.  He is not dependent on magic in any way.”

“And yet an unliving object moves of its own accord and speaks with authority.  How is that not suspicious, my husband?”

I had no answer to that, not without introducing Alya to volumes of ancient history and hours of lectures on science.  Tekka is its own discipline, and it rarely intersects with magic.  Explaining that to her would have taken time, and she would have found it patronizing.

So I did what a good husband does.  I shut up and allowed her to have her suspicions without trying to change her mind.  Indeed, it was hard to argue against them, though I thought her approach to the matter was misplaced.  I didn’t mistrust Forseti because he continued to function in the realm of the jevolar; I mistrusted Forseti because at some point in that ancient history I was reluctant to discuss with Alya, something happened that had compelled our ancestors to reject their artificial servants.  That, to me, was the suspicious part.

The next morning, Nattia appeared at breakfast with her brother, Travid.  He was a smallish man, with straight dark hair and not Nattia’s distinctive red curls, but there was no mistaking their relation.  His face and hers were very similar in form, though his was wider and hers was more angular.  They bore the same freckles and pale skin.

“My brother,” she introduced, with a smile.  “He wanted to meet you.”

“Ah, yes, Travid,” I nodded, as I gave him the Kasari salute.  “Well met.  I’ve heard much about you.  Including the fact that you have rajira.”

The young man blushed and looked guilty as he returned the salute.

“Yes, I came into it at about the time of the invasion,” he revealed, as he sat down in front of my cabin.  He spoke perfect Narasi.  “Indeed, Master Fondaras identified it and explained what it was to me.”

“So why did you not seek to be trained?” I asked, curious.  The guilty look persisted.

“Well, my lord, things were harried, during the invasion,” he said with a sigh.  “I spoke to a mage in Tudry about it, once, but then Tudry was attacked.  I had to get away with my patrol.  Then I struggled with it for about a year when . . . well, something happened.  I . . . I caused a mighty storm.  I was trying to do something helpful, but then things got out of control.”

“They often do, with Wild Magic,” I sighed, nodding sympathetically.  “Even with training, some magi are gifted with abilities that can get out of control.  The histories of the Magical Academies are filled with such accounts.”

“Well, I conjured a blizzard,” he said, bluntly and directly.  “A big whopping blizzard that buried all the Wilderlands.  And beyond,” he said, glumly.  “From what Nattia says, I . . . I made it an eventful Yule, that year,” he said, his blush deepening.

“Wait, this blizzard happened just after the invasion?” I asked, my mind racing.  “Around Yule?”

“Aye,” he nodded.  “There’s no telling how much misery I brought down on folk.  That’s why I did as the masters suggested and came to Melleray.  Here, at least, I was able to finish my Raptor course in peace, without hurting anyone,” he said, proudly displaying the intricately woven badge on his tunic.  “I like it here.  It’s peaceful.”

“Nattia, do you realize . . .” I asked.

“That my brother produced the blizzard that produced the Snow That Never Melted?” the Sky Captain asked, with a smile.  “I do!  Indeed, that is why I wanted to introduce you, my lord.  I explained to my brother what great things happened due to that event, including how it led to the creation of the giant falcons.  I thought you would want to know about it,” she finished.

“Thank you, that is remarkably interesting,” I agreed.  But my mind was still racing. So, the snowstone spell had occurred as a result – or at least in conjunction – of a magically conjured blizzard.  How in six hells was I supposed to factor that into my thaumaturgical equations?  “Would you consider coming to Vanador and being trained in magic?”

The lad looked troubled.  “I . . . I like it here,” he admitted, uncomfortably.  “I’ve spent years here, now, and I’ve accomplished myself as a ranger.”

“You wouldn’t lose those skills or that title,” I informed him.  “Indeed, one of the leading barons of my realm is a Kasari.  Captain Arborn.”

“What?” Travid asked, sharply.  “A Kasari has sworn fealty to a Narasi lord?”

“It’s all right, Trav,” soothed Nattia.  “Count Minalan is not like the Wilderlords.  None of the Magelords are.  He’s the one who led the Great March,” she informed him.  “Captain Arborn swore fealty, ’tis true, but he is married to Baroness Pentandra, one of the greatest of magi,” she said, proudly.  “In return, Minalan granted him Osbury to rule as a barony . . . and the rest of Bransei.”

“That . . . that can’t be true,” Travid said, shaking his head.  “Captain Arborn would not marry a Narasi!  The Kasari would never consent to be ruled by a Narasi!  And no Narasi would—”

“Alas, the only Narasi you are familiar with are Wilderlords,” I interrupted.  “Magelords tend to be more enlightened about such things.  Nor are all Magelords Narasi.  Baroness Pentandra would be quite irritated being classified as such, as she is a proud Remeran, descended from the Imperial Magocracy.  She’s hardly a Narasi.  And she has her own barony to rule.  She makes no claim over Osbury or Bransei.  Quite the contrary.”

“That is . . . this is much to digest,” he sighed.  “There have been many changes since I left the Wilderlands.”

“More than you can imagine,” his sister assured him.  “You left me to learn to be a falconer.  Now I ride one like a horse,” she pointed out.  “The entire Wilderlands is transformed, thanks to the Spellmonger and his brave men.”

“Speaking of which,” Travid said, suddenly, “my lord, what can you tell me about this Gareth fellow?”  The question earned him an elbow in the ribs from his sister, whose blush suddenly matched her brother’s.

“Well, Travid,” I chuckled, “that’s a long story . . .”

We spent the day resting and recovering from the passage through the wastes, and the Kasari of Melleray were incredibly hospitable.  Our horses were provided fodder and hay – they had a few of the beasts, as well, and there was plenty of pasturage higher up the mountain.  They were generous with their food, as well, and helpfully provided salves to soothe the inevitable rashes resulting from our passage.

They devoured the news we brought from the south with keen interest, and they were especially impressed that I had secured some peace for Bransei through my treaty with Ashakarl the Goblin King.  The remarkable tale of me leading the Great March through the Wilderlands enchanted them, and I gained much respect among them as a result.  Indeed, the news of the alliance between their folk and the Magelaw seemed like a welcome tonic to the isolated clan.

The Kasari of Melleray led a simple but useful life, it seemed.  As I spoke to their captain in broken Narasi, with the occasional assistance of a translator, I learned that the tribe had assumed guardianship over those traveling through the wastes, below, as well as other duties.

They scanned the horizon day and night for signs of smoke or wildfire, both considered anathema to the Kasari in general, and they patrolled the frontiers of their territory rigorously – and for good reason.  The tales of strange beasts and unwholesome powers in the land were too specific to be mere legend.  While the Kasari were not warriors, they were called upon to defend their lands from time to time, and they stayed vigilant to any interlopers.

They survived by hunting, mostly, as well as a little farming and gardening.  They eschewed grain crops due to the unsuitability of the land for such, though they traded for wheat and barley with the folk of Anferny domain.  They also traded with the Kilnusk clan to the north for iron, copper, and other metals.  And they traded occasionally with the Tal Alon to the northeast for vegetables and the legendarily potent beet rum they produced.  The Kasari, in general, aren’t great drinkers compared to the Narasi or the Imperials.  But every community has a man or two who enjoys a bit of liquor.

As for what they traded, it was the usual Kasari fare: rope, skins, furs, hides, and a number of simple but useful items they carefully crafted for trade.  As the settlement was small, they were able to secure an abundance to sustain them.  And, apparently, the other communities in Anghysbel were liberal in support of the outpost for their service in warding the southern frontier.

Gareth brought something else to my attention, after a day observing the clan.

“You do realize, Minalan, that the Kasari have been sending their Talented people here for centuries?” he asked.

“That was what I have heard,” I nodded.

“Well, few of them return to the Wilderlands, apparently.  They usually marry within the clan and raise their families here.  Oh, a few marry into families from Anferny, but my point is that they have concentrated a population with genetically high rajira, in Melleray.  A place without magic.”

“Yes, that does seem to be what they have done,” I nodded.

“What kind of magi do you think they would make?” he asked.  “If they were to all come south to Vanador?”

“From what Travid told me, they are happier here,” I explained.  “They like being within the realm of the jevolar.”

“Oh, I know – Travid made that clear enough,” he nodded.  “But I was just thinking what an asset they would be, if they were to be properly trained.  They already know how to read,” he pointed out.

“I’ve already extended an invitation to their captain,” I agreed.  “But they are wary of magic for a reason, Gareth.  Some of them who came here were subject to terrible expressions of their Talent.  Your future brother-in-law, included.”

“Yes, I heard about his role in that blizzard,” he chuckled.  “I don’t know if it’s ironic or mere coincidence, but it is interesting.  And . . . well, he’s not terribly keen on me,” he admitted.  “Apparently, I don’t measure up to the Kasari ideal, or something.  It doesn’t help that we’re in a realm where I can’t show him where I excel the most.  I’m just some scrawny man who likes his beautiful sister.  And he mentioned the stupid rites I’ll have to go through if Nattia and I want to get married,” he added, glumly.

“If Pentandra got through them, I think you can,” I said, charitably.  In truth, I knew from her description of the rites that Gareth may have an even worse time than she did.  The male side of them was quite physically challenging, in places.

“It would be easier to face if I was certain I’d end up with Nattia, after going through them.  From what I understand that’s not always guaranteed,” he said, his voice low.

“The will of the mating council can be harsh, if they don’t think the match will work out,” I agreed, reluctantly.  “Such things have happened.  But all life is risk, Gareth.  If you don’t play, you can’t win.  And the Kasari are very strict about such things,” I reminded him.  “There is no way you can avoid it, if you want to wed.”

“I know,” he groaned.  “I was discussing it with Forseti while we were going through the wastes – and while you would think he wouldn’t be the best to counsel a man on matters of the heart, he was actually surprisingly helpful.  Speaking of which, he is nearly spinning his wheels off to get to that ancient installation.  Do you want to go speak of it with the captain?”

“Let’s start with Travid,” I suggested.  “If he doesn’t know, then he can translate when we do speak with the captain.  Don’t worry, lad.  You will grow on him,” I said, encouragingly, as I watched his expression fall.

It turned out that Travid did, indeed, know of the place.

“The Cave of the Ancients?” he asked, surprised, when we approached him.  “Actually, I know it well, I’ve had to shelter there, from time to time, with my patrol.  Once in a snowstorm,” he added, with a chuckle.  “The Melleray Kasari have used it forever.  It’s only a few miles from here, but the climb is rigorous,” he said, looking at Gareth, doubtfully.

“We can manage a rigorous climb,” I assured him, before Gareth could respond.  “It will just be a few of us.  No wagons.”

“We can leave in the morning, if you want,” he shrugged.  “I can show you the way there.  But why would you want to see an old cave?” he asked.  “Is it about the door?”

“The door?” Gareth asked, curious.

“Yes, there’s a big steel door in the very deepest part,” he revealed.  “No one can open it.  Smooth as glass and as hard as diamond.  I don’t know how you’d open it, without magic.”

“We have means, I think,” I said, glancing at Gareth.  “Visiting that cave is very important for our mission.”

“It is an odd place,” Travid agreed.  “There’s a metal spire, at the top of the mountain, that we think is connected to it.  And there are other places in the valley that seem related.  But it’s been a big mystery.”

“It was built by the Ancients,” Gareth told him.  “As the name implies.  Before the Inundation of Perwyn, even.  It was established to watch the land and warn of any eruptions or earthquakes for the original colony.  They considered this valley to be dangerous.”

“They weren’t wrong,” he shrugged.  “I couldn’t tell you how many earthquakes I’ve been through since I came here.  What do you intend to learn, there, from a door?” he asked, curious.

“We’re hoping that there are some records hidden there from the early days of humanity on Callidore,” I explained.  “This place is so remote that we’re hoping that they survived the downfall of Perwyn.  Indeed, it was the Cave of the Ancients that convinced me to come on this mission.”  The Kasari respected the concept of mission the way few missionaries did.

“Well, you couldn’t find it without our help.  This place is riddle with caves, tunnels, and all sorts of strange things.  If you go poking around the wrong one, well, it’s going to be a bad day,” he assured.

“We appreciate your gracious assistance,” Gareth said.  I didn’t know how sarcastic he was being – Gareth was hard to read, especially without magic – but I could feel the tension between the young men.  Tomorrow would prove to be fun.

“Just bring a sword and a bow,” Travid advised, giving Gareth another serious look.  “We might need them.  Bi Ullamh.”

Chapter Eleven

The Cave of the Ancients

Of all the wonders that Anghysbel has to offer, the most important, to my mind, was the Cave of the Ancients.  It is treated with a certain superstitious skepticism by the local tribal savages, and occasionally used as emergency housing or resupply for the Kasari.  The unexpected discovery of this lost trove from our Ancestors could well prove the most valuable boon of this expedition.  I count this as the fulfillment of our quest, even if nothing else is discovered.  Only a few of us have an appreciation for what a gift the Cave of the Ancients is, but I foresee it being celebrated as the biggest prize of the entire expedition.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Gareth of Vanador

The route to the Cave of the Ancients involved returning to the floor of the valley, riding north and a little west for a mile before taking a nearly hidden trail back up the steep slope just above a steaming lake below.  It was a surprisingly well-made path, I noted, wide enough for a wagon and plenty wide for our horses.  It was only when I noticed a portion of the cliff to our left had been shaven away, as if with a giant razor, that I realized that the route had been constructed for the purpose.

I’d chosen only Gareth, Lilastien, and Travid to accompany me and Forseti . . . but Nattia insisted on going with us.  Apparently, she didn’t want her brother and her boyfriend to go off into the wilderness together, armed to the teeth, without her oversight.  Considering the tension between the two, I could understand her perspective.

Gareth had armed himself with a mageblade and a crossbow, and at least looked competent if not entirely comfortable in how he wore them.  He had changed a lot since he had come to Vanador.  Lilastien was the only one relatively unarmed, contenting herself with a single dagger.  She rode better than Gareth, who still sat on a horse like a sack of potatoes.

There was a minimum of chatter, as we advanced up the mountain.  Travid rode ahead of Gareth and Nattia, while Lilastien and I followed behind.  Forseti was strapped across Nattia’s saddle.  I don’t think Gareth could have managed the extra load.

I appreciated the relative silence partly because of the view as we ascended.  The valley spread out below us in verdant splendor, with little groves of trees dotting it, particularly around the frequent rocky outcroppings protruding through the rich soil.  It looked like perfect horse country, even richer than the rolling hills of Callierd in the south.  The ridges in the distance were a beautiful tapestry of color, against the deep green grasslands, pinks and purples, and blends of orange and brown and colors I had no ready name for.

And then there was the volcano.  As we mounted the rise, we saw it for the first time in the distance.  A gently tapered cone of purplish rock merrily belching smoke into the sky in the east.  It dominated the skyline of the entire valley.  Chimney Mountain, it was called, and according to the Kasari it smoked constantly and had for decades.  It did make a striking addition to the vale.

“I’m so glad I came,” Lilastien confided, with a smile.  “I’ve heard about the beauty and unique nature of this place for centuries.  I’ve always wanted to come here, but I was always too busy.  And then I was in prison.  So, this is very lovely,” she sighed, gazing out over the cliffside at the green vale, the mountains, and the distant volcano.

“Why did your people not settle here?” I asked, curious.  Usually you couldn’t keep the Alka Alon from settling down in the most beautiful spots in nature.

“The jevolar,” she explained.  “We can endure the lack of magic, physically, but the social gestalt the Alka Alon enjoy can have grave effects on the weaker-minded,” she said, delicately.  “It would drive some of us mad with loneliness, even if we were settled in a community.  A few could survive for a longer period of time, and a very few pathological introverts might even enjoy it, but Anghysbel has always been a place to visit, not to live.”

“Hence it’s ideal location for a vault hiding things from the Alka Alon,” I agreed.  “And the Vundel.  This is about as far from the sea as you can get.”

“It wasn’t just the Vundel that caused us to put our vaults of forgetfulness here,” she corrected.  “There are other . . . things on Callidore who would love to get ahold of the secrets stored there.  Which is why the Nemovorti sent their expedition.”

“I’m concerned about that,” I admitted.

“You should be,” she said, grimly.  “I’m hoping they lose themselves in the wastes, to be candid.  But we should be wary of them.  The only good thing is that we have some allies, here, and they are just as deprived of magic as we.”

Just about then we came across a giant boulder obscuring all but a few feet of the path.  It was the result of some old rockslide, and nearly blocked the path entirely.  There was a very narrow path that led between the boulder and the cliff face.  We had to be very careful as we led the horses around it.  That was a long way down.

The entrance to the cave was just a hundred yards on the other side of the boulder.  It was under a natural overhang next to a surprisingly wide, nearly level section of ledge, just a single acre that would have made a decent vegetable garden or pasture, it was so flat and grassy.

The view was even more stunning from the ledge.  We had climbed high enough to gain an admirable perspective on the valley below.  There was a gorgeous lake stretching to the north, below us, and it steamed like a cauldron.  Beyond that were rolling hills and forests, an even larger lake in the distance to the southeast, surrounded by meadows, woodlands, and the odd rocky outcropping, all magnificently framed by the distant ridges that surrounded the vale.

“It seems an odd place to put a pasture,” Gareth pointed out, suspiciously, as he dismounted.

“That’s because it’s actually an aircraft landing stage,” Lilastien explained.  “That way they could directly re-supply the installation without going overland.  It’s more efficient.  You can see where they built supports around the edge,” she pointed out.  “Then they went out of their way to disguise their true nature.”

“Was this a clandestine base?” I asked, surprised when I realized she was correct.  There were several places that I could see had clearly been artificially constructed, and then made to look like natural rock.

“Clandestine?” Lilastien asked.  “No, not intentionally.  Or at least not for nefarious purposes.  Your ancestors were very concerned about disturbing the natural beauty of a place like this.  They declared this a parkland, actually, and forbid any permanent settlement here, lest they spoil the experience of its allure.  There was a holiday resort here, for a few decades, just before the Inundation.  But they recognized the danger of trying to live here permanently, and tried to preserve the place’s beauty for future generations.”

“The entrance is here,” Travid said, confidently, as he hobbled his horse.  “The horses can graze out here while we go look at the steel door.  I don’t think we’ll be leaving them out here long enough to attract predators, and they wouldn’t like it inside the cave.”  Clearly, he was skeptical about our ability to challenge the door.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Gareth said, doubtfully, as he examined the entrance.  It was about thirty feet wide, and twelve feet tall at its irregular peak.  Plenty wide enough to drive a wagon through.

“It’s a cave,” shrugged Travid.  “Were you expecting a couple of garish statues and a forbidding entrance?”

“It’s called the Cave of the Ancients,” Gareth replied, evenly.  “I just figured that there would be something . . . Ancient about it.”

“There’s a sign, inside,” Travid said, as he drew his bow.  “Will that satisfy you?”

“Depends on what it says,” Gareth answered, gruffly.

“Will you two just . . . stop this?” pleaded Nattia, a note of disgust in her voice, as she set Forseti on the ground.  The machine moved forward and backward a few inches to test its wheels, then rolled forward toward the entrance.

“Come on,” Travid urged, instead of answering his sister.  “Let’s get this over with.”  That produced an eye roll in his sister that Ishi, herself, would have envied.

The grass stopped growing about six feet within the dark expanse of the cave.  Indeed, it proved to be more tunnel than cave, although it was clear it had begun as a naturally occurring cavern.  But about twenty feet into the mountain the rough walls of the cavern transformed into the same sort of smooth rock face that I had noticed on the trail.

“How did they cut the stone without magic?” I asked, intrigued.

“With a fusion-powered laser, more than likely,” Forseti supplied as he rolled into the cavern without the slightest bit of caution.   “That was the standard excavation tool for the colonists for such underground installations.”

“Let’s stop so that I can light a fire,” Travid said, as the tunnel got darker.  “We need to light a torch.  We won’t be able to see much, beyond here.  Unless you’d like to start the fire, Gareth?” he asked, in a challenge.

“No need,” Forseti said, rolling forward, forestalling the inevitable argument between the boys.  “I have sufficient power to provide illumination.  For a short time.”  A bright light suddenly shot out from Forseti’s “head,” projecting a cone of brilliant light ahead of us.  There was a stack of firewood and a sealed earthenware bottle against one side of the wall, as well as a few well-wrapped bundles.

“Emergency supplies,” Travid explained, without prompting.  “Bi Ullamh.  The sign is just up ahead,” he assured, as Forseti rolled ahead of us with his light.

Sure enough, on the left wall a large, perfectly scripted sign in Old High Perwyneese declared the nature of the cave.

Dr. Hugo Unger Station for Geophysical Studies

For the Northwestern Reserve Active Caldera Zone

“UNGER STATION”

aka: The Edge of Nowhere

Jointly Funded by the Colonial Terraformation Authority, the Colonial Geophysical Society, and the Callidore Science Foundation CY 39

“This seems to be the place,” Forseti declared, as its light – brighter than magelight – splashed across the darkened sign.  “There should be some sort of entrance ahead.”

“There is,” Travid said, with a sigh.  “A big steel door that never opens.”

“I have the colonial override codes,” Forseti said, as he moved forward with determined efficiency.  “As long as there isn’t any physical damage, I should be able to secure entry.”

“Maybe my command of Old High Perwyneese is rusty,” confessed Gareth, as he followed the machine, “but why did it say this was ‘the edge of nowhere’?”

“A common idiom of the colonial language was ‘the middle of nowhere’,” Forseti supplied.  “The edge of nowhere implies that we are beyond that point.  It is an apt perspective, considering that the colonial habitable zone only extends another thirty miles beyond this point to the north.  We are, indeed, at the edge of the colony.”

“And the edge of nowhere,” Lilastien agreed.  “This place is remote, no matter who you are.  Or where you are coming from.  I do love the humani sense of humor.”

Another forty feet ahead, we came to the end of the tunnel.  And the steel door we were warned about.

It was at least ten feet tall and twenty feet wide, when we finally came upon it.  It was as smooth as glass, as Travid reported.  There were no windows or any other characteristic to mar the surface.  Indeed, it seemed as pristine as when it was placed there.  But it was a definitive end of our journey, unless Forseti could persuade it to open.

“See?  Impenetrable,” the ranger declared, as we arrived at the portal.  “It’s thicker than a knight’s armor.  We’ll never get through there,” he said, confidently.

“Is it?” Gareth asked, skeptically.  “Forseti, see if you can open it.”

“It may take a few moments, if the equipment is damaged,” warned the machine.  “But there is a standard manual override mechanism if that’s the case.  The colonial government did not leave much to chance.”

“Tell that to Perwyn,” muttered Lilastien.

The little chariot rolled up to the base of the wide doorway and halted.  It seemed to be doing . . . something, although I could not identify exactly what.  But a distinctive hum arose a few moments after Forseti began its attempt.  Then a vibration.  We all watched breathlessly as the big steel door vibrated . . . and then began to open, sliding up into the roof of the tunnel.  A hiss of escaping gas was emitted by the doorway as it rose creakily . . . and then stopped, less than half-way up.

“That appears sufficient,” Forseti proclaimed, and then rolled under the door and into darkness.

“What’s that smell?” Nattia asked, making a face.

“It was standard procedure to fill a sealed facility’s atmosphere with an inert gas to preserve it and prevent oxidation,” explained Forseti, from beyond the door.  “I will attempt to access the environmental controls shortly to vacate any remnants.  But it is not dangerous,” he promised.

“Bugger!  He actually got it open!” Travid said, his expression surprised and shocked. “Let’s go in!”

“That seems premature and reckless,” Gareth replied, anxiously, as he shuffled toward the half-open door.

“Don’t be such a little girl,” chided Travid, with a snort, as he pressed forward, then ducked under the door.  “Mae sgowtiaid yn ddewr.  It’s fine!  Just a bit stuffy.  Are you coming, Nattia?” he called.

Even more surprisingly the dark expanse under the steel door suddenly lit up, and then lights overhead activated, bathing the entire darkened tunnel in an eerie glow.  It was sudden and bright enough to sting my eyes.  Magesight would have reduced the effect, but I didn’t have magesight.  So I blinked a lot.

“Oh!  I’m so glad he got it open,” Lilastien praised.  “And there is still power.  That’s a surprise.  I didn’t really think he’d be able to open it after all this time,” she confessed.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.  “Then why did you come?”

“In case he did,” the Sorceress said.  “I wouldn’t want to miss this. It’s a credit to your people that this still worked, after all these years.  Most of your tekka was designed to last two centuries, or less.  But I suppose that they constructed this facility more robustly than most,” she said, as she, too, ducked under the door.  “Probably just needs a bit of lubricant,” she said, from the other side.

With a sigh, I followed her.  And stepped back centuries into the past.

The tunnel beyond the steel door was wholly different from the preceding tunnel.  The region behind the door was lit with a glaring, stark white light, and was distinctly from our past, not our present.  As my eyes adjusted to the sudden glare, when I stood upright again, I was transported.  There were no bricks in the wall, nor even the smooth face of rock; instead, there were panels of white, taller than a man and twice as wide, covering the walls and ceiling.  The floor was completely level, as hard as stone.  Not even tiles or flagstones, I noted.

Indeed, the spacious bay in which we found ourselves was entirely different than anything in my experience.  Two familiar-looking vessels were stationed at the edge of the door, mere feet in front of me, as Forseti whipped between them.  I recalled the form that presented itself before me, as my eyes adjusted.  There were two of the six-wheeled chariots that Lilastien had called “a beast.”  The steel-clad steed of the Ancients, when they eschewed travel by air.  They were large enough to carry eight people and cargo, and were once used for research and exploration.

The rest of the bay was similarly foreign.  Beyond the two wains, there was a wide bay, twice the height of a man, that combined the pristine sterility of a bouleuterion and the shabby nature of any common workshop.  The lights overhead bathed the room in an unearthly glow, as stark as lightning but as steady as sunshine.  They revealed every crack and crevice in the room, without any glare.  Tools and workbenches lay on either side of the bay, and the doors between them opened at Forseti’s silent command as he approached.

“It appears that the main geothermal power supply is still intact,” Forseti said, hopefully, as he rolled ahead.  “If this facility conforms to colonial doctrine, the control room should be directly ahead and on the right.  Facilities management control will be on the left.  Personnel quarters will be straight ahead and either on the left or above, depending on the structural layout of the installation.  Laboratories and medical facilities will be beyond that.”

“It looks remarkably clean, for someplace that hasn’t been visited in a few centuries,” Nattia said, sniffing the stale air.

“If regular colonial protocols are still in place, then the ventilation system should activate shortly,” Forseti called, from far ahead.  “In dormant mode, the atmosphere was pumped full of nitrogen.  It is unlikely that any vermin were able to maintain their life cycles in the face of a pneumatic seal and lack of water.  There should be no challenge to our entry.”

“Of course, what could possibly go wrong?” asked Gareth, sarcastically, as he pushed his way forward with resigned caution.

“This is the outer vehicle bay,” Lilastien supplied, as she walked between the vehicles with a fond smile on her face.  “This is the workshop, the stables and smithy, so to speak.  The real work would have been done further in.”

“What kind of work?” asked Nattia, looking at the vehicles suspiciously.

“Monitoring the volcanic activity,” Lilastien supplied.  “And the biological systems of the region.  A facility like this would have had many remote monitoring stations.  Of course, that would depend on the intelligence running the facility.  Non-human,” she reminded me.  “Probably a Level Three or Level Four Constructed Intelligence was in charge – it might still be active.  That was the established protocol.  I had to sit through countless advisory meetings about that sort of thing, back when I was an administrator.  They were interesting, if insanely boring at the same time.  Your people have a gift for that sort of thing.”

“It’s gratifying to know we had a complex culture, once,” I said, dryly.

“Bureaucracy is an art,” Lilastien decided.  “Not a great art, but there is art involved.  I sometimes wonder if periodic staff meetings weren’t your greatest contribution to Callidore’s global culture.  Not all culture is positive,” she reminded me, quickly.

“I am aware,” I said, again dryly.  “I’ve been a ‘regional colonial administrator’ for some time, now, apparently.”

“Don’t dismiss that determination,” Lilastien said, as we followed Gareth and Nattia beyond the bay.  “That’s actually an important designation.  The intelligences that ordered the colony were very particular when it came to such distinctions.  That sort of thing had power, back on Perwyn.”

I could tell that there was a long and complicated story, there.  I didn’t really want to hear about it, while I was busy gawking at the wonders of my ancestors.

There wasn’t anything particularly impressive about Unger Station as we trod the floors that had been bereft of human attention since before the Narasi horde had overcome the Magocracy.  The nondescript gray floor and the indirect lighting did little to visually impress us with the might and majesty of the colonial period.  This was not a ceremonial center, I could tell.  This was a place for work, and it had a certain plain dinginess that seemed by design.

That said, there was no mistaking the engineering effort and technical mastery involved in creating Unger Station.  I knew what kind of challenges were involved in subterranean construction, as the Karshak had explained when they began turning a mountain into a fortress back in Sevendor.  But instead of celebrating them with impressive decorations, the Ancients had wisely, if uninterestedly focused on utility.

The first few rooms we came to after the workshop proved to be simple storerooms, after we manually opened the ancient metal doors.  The shelves were packed with tekka, as well as vessels and parcels from centuries ago, with only a thin layer of dust covering them.  Lights came on automatically, as we ventured further inside, just like magelights did when you triggered them.  I looked forward to what useful ancient loot might be lurking in those rooms.  Just beyond the storerooms was a privy, and then another big sturdy steel door.

“This blast door is designed to protect the habitable interior in case the outer door was compromised,” Forseti explained.

“They feared attack?” Gareth asked, surprise.

“They feared an eruption,” the machine explained.  “Having pressurized sections nested behind each other provided a degree of protection against a potential eruption.  Security concerns were implicit to the design.”

Forseti paused for just a moment, and then that door, too, slid open.  All the way, this time.

To the right was a chamber that contained the console the machine had been seeking.  It appeared as a solid wall of tekka, much of it darkened.  A few small lights glowed on its face, and there were many odd appliances or textures or . . . all right, I’ll be honest.  At the time I had no idea what I was looking at.  It could have been ornamentation in a questionable style, for all I knew.  But there was a sign in Old High Perwyneese announcing the chamber to be the Primary Control Center, while the door to the left was labelled Facility Control Systems.

“The control center seems to be intact and functioning,” Forseti reported, as his extended eyes surveyed the wall.  “Power reserve access and control are where I expected them to be.  There is no response from the facility’s host intelligence, however.  They may have taken it when the station was abandoned.  Gareth, do you see that socket midway up the wall?  The circular one next to the small screen?  That is the central interface module.  If you remove my command module from this chassis and place the round port on my ventral side exactly into it, I can interface with the installation’s systems and perhaps initiate the local command and control program.  A station of this complexity would have had a Level Three or even Level Four Constructed Intelligence installed.  It has likely gone dormant, in the intervening centuries.”

“Is he speaking Narasi?  Or Perwyneese?” asked Travid, shaking his head skeptically.

“The Language of the Ancients,” Gareth said, as he traced the socket with his finger.  “You would call it Old High Perwyneese, but it’s mostly technical language.  Like thaumaturgy, only with tekka.”

Gareth evidently knew what Forseti was talking about – I had a vague idea, having played around with some of my tekka collection from time to time – and pulled the little black spheroid device that housed Forseti’s consciousness from the back of the machine.  The little carriage instantly lost its mobility and all but a few signs of functionality without Forseti riding it.

“Yes, it’s that one, Gareth,” Lilastien advised, as the wizard fitted Forseti into the wall.  “Push it until it clicks . . . yes, that’s it!” she said, pleased, as the wall began to light up in patches and squares.  Indeed, it seemed as bright and active as a spell viewed with magesight.  “Can you hear me, Forseti?” she asked.

There was an anxious pause while we waited for Forseti to do whatever it was that he was doing.

“I can, Dr. Lilastien,” Forseti’s voice said, coming from somewhere on the wall.  It had a deeper timbre, now, and was much louder.  “I am initiating activation of the installation.  It appears that there has been substantial damage of an unknown nature to the local Constructed Intelligence that controlled the installation.  I’m afraid it will take a while to perform a forensic analysis and discover the cause.  There are two Level One and one Level Two intelligences intact, and they run the data collection, facilities services, and data analysis functions of the station, but the Level Four that was installed here is ruined beyond restoration.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Gareth asked, curious.

“A bad thing,” Forseti answered, without pause.  “It will make accessing the subsidiary systems much more difficult, as I will have to construct new command pathways.  The geophysical data from the system is intact, but without an analysis unit it will take time to interpret it.  The satellite antenna appears to be intact, but the control system is absent.  I will have to re-write it.  Historical data likewise appears intact.  The last system update was in Colonial Year 89.”

“So . . . what does all that mean?” I asked, to spare anyone else from doing so.

“I will need several days to establish full control of the station, and several more days to accurately analyze the data archived here.  But it appears within my capabilities, as long as I can update my skillset from the library.”

“You just want us to . . . leave you here?” I asked, skeptically.

“Do not worry, Count Minalan,” Forseti said, “I am now in control of basic facilities, including fire suppression and security.  I can detect your return and keep the exterior door locked until you do so.  The power systems here are pristine.  I will be fully charged by the time you return and will be able to access far more of my capabilities as a result.”

“Believe me, nothing can get through that door,” assured Travid.  “It’s been tried for years.  Centuries,” he corrected.

“I will be safe,” assured the machine.  “Dr. Lilastien, it might interest you to know that there is a fully stocked medical bay just after the residential quarters.  Much of that equipment will likely function, although I caution against using the stored medications.  It is unlikely that any of them are still efficacious after so much time has passed.”

“A medbay?” she asked, eagerly.  “With proper equipment?”

“It is classified as an aid station, designed to provide first aid and simple medical procedures due to the remote nature of this location.  Count Minalan, you may be interested to know that there is a security locker just before the mess hall.  There is an incomplete inventory of weaponry stored there, but the original complement of arms was impressive for a facility this size.  Likely due to the dangerous fauna found here.”

“What kind of weapons?” I asked, curious.  Very curious.  Twilight is an excellent mageblade, but in the realm of the jevolar it was just a really elegant sword.  I was missing magic desperately.  Especially if there were a company of gurvani hunting me.

“Two civilian model Raytheon-Seimans high-powered plasma rifles, four Wagner-Douglass Defense plasma pistols, six conventional ten-millimeter pistols, two thirty-caliber hunting rifles, a shoulder-fired precision guided anti-aircraft rocket, and a variety of hunting knives are listed in inventory.  The energy weapons have been in charge mode and are ready to be deployed.  The firearms should have a thousand rounds of ammunition each, according to the manifest.  There are additional arms and ammunition in the vehicles in the transportation bay,” he informed me.

“I understood ‘hunting knives’,” I chuckled.

“Don’t worry Min, I’ll show you,” Lilastien assured me.  “What about radios, Forseti?”

“Check the forward storerooms,” the machine suggested.  “A complete inventory is unavailable, but if they were included in the original supply of the facility, that is where they will be stored.”

“I’ll be glad to paw through it,” she grinned.  “You have no idea what a treasure we have found here, Minalan!  The fact that this place is in as good of shape as it is a miracle.”

“So this is everything you were looking for, Forseti?” I asked.

“This is a very good start, Count Minalan,” he agreed.  “Within a week I shall know more, I hope, if I can re-establish communication with the Calsat network.  But I will at least be able to reconstruct the final days of the advance colony in better detail from the information stored here.  That should significantly advance our effort to locate the New Horizon.”

“The weapons and medical supplies will be a great help here, too,” Lilastien offered.  “They might make up for the lack of magic, a bit.  I don’t know a lot about your weaponry, but I did see a few demonstrations.  I even tried out a few, back on Perwyn.  Your people had a special talent for the cunning variety of their weapons,” she praised.  “If the tales of your homeworld are true, you had a warlike history.”

“We still do,” I shrugged.  “But anything that makes me feel less like a helpless child would be welcome.  I’m not so good a swordsman that I like depending on my skill to save my life.  I’m a wizard.  We prefer to cheat.”

“If it is helpful, the case of each energy weapon should display a tutorial video for their proper care, storage, and use,” Forseti informed us.  “Additionally, the mess hall complex contains a basic information terminal and two workstations that should explain any questions you have.  I will upload a translation matrix from Colonial Standard to Narasi and begin conversion for your use,” The machine said, helpfully.

“Are there any additional education archives in the installation?” Lilastien asked, with great interest.

“This was a Level Four scientific facility,” Forseti answered.  It may have been my imagination, but I thought I detected a note of pride in his artificial voice.  “As such, there is an extensive body of scientific literature available for review in addition to the standard general-purpose archives.  Most pertain to geophysics, vulcanology and chemistry, but the archive also contains substantial basic science information current as to the date of the last update.”

“Why is that important?” asked Nattia, who just seemed confused by the entire conversation.

“It’s just an entire post-doctoral education crammed into a cave,” shrugged Lilastien.  “The accumulated knowledge of your ancestors.  Enough to change the world.  So much of what you lost when Perwyn sank will be there,” she said, with a sigh.  “It’s as if you just opened the door to the largest library in the world.”

“Books?” Nattia asked, skeptically.

“Far more than books.  Knowledge,” she said, touching a panel and displaying long lines of text.  “Lectures.  Technical tables and specifications.  Diagrams.”

“Knowledge has a price,” I reminded her.  That had been a perpetual source of discussion on the way here.

“Your ancestors paid it already,” Lilastien answered.  “So much of what the Alka Alon Council persuaded you to abandon can likely be rediscovered here.  This,” she said, pointing dramatically to the screen, “this is what was so important about this expedition, Min!  This is worthy of your quest.

“All of the scraps that have survived over the centuries in your monasteries and physical libraries?  There are ten thousand times more books in this place than in all the Five Duchies!  Books?  There are videos, recordings, illustrations, simulations, interactive educational materials, things that . . . oh, dear gods, Min, if you only knew what had been taken from your people, you would be furious,” she said, sadly.  “Perhaps this place will give you back a tithe of it.  A tithe that could change the world.”

“You will also be happy to know, Lilastien, that due to the remote nature of the installation and the necessity for diversion for mental health reasons, there are ninety terabytes of Terran music available in the archive.  Including a comprehensive collection of the Big Band music era, and the complete works of Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller, Ella Fitzgerald, Woody Herman, Louis Prima, Louis Armstrong, the Andrews Sisters, Julie London, and Bing Crosby.  As well as Elvis Presly,” he added with especial emphasis.

“Be still my beating heart!” Lilastien laughed.  “There’s Elvis?”

“Every song, every movie, and an extensive collection of biographies,” Forseti bragged.

“Who is . . . Elvis?” I demanded.

She gave me a sly look.  “Elvis Aaron Presley.  One of the most important cultural forces your race ever produced.  Oh, I’ll show you Elvis, Minalan,” she promised.  “Elvis is the king.  I’ll show you.  And you’ll never be the same again.”

Chapter Twelve

Malartu, Master of Midmarket

It is unsurprising that commerce, in some form or fashion, sprung up even in this remote locale.  A man trades what he has for what he needs, as a universal truth.  What is surprising is how sophisticated it is, in Midmarket, without having a sovereign authority regulating its conduct, or attempting to tax it overmuch.  Fairness is the order of the day, enforced by long acquaintance and the regularity of trade.  Credit established on one market day is, by tradition, settled at the next, with few exceptions.  It is a fascinating departure for how such things are done in the rest of the Wilderlands . . . or anywhere, for that matter.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden

It was fascinating, exploring the world of my ancestors at Unger Station – the Cave of the Ancients.  It gave me new appreciation for the technical ability and ingenuity of my ancestors, a sense of pride in their great accomplishments – without magic.

That afternoon Lilastien gave me a tour of the facility, in a way, by wandering around the place and recalling elements of the early colony that each new room inspired.  It was the medical bay that caused her the most joy, of course – it was designed to handle emergency medicine in a remote location, and as such was stocked with . . . well, I wasn’t really sure what everything did, but Lilastien was ecstatic.

“They have everything here but a heart-lung bypass,” she said, as she surveyed the shelves of the infirmary and began pulling boxes and contraptions off the shelf.  “Internal imaging machines, monitors, ventilators, a surgery suite, a bloodwork lab module, a toxicology lab module – oh!  Even a labor-and-delivery suite!” she said, beaming at some memory.  “That’s a handy one to have.  But I suppose they didn’t want to take chances, this far back in the bush.  Let’s see, when this place was built, the nearest hospital was in . . . Merwyn?  Yes, that’s right,” she said to herself.  “That’s almost three hours away, by air . . .”

“So this is a medical treasure trove,” I nodded, impressed.  It’s easy to impress an ignorant man, but I trusted Lilastien’s judgement.

“You have no idea, Minalan,” she sighed, wistfully.  “I’ve been dealing with human ailments armed with nothing more than songspells and pre-industrial technology for four centuries, at the Tower of Refuge.  That’s like trying to do magic without irionite.”

“You seemed to have done all right,” I shrugged.

“I’ve lost too many patients I could have saved, over the years, if I had access to a place like this.  When they first came here, your ancestors could do things with their tekka that even our magic couldn’t manage, when it came to human medicine.  It was quite remarkable.  Ah!  But no treasure could be greater than this!” she said, triumphantly, as she grabbed an object from a shelf with reverence.

It was the size and shape of a small tray, made of some hard white substance.  She touched it in a familiar way, and suddenly the white on its face was replaced by a series of symbols.

“What’s that?” I asked, ignorantly.

“This, my boy, is a Colonial Therapeutics Mark Four Medical Tablet Scanner, Field Model,” she said, reading from the tray.  “It’s a bit clunkier than the ones I used back on Perwyn, but that’s likely to make it more durable in these rugged conditions.  And there are three of them here!” she said, excitedly.

“That thing is medicine?” I asked, intrigued.

“Think of it as a medical baculus . . . only far more accurate.  It has a seventy-five terabyte medical library included.  A full range of diagnostic equipment.  And a Level Two Constructed Intelligence medical assistance program that can tell you how to do anything up to brain surgery.  So, it’s like a medical baculus with a better doctor inside than any in the Five Duchies, apart from me.  A pity they didn’t stock this place with a biochemical synthesizer, Minalan – a machine that can produce thousands of useful medicines.  Your people have lost so much,” she said, with genuine sympathy.  “It pains me to see how far you have fallen.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.  Being told that your people used to be geniuses and were now ignorant farmers was a little off-putting.

“We get by,” I shrugged, a little miffed.

“Oh, I know you do,” Lilastien sighed.  “Your race is truly resilient.  More than mine, I suspect.  You crossed the void without magic.  You forged a hostile world into a beatific colony.  You live so briefly, but shine so brightly.”

“I think that’s your romantic view of us speaking,” I dismissed.

“Is it?” she challenged, sharply.

“Am I wrong?” I riposted.  “I appreciate the assistance, Lilastien, I truly do.  And the adoration, though it’s misplaced.  But your opinion, as well-informed as it is, ignores the reality of our lives.  Most of us are woefully stupid, painfully ignorant, and possessing a miserable disposition.  Perhaps it’s best we die so quickly.  Humanity seems a disappointment, most of the time.  Even to our own gods.”

“Now, now, Minalan,” Lilastien chided.  “If I was Ithalia or one of the other Emissaries, I might harken to your words.  But I know better.  Yours is not the only race I’ve studied, if you recall.  I was a student of the Vundel, for over a century.  And, before that, I studied the Met Sakinsa, briefly.  As well as my own folk,” she added, defiantly.  “I, alone, have insight into four different sapient species. Four civilizations, so to speak.  The Vundel are remarkable for their endurance.  The Met Sakinsa for their wisdom.  The Alka Alon for their subtlety.

“But humanity?  Humanity is resilient.  As simple peasant farmers or scientists who understand the nature of the universe, humanity alone of the species of Callidore has the resilience to find a way to succeed.  To survive.”

“We do face the end of the world,” I reminded her, grimly.

“Which proves my point.  The Vundel embrace fatalism, in the face of their doom.  The Met Sakinsa cleave to intuitive philosophy and have mistaken doom for destiny, comforted by the unfulfilled promise of the Grandfather Tree.  And the Alka Alon have presented cowardly retreat as subtle wisdom.

“But humanity?” she declared.  “Humanity may save us all, because of its resilience.  Because you stupid, silly, ephemeral primates just don’t understand when you are beaten.  When the universe clubs you down, you rise again and keep fighting.  When everything is taken from you, you seem to find some inner strength to keep going, even when every sane and reasonable perspective says that you are defeated.  You are literally too stupid to know when you are down,” she pronounced.

“Your choice of inspiration is questionable,” I chuckled.

“I work with what I’ve got,” she shrugged.  “Look, I know I’m an old, half-crazed Alka Alon lady with a fetish for other races,” she said with a resigned sigh.  “I’m over-educated and radicalized by my supreme desire to understand the ‘other’ in the universe.  But I’m not wrong, Minalan.

“The Vundel have given up.  The Met Sakinsa will accept the fate the universe has dictated to it as part of the natural cycle.  The Alka Alon will run and hide and pretend that we’re being noble in doing so.   But humanity?  Humanity is too bloody stupid to know when it’s finished.  It keeps fighting, and striving, and struggling, when all else seems lost.  And damn if you don’t occasionally find victory, in a sea of defeat.  That, my boy,” she insisted, “that is what makes your folk special!”

“Then why don’t I feel particularly special?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Because you don’t truly understand your own capabilities,” she said, poking a finger into my chest.  “Your people don’t need magic.  Indeed, I think it hampered your race when it was discovered some of you had rajira.  It’s made you soft.  Let me show you what power you had, when you had no Talent, and had to rely on your wits and your institutions to sustain you.  I pity the day you gave it all up in exchange for the promise of mere arcane power.”

When we rode back to the Kasari camp, that evening, I was a far better informed wizard about our storied past.  Lilastien had shown me things in our brief few hours at Unger Station that I never would have dreamed.

I saw visions of humanity’s home planet.  Terra.  I saw images of Terran sunsets, Terran music, Terran technology that few in my age ever dreamt of.  I was amazed at what a colorful, varied world my ancestors came from.  Massive cities with buildings thousands of feet tall.  Flying ships.  Floating cities.  Ocean-borne ships of steel the size of a leviathan.  The entire thing was surreal, to see so many people in such a strange environment.

It was enchanting, even awe-inspiring, though I did not understand half of what I was seeing.  To prove that the Ancients hadn’t always been that advanced she reached back even deeper into the archives and showed me pictures of rural scenes that could have been seen in any Riverlands manor.  She even showed me a few castles that could have been anywhere in the Five Duchies.

The music was good, though.  Some of it even seemed familiar.

But it gave me a sense of hope that my people had gone from castles and farmsteads to ships that could cross the void – all without magic.  It gave me hope, at the same time I realized how much power they must have had.

I held some of that power in my hand, now.  Lilastien had insisted that we test the weapons we found in the security locker of the base out on the “landing stage” of the station.  I learned the basics of how to prime, aim and fire a plasma rifle and pistol.  I learned the mechanics of our ancestors’ projectile weapons and got the opportunity to use them.

It was a small but impressive arsenal that Lilastien distributed among my party.  After a detailed explanation of each weapon, and a convincing demonstration, she entrusted the various implements of destruction to us in careful moderation.  When I rode down the slope from Unger Station, I carried a plasma rifle – new words for me to master – instead of a baculus.  It worked like a simple battle staff, in function, but was entirely un-reliant on magic.

Similarly the wand-like ten-millimeter pistol – another new word – rode on my hip where I usually carried a dagger.  I’d fired it several times, now.  It worked, in principle, like a crossbow, but the power implicit in the device was far greater than a mere bolt.  Lilastien had demonstrated that on the mountain slope.  She may have expressed her ignorance of colonial weaponry, but she seemed adept enough to reduce a target to dust when she demonstrated the power of the weapons.

I didn’t hesitate to arm ourselves once we understood the basics.  Nattia and Travid had chosen the two hunting rifles, while Gareth contented himself with a plasma pistol.  I think he was suspicious of such powerful nonmagical weapons, even if he was intrigued by their design.  All of us were carrying radios, now – devices that allowed us to communicate with each other by voice, within a certain range.  I could certainly see the value in that.  They had been a bit trickier to figure out than the weapons, but the principle seemed simple enough.

“I only wish that damned boulder wasn’t in the way,” she fumed, as we finally rode down the mountain, near dusk.  “Both of those Beasts were operable, I’m sure!  Or could be, with a little time and attention.  If we could actually get them down the mountain, they would be incredibly useful.  Pity. They’re armored, too.  Little castles on wheels,” she said, shaking her head.

“The horses will suffice,” I chuckled.  “You have already gifted us with mighty treasures from our past,” I said, hefting the plasma rifle.  “Treasures that may well turn the tide when magic has failed.  Be content, Lilastien.  You have introduced magi to the wonders of our ancient civilization.  You have given us power in a land that denies us our own power.  I am no longer dependent on mere steel for our defense.  That was unanticipated.  And I thank you.”

“Bah!  I feel like I’ve barely introduced you to the power the ancient humani once wielded,” she dismissed, as she patted the stock of her own plasma rifle.  “These are trinkets, compared to what you once had.  And what you deserve to have.”

“Trinkets, perhaps,” I conceded, patting the plasma rifle.  “Still, you have armed me in a place I felt naked and terrified.  That boon is not to be forgotten.”

“It looks like they got some use, before this place was abandoned,” she noted, as she glanced out at the valley, and the beautiful sunset.  “That implies some danger.  But they’re still in good condition, all things considered.

“Age is always a challenge,” I agreed.

“They aren’t bad, for being six hundred years old.  The plasma weapons’ power cells are degraded, but they will still fire about a hundred and fifty full-power charges, if I read the meter correctly.  Oh, and the radios only have a three-month charge.  They used to be good for twice that long.  The hunting rifles and pistol ammunition should be functional, but Forseti cautioned me that as many as one in ten cartridges may be inert.”

“They were interesting to try.  Simpler than a wand.  I didn’t expect the loud explosion with the firearms,” I admitted.

“Your ancestors preferred energy weapons because they were more powerful and efficient, but the ‘quantum field effect’ frequently made them unreliable.  Magic does strange things to solid state electronics.  But in this place, they would work as intended.  Elsewhere, they often went back to alchemically powered firearms for their police and security forces.  But most of the machines to make them sunk with Perwyn.  After that, these things got scarce.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” I shrugged.  “The Mage Wars of the Late Magocracy were pretty brutal.  With weapons like these, they would have been much bloodier.”

“But they would have been able to resist the Narasi Invasion,” she reminded me.  “I do hope it doesn’t take Forseti too long to re-establish control over the installation.  It would be interesting to see if there are any records of other facilities like this that may have survived intact.   I can work wonders with those three medical scanners, and the robotic surgery suite is incredible, but what I could do with a proper clinic!  Well, if nothing else I can start a medical school with what I’ve gathered here.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” I agreed.  “Whatever we can recover from those ancient days, we should use.  Besides, it will be good for Vanador’s economy,” I decided.

“It will be good for humanity’s health,” she countered.  “I’ll start having Forseti pre-program one of the scanners for that, when we return in a week or so to check his progress.  In the meantime, I’m incredibly pleased he added music to this one,” she said, as she tapped on the face of it.  “This sunset is inspiring me . . . maybe some John Denver, I think . . .”

Everyone was pleased with our report, when we returned to the Kasari base just in time for the evening communal meal.  We showed off our new equipment and gave some basic demonstrations of how they worked.  Master Suhi was particularly intrigued by the firearms, of course, inspecting each one with great interest, and remarking on its design.

“So, you’ve completed part of your quest,” Fondaras said, when he approached me after dinner, pipe in hand.

“Part of a part of our quest,” I corrected.  “Forseti hasn’t learned anything terribly useful, yet, but I’m hopeful.  And as pleasant as the hospitality of the Kasari is, we should move along toward the next part of our itinerary.  Our vassals.”

“The Domain of Anferny,” he nodded.  “I’m eager to see it again.  But we will ride to Midmarket, first,” he explained.  “It’s on the way, and there the dwarves can depart on their errand.”

I glanced over at the Karshak and the Dradrien, who were each smoking and trading stories in their own language.  For traditional rivals, Suhi and Azhguri only occasionally argued, now.  Perhaps the responsibility for visiting the Kilnusk was influencing their perspective.  From what I understood whether or not the Kilnusk’s exile was lifted would depend on their report.

“What can we expect at Midmarket?” I asked, concerned at the possibility of conflict along the way.

“It is a small market village that, as the name implies, and it lies midway between the various settlements.  That’s where the majority of trade occurs.  The market does contain some interesting fare, but there’s not much to it, nor much to see in the village, from what I recall.  What it does offer is a road to Anferny and likely a guide.  The Kasari tell me that market day is the day after tomorrow.  We can make it there in a day, spend the night, and then leave with the retiring merchants back to the domain.”

“A sound plan,” I nodded, preparing my own pipe.  “Is there much chance of danger on the road?”

He gave a convincing shrug.  “This is Anghysbel.  Anything can happen.  And usually does.”

We set out the next morning after a big breakfast of porridge, griddle cakes, and sausage that seemed to be a tradition amongst the Kasari.  Indeed, they were sending a delegation to Midmarket, themselves, who would act as our guides.  Travid, unsurprisingly, arranged to have himself assigned to that duty.  Ostensibly it was to spend more time with his sister, but I think his critical assessment of his potential future brother-in-law had as much to do with it.  Travid remained suspicious of the mage, though not entirely hostile.

Ithalia rode cover for us on her bird, and Nattia’s mount flew unmounted as the Sky Captain rode on the ground with us.  The journey was improved by the use of the radios, when Lilastien presented her granddaughter with one of the spares she had snagged.  After that, she was able to report clearly and routinely what she was seeing from the sky as easily as if it were mind-to-mind.

I appreciated that because we started to see odd creatures emerge from the bush almost immediately.  As the grasslands around the entrance of the vale gave way to more underbrush and larger stands of trees, we began to witness animals and insects most of us had never seen before.  From hook-shaped reptiles that dangled in tree branches to herds of insects the size of a dog gnawing on deadfall to a four-foot long furry caterpillar calmly crossing the road, Anghysbel was replete in wonders more exotic than Farise could boast.  I kept my new weaponry close at hand on the seat of the wagon, between Alya and I.

Fondaras tried his best to explain what they were, when we encountered them, and the Kasari helpfully gave detailed taxonomies and natural histories of each species, including which ones were dangerous and which were edible.  Apparently, they had an entire course of study on the natural history of the vale, as part of their achievements, and it went far beyond the basics.  There was a practical use for it, of course, as the Kasari hunted and trapped as a portion of their economy, and then traded their hides, skins, and other handicrafts with the other communities.  They had three packhorses loaded with such supplies to be traded at Midmarket.

“Any fear of bandits in these woods?” I asked, curious.  The question brought laughter from the Kasari who rode alongside our wagon for a time.

“Who would be a bandit?” Travid asked.  Despite his antipathy toward Gareth, he was a friendly lad, and had known Fondaras for years.  He was eager to be helpful to the Spellmonger, and proved an able native guide.  “We wouldn’t allow it.  Nor would Anferny, Grost Kilnuskum or Lakeshire.  None of us want that sort of trouble around.”

“None of the communities is very large,” Fondaras explained.  “Each polices its own lands and wards them from other dangers in a surprisingly cooperative fashion.  There are enough things that can kill you in Anghysbel.  No need to allow your own people to do it.”

“Besides,” Travid added, “a bandit would starve, here.  Most of trade is in barter.  There is a little silver and gold, but most transactions are just swapping.  Anferny grows bread, the Kilnusk mine and forge, the Kasari hunt, trap and fish, and Lakeshire grows vegetables and makes spirits.  It’s just easier to trade directly than using coin, for most things.  And where could a bandit spend that coin once he stole it?  He’d be known across the vale in a fortnight.  And none would give him refuge.  That sort of fellow would get sent back.”

“Sent back?” I asked, confused.

“Sent back to the Wilderlands, through the wastes.  With one bottle of water,” he said, grimly.  “The Kasari don’t believe in the death penalty.  But if the wastes take you . . .” he shrugged.

“That’s Nature’s Justice,” nodded Fondaras, somberly.  “Many tribes practice exile.  Here, that means the wastes.  It keeps folk remarkably well-behaved.”

The journey to Midmarket was actually fairly short, and we arrived by noon.  It was an odd little village, behind a sturdy palisade to keep animals at bay but otherwise undefended.  There was a single guard at the gate, a middle-aged fellow with a bow and a hunting spear.  He waved cheerfully as he welcomed us to the market town, and soon I understood why: he was the local innkeeper, as well.  Indeed, there were only about ten houses within the palisade surrounding the market square, and the largest one was an inn with a graciously wide patio that faced the market.

His name was Malartu, the self-styled Master of Midmarket.  He proved to be a Kasari half-breed whose mother haled from Anferny.  Despite Travid’s claim, he was all too eager to take the silver we offered for his hospitality.  And then he proceeded to interrogate us all about news from the Wilderlands and beyond.

Malartu and his family were apparently the unofficial arbiters between settlements in Anghysbel.  Control of the market was the one bit of institutional leverage that kept each one within its frontiers, both physically and metaphorically.  Malartu’s great gift seemed to be negotiation, and he facilitated more than trade to the civilized parts of Anghysbel.  He was also the chief source of news for the land.

The rare traveler from afar could not venture up the road without coming to his village, and the locals came because it was expedient.  But Malartu’s profit came not from his infrequently filled inn; it came in knowing enough of everybody’s business to see the business opportunities in everybody.  He greeted Fondaras at once, and fondly, likely because the footwizard was a font of news.

Malartu professed particular honor – and a great deal of excitement – when he learned I was a count, and more particularly his count, by the reckoning of the Five Duchies.  I don’t think it particularly impressed him, but he did note it, as well as his introduction to Viscount Tyndal and Countess Alya.

“Oh, you’ll enjoy meeting the Lords of Anferny, my lord,” he chuckled, as he served us some sweet liquor from a simple glass bottle.  “And they, you, I’m sure.  Old Lord Kanlan is getting on, but his son and daughter keep the place tidy in his dotage.  Good people,” he assured.  “A very good family.”

“I look forward to meeting them – and accepting their oaths of fealty,” I added.  “That’s part of my business here.”

“Business, you say?” the innkeeper asked, surprised.  “May I inquire, my lord?”

“It is manifold.  I seek certain rare minerals, for my experiments.  You see, Tyndal, Ormar, Taren, Gareth and I are magelords, not just Wilderlords.  There have been many changes in the south,” I said, meaningfully.  “The Bans on Magic have been broken, and a king rules over Alshar, Castal and Remere.  And Wenshar,” I added, knowing how the Wenshari are about such things.  “Indeed, he technically rules Anghysbel, as well, and wished me well for my journey.  But there are magelords, again.  And I am chief of them.”

“Well, Huin’s holy hoe, my lord, that is a book full of news,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.  “We heard about the goblin invasion a few years back and wondered if any man would rule the Wilderlands again.”

“Count Minalan rules a part of it, known as the Magelaw,” Tyndal informed him.  “It was an office given directly to him by the Duke of Alshar for his efforts at protecting the Wilderlands.  You are ruled by a wizard, my friend,” he smiled.  “Count Minalan the Spellmonger, of the Magelaw Palatinate.  A mageland, and one that apparently includes the only nonmagical land.  Kind of ironic, really.”

“The tapestry of history is woven with the threads of irony,” Fondaras assured.  “My lord Minalan seeks a fabled bit of yellowed glass, naturally occurring, that has particular magical properties.  The last known sample of it allegedly came from here, if the records are accurate.”

“Oh, the folk of Lakeshire blow glass,” he said, tapping the bottle of spirits, “but you might be thinking about Desert Glass,” he said, thoughtfully.  “It’s sometimes yellow.  And hard as a diamond, it’s said.  You can find it up on the cliffs, sometime, or out in the tundra.  Up around Chimney Mountain,” he said, nodding his head to the smoking mountain in the north.  “You might want to ask that wizard fellow who went up towards there, a few years ago.”

“A wizard?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“Said he was,” Malartu shrugged.  “How would we know?  But he wandered in here years ago – right after the invasion, in fact.  I saw him for six months around the vale, and then he disappeared up-country.  Has some sort of lair up there.  Near the dragon,” he explained, calmly.

“The dragon?” the entire table said, simultaneously.  Yes, that’s exactly how it happened.

“Oh, aye.  It came here soon after, too, come to think of it.  It perches in a cave in the north and leaves us alone.  Why, we’ve barely seen it since it came.  It’s very well behaved, for a dragon,” he assured us.

“There’s a dragon living in your neighborhood, and you don’t mind?” Alya asked, shocked and surprised.  She’d seen what a dragon could do to a city.  A village like this wouldn’t last a moment.

“Why should we?  It keeps to itself, just as we do.  No need to go starting trouble,” he advised.  “The wizard says it’s perfectly content to stay peaceful, too, now that it’s free.  Fleeing some bad business, away south, he says.  We get a few folk like that.  Think the wizard did the same.  He comes to town every couple of years to trade,” he added.  “Always has some interesting fare, too.”

“This wizard can talk to it?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief.  “Without magic?”

“Oh, he might could be as crazy as a doodlebug in a butter churn, he might,” admitted the innkeeper with a sigh.  “But he’s a gentleman, otherwise.  Says he talks to the dragon.  Says it talks back.  Who am I to judge?  But if anyone would know about your magical glass, he would.  He’s been up there for years, now.  Searching, I think.  Don’t know for what, but we traditionally get the odd fellow who dives into the bush upcountry, looking for one thing or another.  Hells, that’s how I met good old Fondaras,” he laughed.  “Although he didn’t have ‘the Wise’ as part of his name back then.  For good reason.”

The old footwizard blushed as he recalled the tale of their encounter.  I could sense a story, there.  “I was looking for . . . well, it doesn’t really matter what I was looking for,” he decided.  “I didn’t find it, and what I found instead was more valuable, in the end.”

“And what was that?” asked Tyndal.

“Wisdom,” shrugged the footwizard.  “It’s the only thing really worth finding.”

“Perhaps our reclusive wizard friend has found it as well, then,” I proposed.  “What is the name of this mysterious mage?”

“Rolof,” the innkeeper informed us.  “Master Rolof.  Polite fellow.  Very quiet.  Always pays for an ale with silver.  I like clients like that.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Forgotten Folk

I find myself amazed at the varied cultures of Anghysbel.  For such different peoples to live in relative harmony is impressive enough.  But for each culture to thrive as mere forgotten remnants of greater civilizations is a token to the special nature of this place.  Anghysbel is filled with forgotten folk.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Minalan the Spellmonger

Rolof.  I knew Rolof.

He’d been a warmage in the coastal counties when he’d run across Pentandra, on her way west to rescue her friend Minalan, who’d gotten himself in quite the mess.  Indeed, he’d been among the first warmagi to hire on as her mercenary, as she’d just gotten off the boat from Remere.

Lured by the promise of irionite and a handsome signing bonus in silver, he’d faithfully crossed the duchies at break-neck pace with her, picking up further warmagi along the way.  He’d served valiantly and cunningly at the Siege of Boval Castle, he’d sworn his oath and gotten his witchstone, he’d stood with me against the Dead God, and he’d escaped with the rest of us.  It had been his family’s estate that we’d regrouped at, after the siege.

Then he’d disappeared.  Indeed, no one had laid eyes on Rolof since the day we departed his estate.

The rest of us had gone on to become great magelords, like Astyral and Azar, or died in battle like Horka and Hestia and poor Delman.  But Rolof had missed all of that.  For years, no one had seen him.  Because, apparently, he’d gone into exile in Anghysbel for no good reason anyone could tell.

I didn’t know him very well – I’d met him once in Farise, during the war, and had drinks with him, I recalled, but that and the siege was all the time I’d spent with the man.  I’d always wondered where he’d gone.  You wouldn’t think that the first thing a wizard with a witchstone would do would be to go where he couldn’t use it, but that just meant that there was more to the story than I knew.  Like everything about this valley, it was intriguing.

Malartu was a hospitable host, and dinner that evening was grand and even a bit exotic.  I got to try the famous spirit the Tal Alon of the vale made from a particular beet, and I had to admit that it was both delicious and potent.  Tyndal promptly ordered six bottles of it from our host, and pledged to buy more before we left.  The rooms at the inn were small and comfortable, but most importantly, after spending more than a week camping in the wastes, they were normal.

The Midmarket Inn only got business a few days a week, as most local folk returned home at the end of the day.  It didn’t take very long to get someplace, in a little land like Anghysbel.  Malartu was glad for the business, and nearly beamed the next morning as the only real market in Anghysbel convened.  It was fascinating to watch, actually, as various delegations arrived that morning.

First came the Tal Alon of Lakeshire, who had the farthest to travel and the most to carry.  Their llama-drawn carts and wagons were laden with early season vegetables, potatoes and turnips, and massive squashes, as well as barrels, bags and baskets of other produce.  They were odd-looking, for Tal Alon.  They wore clothing, akin to human style, including the felt caps their folk like so much, and a buttoned waistcoat that seemed to be fashionable even when no trousers were worn.  They were somewhat taller and less hairy than their southern kin, their faces thinner and their limbs lankier.

Nor, apparently, did they share the same values as the Tal Alon I was familiar with.  Back in Hollyburrow, in Sevendor, the Tal Alon fawn obsequiously over the Karshak and are nearly worshipful toward the Alka Alon.  But when the delegation from Lakeshire arrived, they noted the presence of both races in our party but refrained from showing the slightest amount of deference to either.  Indeed, they seemed as willing to bargain and cheat Ithalia or Azhguri as they were anyone else.

They spoke a kind of debased form of Narasi, picked up from the Anferny folk and used as the common tongue to the civilized folk of the vale, but it was filled with words in their own language as well.  They used it, loudly, as a barker began squeaking out the values and bargains available this week as the carts were unloaded.  As they were spreading out their blankets and displaying their wares in the market, the Anferny caravan arrived.

Carts and wains piled high with sacks of grain and other goods rolled through the gate accompanied by a dozen merchant men of Anferny.  Malartu introduced me to them, and the others who’d come with me.  They seemed pleased just to have new people to talk to, regardless of our rank.  They were a friendly folk, like most Wilderfolk, though their speech was an even more exaggerated Wilderlands brogue in accent, and sometimes it could be as hard to understand them as the Tal.

Finally, three wagons drawn by sturdy mules arrived from Grost Kilnuskum – the pretty little mountain toward the center of the valley.  Apparently, it was where the Kilnusk clan had settled in exile, as the mountain was riddled with caves and tunnels.  The Kilnusk who brought their trade items to market were three in number . . . and they were the biggest three dwarves I’d ever seen.

Don’t mistake me – they were not tall, though they were taller than the other clans.  Kilnusk are wide.  They had impressively broad shoulders, and their torsos were twice as wide as a man’s would be in those proportions.  Their arms and hands were massive slabs of muscle, though their legs were squat.  Their faces were excessively broad, compared to a man’s or even another dwarf, with long aquiline noses and broad mouths.  Their hair and beards were a uniform golden color.  I don’t mean blonde.  I mean they had the metallic sheen of gold in them that was naturally occurring, not ornament.  It could be curly, kinky, straight, or braided, but it all shone like a hoard of gold.

The Kilnusk three traders looked confused, at first, when Suhi and Azhguri introduced themselves and explained their commission to them.  Then there was excitement, enough that one of their number went running back to their halls with the news.  Before the day was out, a delegation of five Kilnusk arrived at Midmarket.

One was apparently their prince – a young fellow named Husadri who was dressed more richly than his fellows, and bore both a golden circlet on his brow and a great gold chain with a distinctive round pendant around his neck.  He bowed in the dwarven fashion to the two emissaries and welcomed them graciously.  Then he led them inside the inn for ale and spirits because that’s what dwarves do.

The Kilnusk seemed like their fellow clans in much of their custom and speech, but there were distinct differences.  They seemed more arrogant and belligerent than either the Karshak or the Dradrien clans, but also more charming, when they wanted to be.  Husadri was a vigorous fellow, I saw as he and the others talked and drank . . . and drank.  They put away a goodly portion of the ale the Tal Alon had brought to market themselves, it seemed.

Midmarket was a raucous place after the Prince arrived, but trading continued.  It was entertaining and informative to wander through the little market and see the produce of each community.

While foodstuffs were the province of Anferny and Lakeshire, there were some with both the Kasari and Kilnusk merchants.  And while the Kilnusk’s stall was laden with hinges, nails, hasps, plowshares, and other well-crafted stock, there were similar items available in Anferny’s section.  In addition to their ironmongery, the Kilnusk also had a selection of bold, brightly colored woolen fabric for sale, a distinctive pattern of crisscrossed lines of different hues in dramatic patterns that seemed popular.

But I enjoyed the stalls of the Lakeshire Tal the most.  I spent a few pennies trying some strange fruits I was curious about, and feeding some of the better bits to Alya, who was equally as intrigued.  The beets were actually among the more interesting fare.  There was one sort of stark white beet that proved deliciously sweet and tender when cut and eaten raw.

They had a stunning collection of glassware for sale, including items that would have vied with the best in Vanador, yet were colored in wild patterns and interesting shapes.  They had a cart full of cunning woven baskets.  They sold small gourds full of their famous sugar beet rum for four pennies each, though you could fill your own mug of watered rum from their barrel for a single penny.  They, of course, were happy to throw in a dip into the barrel as part of a bargain on other items.  The turnips they sold were huge.  There were tubers available I had never seen before.  There was one Tal merchant selling nothing but odd-shaped gourds, which they used for pipes as well as cups and bottles.

There were also a few oddly large carrots in multiple shades.  Of course the Tal Alon merchants had to make a show of phallic humor in front of my wife to try to get me to buy them, because that’s what Tal Alon do.

The folk of Anferny were interesting in a different way.  They were, ostensibly, no different from the Wilderfolk I ruled over in the Magelaw, by culture and custom.  Indeed, they were fiercely proud of their origins, as they were eager to tell me when my position and office became widely known.  They peppered me with questions about the Wilderlands, after an introduction, and wanted Alya to tell them about the latest styles and court gossip, of which she knew precious little.

But her tales of Duke Anguin’s sudden restoration, under King Rard, and his marriage to the princess seemed to enchant them – likely because they were not privy to the actual personalities involved.  Rardine seemed a bit of a romantic figure, considering her imprisonment at the hands of Korbal the Necromancer, and subsequent rescue by the Duke, himself.  We wisely left out her role in the deaths of Lenguin and Enora.  No need to sully a perfectly good romantic legend.

The folk of Anferny were pleasant, if simple, in my estimation.  They were as pragmatic as other Wilderfolk despite the fact they lived in one of the most exotic locales in the kingdom.  But they also maintained the sense of hospitality and generosity that the Wilderfolk are known for.  They were eager to invite us to visit their settlement, which I promised to do presently, and they weren’t nearly as concerned over the fact that they were now ruled by a magelord as most Wilderfolk were.  They were just amazed that their ruler would deign to travel to their remote domain and give it some modicum of respect.

“Aye, we’re the Forgotten Folk,” one old geezer selling grain informed me.  “I went South, in my youth, and saw the country with my own eyes.  But none I met had ever even heard of Anferny,” he said, indignantly.  “They had no idea that the Wilderfolk lived beyond the wastes.  ’Twas galling, it was.  I was happy to be headed home, at the end of the journey.  The Wilderlands is grand, but they are an ignorant people,” he declared.  Somewhat unjustly.

“In their defense, only the Wise were aware that there had been a colony here,” I pointed out.  “It’s been seventy years or more since any account of Anghysbel has entered the record.  Much has happened, since.”

“Thar ain’t no excuse,” dismissed the geezer with a grunt.  “We didn’t forget about them, did we?  But ignorant or no, they’re our folk,” he decided.   “Kin is kin, and we can’t get another.  We’re glad you’re here, Count Minalan.  No doubt Lord Kanset and Lady Tandine will agree,” he said, thoughtfully.

“The son and daughter of the current lord?” I prompted.

“Oh, aye, and a noble pair they are,” he assured.  “Why Lord Kanset is as wise as a wizard, in most estimations.  And Lady Tandine is as bold as a knight, and fights as well as one, too.”

“She does?” Alya asked, intrigued.

“Oh, aye,” the geezer said, as if it was a law of nature, “She’s always had her mother’s spirit, and a practical outlook.  When the dragonmen attacked when she was just a maiden, she was in the field with a sword ere her brother,” he chuckled, fondly.  “She fights with lance, but she’s the mistress of the bow, and her swordplay is legendary.  She’s not content with spinning and sewing, like any Wilderlord’s daughter.  Nor is Lord Kanset a mere knight; it’s said the lord knows his letters and figures, and studies the lore like a scholar,” he said, reverently.

“I look forward to meeting them both,” I smiled.  “The Magelaw needs such people in abundance, to face the challenges we do.”

There was a lot of gossip floating around the market that I just did not have the context to understand, which was frustrating.  And many words were used I did not understand – a mixture of Kasari, Narasi, the tongue of the Kilnusk and the speech of the Tal Alon.  But I got enough of the gist of their chatter to discern that the young Kanset and Tandine were the pride of Anferny, well-respected, and known for their nobility in the general sense, as well as their titles.

“It sounds like a lovely place, Anferny,” Alya said, as we were walking back to the inn, arm in arm.  “Like home, kind of.  Only quainter.”

“Oh, I thought Boval Vale was plenty quaint,” I observed.  “Indeed, quaintness was in more abundance than even the cheese.  I think both places suffer from the blessing of remoteness.  Such place breed unique and unusual customs, due to their insular nature.  I mean, how many strangers – apart from cheese merchants – did you really meet at the edge of the world in Boval Vale?”

“Not many,” she conceded.  “Nor did many even in the Wilderlands know of our little vale – outside of the cheese merchants.  But this place is beyond Callierd,” she reminded me.  “If remoteness breeds quaintness, I expect it to be in abundance, in Anferny.”

“I’m just amazed that they’ve been able to sustain the colony for so long, being so isolated.  It’s not as if they can call on nearby lords for their defense.  The Kasari don’t consider them to be the legitimate, from what I understand.  They claim their settlement as sovereign since it pre-dates the Narasi.  Not that that precludes trade with the folk of Anferny,” I said, gesturing to one of the Kasari delegation that was debating with the geezer over the price of a few sacks of wheat and three coils of rope.  “But that doesn’t mean they accept their authority.”

“No doubt they have some constant, that keeps them centered,” she mused, smiling wanly.

“Constant, my lady wife?” I asked, curious at her turn of phrase.

“Is that not what you magi say, when you are referring to some element of magic – or the universe at large – that is eternal and unchanging in your calculations?” she pointed out.

“Well, of course,” I admitted.  “You can’t get through Elementary Thaumaturgy without memorizing a dozen important constants.  Without them, magic would be entirely subjective – wild, as they say.  They’re even more important in advanced studies.”

“Which is why I suspect that the folk of Anferny may cling to ideas about the Wilderlands and the Wilderlords that may keep them orderly,” she reasoned.  “We did so in Boval Vale, I’m coming to realize.  We idolized Sire Koucey,” she reflected.  “Far more than he deserved, and far more than the Wilderfolk did to their lords in the Wilderlands, proper.  Perhaps it was the lack of a shrine or temple to provide any competition, but the Bovali had a reverence for the lord of the vale that was our constant.  Just as you were my constant,” she revealed.

“I?  I was your constant?” I asked, confused.

“After Greenflower,” she said, looking down and a bit uncomfortable.  “Not directly after, of course – I remember nothing from that time, which is likely a boon from the gods.  But as you treated me with the Handmaiden and helped me back from madness, I needed a constant on which to dwell to keep from losing myself again.  I was lost in madness, and while the Handmaiden allowed me some sense of direction, I needed a constant like that to keep my course straight.  That was you,” she said, simply.

“How was I a constant?” I scoffed.  “A constant irritant, perhaps – particularly in those early days.  But I hardly contributed to your therapy, except by happenstance.  That was Lilastien, more than anyone.  And the Handmaiden,” I said, withdrawing the orb from a pouch.  It was, alas, nearly inert in the realm of the jevolar.  There was still activity within, as the center of the Snowflake pulsated within the irionite sphere.  But it was as cold as a stone to the touch, compared to the usual effect of me handling it.  It felt odd.  There was no feeling of magic.

“They were effective, perhaps, but it was the thought of you who guided me ever through the strangeness and madness.  Your voice.  Your face.  Your touch.  I didn’t even know who you were, half the time, but I knew you were important.  Important enough to want to come back to.  My constant,” she said, with a hint of embarrassment.

“I can’t imagine I deserve such credit,” I chuckled.  “I worried over you like an old hen.  I contemplated the craziest ideas to try to mend you.”

“Like storming the lair of the Necromancer as a distraction while you prowled the underworld seeking my salvation?” Alya challenged.  “There was a reason you were my constant, Min.  You had devoted your entire being to healing me when it seemed impossible.  How could I not feel that devotion and understand?  You were like the Triad to me.”

For those who have not studied Astronomy, as, say, a part of an Imperial education into magic and more mundane matters, might not understand the significance of that, particularly if you live fairly far south.  The Triad, you see, is the trio of stars that sits at uttermost north in a nearly perfect equilateral configuration.  Indeed, it is the Triad that the three green stars of the traditional sign of the spellmongers mimics.  They also have the reverence of the Alka Alon.  According to whispered legend, it was the sight of the Triad in the north that convinced them that Callidore was destined to become their home, when they first came here.

Just as you can’t see the Void if you come too far north, the Triad drops lower to the horizon the farther south you go.  Yet every star in the sky still rotates around them.  They stay in the center of our view, unchanging, all year long.  It was an impressive metaphor.

I paused, as I considered the importance of what she was saying.  This was, surprisingly, the most candid – and the sanest – discussion Alya and I had had about her illness since she’d begun to recover.  Indeed, I’d all but resigned myself to having a half-mad wife for the rest of my life.  That didn’t bother me.  I’d seen husbands tormented by other sorts of wives, and I still counted myself fortunate.

But since we’d come to Anghysbel, I had to admit that – even without the treatments the Handmaiden had provided for almost two years, now – Alya seemed more sane and more human than she’d been at any time since her duel with Isily.

That surprised me, intrigued me . . . and concerned me.  Magic was supposed to be healing her, yet in the absence of magic she seemed more her old self than usual.  Perhaps that’s not fair – the Alya who spoke to me now seemed to have a bit more mature wisdom and seriousness about her than the woman who’d helped me build Sevendor.  But then she’d been through a lot.

“You see, I always thought that it was the Handmaiden that provided that stability for you,” I admitted.  “It was she, after all, who was mending you.”

“Mending might be the wrong word,” she considered.  “She is remaking me.  Not against my will, but not always with my participation.  But without you as my constant, I might have drifted off into madness or indifference and lost much of what there is of me left, in the process.”

“You seem far more aware of the process than I suspected,” I observed, quietly.

“When the process directly involves my awareness, that’s hard to avoid,” she pointed out.  “Being my constant does not mean I revere you like a god.  I am also aware of the many – many – things that you do that confuse or annoy or irritate me.  Indeed, that is a portion of the constancy,” she giggled.  “You are my Minalan.  The important part is not that you are Minalan, but that you are mine,” she emphasized.  “Regardless of my confusion or terror at the process of remaking me, knowing – without doubt – that you belonged to me and I to you was what kept me from the edge of madness.  You were my constant, and I would be insane or detached to the point of oblivion right now if you were not.”

It was a simple declaration, but I could not doubt her sincerity.  Indeed, she delivered the startling observation with such dedication and certainty that it scared me a little bit.  Being a good husband to your wife is important, and I placed a lot of my self-awareness in that fact.  But being the reason why your wife was currently not screaming at candles or giggling at spoons or staring at walls for hour on end for no particular reason gave me pause.  I might be the most powerful wizard in history, according to my ego, but I’d really done nothing to deserve that kind of devotion.

It gave me a lot to think about, at dinner that evening and while I tried to get to sleep after some particularly passionate lovemaking that evening.  That, at least, was something I could understand.  Alya had had an unusually lusty response to our taking rooms at an inn since we were married, I knew.

But the rest . . . to be responsible for her sanity not because of the great deeds I did, but because I was the thing her mind expediently latched on to as the Handmaiden stitched her soul back together was a little overwhelming.  I suppose it’s always a bit of a shock to realize just how important we really are to the people in our lives.  And almost never for the reasons we think.

The next morning, as most of our party prepared to continue our journey to Anferny, an odd thing occurred.

There’s always a bit of commercial activity after a market officially closes, even in tightly regulated towns.  No merchant wants to return home with unsold merchandise, when he could take home good coin, and Midmarket was more lax than most market towns in permitting such trade.  I made one last journey through the stalls as the traders were packing up their wares and negotiating last-minute deals, just to see what bargains were available before we departed.  Perhaps a lord born into the nobility would not have deigned to sully himself with such common matters, but I was a baker’s son.  Leaving a good bargain at market was not in my nature.

I was considering one of the bolts of brilliantly-colored cloth in the back of a Kilnusk cart when I suddenly the unmistakable feeling that someone was watching me.  Not the heavyset dwarves who were eager to sell me a bolt of cloth, I realized, but someone else.  It was an odd feeling, without magic to aid me.  But everyone has that sort of feeling, I knew, whether they had rajira or not.

I looked up and glanced around the market square, looking for the source of my discomfort.  No one seemed particularly interested in what I was doing, from what I could see.  Everyone was determined to pack up their carts and pack animals and head for home, with as light a load as they could manage.  No one paid much attention to the count bargain-hunting in the square.

And then I saw him.  Standing near to the gate of the town and overlooking the market square was a strange figure, which said a lot, considering where I was.  But the creature who regarded me with such an intent stare was one of the oddest I’d encountered in this lost land.

It seemed a short man, or a tall dwarf – though it did not have the heft of the Kilnusk.  Nor did it have the beard that I’d come to associate with the Karshak and Dradrien.  Indeed, its face and pate was shaven clean, as if it had never seen whiskers.  The result was not attractive.  Indeed, it was nearly repulsive, wrinkled like the last apple in the storehouse at the end of a particularly harsh winter.  He was old, by every indication, passing old.  The creature wore naught but a long black robe with a hood thrown back.  The eyes that regarded me were dark and beady, and didn’t just stare at me.  They stared through me.

“Who is that?” I asked the Kilnusk merchant who was patiently waiting on me, with a nod of my head.  It took the dwarf a moment to see who I meant, but when he did, he appeared startled.

“Oh, him?” he said with a shudder, in broken Narasi.  “That’s Davachan.”

“Is that a race or a name?” I prompted.  It took the dwarf a few moments to translate in his head.

“Davachan?  That is a title.  His name is no more,” he said, gravely.  “He was once a mighty stonesinger of the Karshak.  But then . . . we shall not speak of it,” he decided, abruptly.  “It is not my tale to tell, for it is dark and filled with dread.  He was cast out,” he said, his voice low and choking on every word.  “He is the reason for our exile,” he added, with especial bile.

“Him?” I asked, surprised.  “He doesn’t look like much.  In fact, he looks like a Karshak that has been crumbled up and stuck in a cellar for a hundred years.”

“Four hundred,” grunted the merchant.  “And he was near four hundred years when he was exiled, and given to the service of the Yith as punishment.  But I will say no more.  Do ye want the cloth, or no?” he asked, clearly upset.

I didn’t end up buying the cloth, as pretty as it was.  In truth I was so unnerved by Davachan’s unrelenting stare that I bustled off to where Ormar and the others were preparing the carts to follow the Anferny merchants back home.  Lilastien was seated on one of the wains, studying her tablet.  I had to ask her about the strange little figure who seemed so intent on me.

“Davachan?  Of course they would call him that,” she reflected when I related the tale.  “Just as I am known as Elre.  His name means ‘betrayer.’  And no less than he deserves,” she sighed, sadly.

“That seems a bit harsh,” I offered.

“Not harsh enough, by some standards,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood decided, after a moment’s thought.  “I suppose you can consider him a fellow criminal, by the standards of his race.”

“Ishi’s tits!  What did he do?” I asked.

“What did he do?” Lilastien said, in a dreamy voice.  “Why, Davachan is the stonesinger responsible for the great delving in the Kulines.  About the time your ancestors were sacking the Imperial capital.  He dug too deeply, and against the wisdom of his peers, who cautioned him.  But the datavor – sorry, that’s a kind of Kilnusk official who oversees such matters for the Karshak – his datavor granted him permission, and he continued.”

“And did what?” I asked.  “Discover a particularly belligerent seam of coal?”

“No, Minalan,” she said, ignoring my humor.  “No, he breached a sealed chamber.  One in which a terror was hidden.  A terror from the ancient times, before your people or mine came to this world.  Something hidden from the light for a thousand millennia or more.  Davachan chose to continue his delving, though the wisest of his people demanded he stop.  He had his datavor’s permission, and the pride of his people.  He felt none was better equipped to confront such a horror.  He was wrong.”

“Wrong?  You speak in riddles, Elre,” I said, using her title on purpose.

She sighed.  “That’s what Alka Alon do, if you haven’t noticed,” she said, dryly.  “It allows us to skirt uncomfortable truths and unbearable certainties behind a veil of deniability.  From a humani perspective, it can be quite frustrating, an indication that the Alka Alon are afraid to commit to anything.  While I could argue that it is mere subtlety, the fact is that your folk are correct in this assessment, most times.  We use ambiguity to weasel our way out of accountability.  One of our worst deficits, as a race,” she condemned.

“Yet you employ it even now to avoid the subject at hand,” I pointed out.  “Speak plainly, please.  This . . . creature has quite unnerved me, and the more I learn about him, the more I feel anxious about it.”

“A fair point, Spellmonger,” she chuckled.  “Very well, the plain facts.  You must make up your own mind about their meaning.

“About the time the Second Magocracy fell,” she related, “the Karshak were delving deep beneath the Kulines, where their stonesingers were certain great riches and treasures could be found.  Their history is replete with such expeditions; the explorations of the Karshak are legendary, even amongst the dwarves.

“But one stonesinger was willing to defy the judgement of his peers.  The Kilnusk datavor assigned to his crew agreed, though the omens the Karshak take so seriously were all against it.  Pride,” she declared, “the pride of the Karshak in their own abilities drove him to continue when he had permission.  That is when it happened.”

“What happened?  And remember, I only have a lifespan of sixty years or so, at best,” I reminded her.  “Try not to embellish too much.”

“The event needs no embellishment,” she said once again ignoring my jibe.  When Davachan ordered his prospectors to push forward into the chamber, they unleashed the terror – a beast from the elder days.  One of the many vassals of the Formless, a powerful one,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.  “One thought long dead before we even came here.  Yet it survived, in torpor, in the deepest cavern it could find or contrive to make, hiding from the Vundel after its disastrous but victorious war against them.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, at the invocation of the Sea Folk.

“I think a stronger expletive is called for, in this case.  The other stonesingers insisted it was a bad idea, but Davachan plowed ahead.  When the beast was released, it killed more than a thousand, and haunted the caverns of the Kulines for near a decade, slaying every Karshak it encountered.

“At last, the Karshak’s chief finally persuaded the Kilnusk to request the assistance of the Alka Alon Council to contain the beast.  The Council obliged, to great sorrow, not understanding what it was they faced.  It took another decade and cost the lives of hundreds of Alka Alon and thousands of Karshak before the beast was finally defeated and slain.”

“So what happened?” I demanded.  This seemed like important information, and I didn’t know why I hadn’t heard the full story before.  None of the Karshak wanted to talk about it, and neither did the Alka Alon.

“In the aftermath, the Alka Alon Council called to the Kilnusk for accountability.  The datavors of the Karshak were blamed for the fault.  It was politically convenient,” she dismissed, “but also politically significant.  A few years later a moot of the entire dwarven race was held to discuss the matter.  That’s when the Kilnusk were found too arrogant by the clans that they ruled and protected, and were ordered into exile – to here, in Anghysbel, to punish them for their foolish judgement.  The Dradrien and the Karshak divided up the other clans and ruled themselves for a change.”

“That sounds like a positive development,” I pointed out.

“You would think,” agreed Lilastien.  “Alas, that is not what happened.  Instead, the two groups of clans settled into a kind of perpetual hostility to each other.  Bereft of the Kilnusk nobility – who had traditionally managed interactions between the clans – the Dradrien attacked viciously.  The Karshak and their kin retreated from the world, settling in remote glades or palaces deep underground.

“And the stonesinger?  He was sent into exile with the Kilnusk who ordered his punishment for his crimes.  When you see a Karshak whose beard has been shaven, you have seen the face of disgrace and disownment.”

“You’d think a simple execution would do,” I mused.

“That is not generally the way of the Alon,” she assured.  “Execution is reserved for very special circumstances.  Why kill you when they can torture you into madness first?  The Kilnusk abandoned their responsibilities as leaders of the clans and agreed to exile and obscurity, as punishment for their crimes.  The council of clans, led by the Karshak and the Dradrien, might have argued at every other point, but of this they were in sure agreement: that the Kilnusk were responsible for the release of the beast.  Despite their nobility, they had to go.”

“And this fellow with them,” I realized.

“Oh, he was central to the retreat.  After all, who could endure the ignominy of releasing such an ancient horror, one that wiped out a goodly portion of their people?  Davachan himself was guilty and prideful.  Any accountability would have to encompass his crimes.”

“So the Karshak justice system employs barbers?” I asked, confused.

“Minalan, you’re merely human so I’ll excuse you this time,” Lilastien said, patiently.  “When you see a Karshak, Dradrien, or any of their kin without a beard, it is the greatest of disgraces.  Death would be preferable.  The entirety of the Kilnusk were forced into exile, here, because of what he did.  To be shaved is to be cast out.”

“All right,” I decided, “not a bad answer to capital crimes.  But why was he so intent on me?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted.  “But when the Kilnusk came to exile in this land, with Davachan as their prisoner, they shaved him and then condemned him to some perpetual service for his crimes.  Not with them – they despise him, thanks to the result of his folly.  But with some other power.  I was able to figure out that much, when I started drinking with the Kilnusk last night.”

“Some other power?” I asked, confused.  “Did they enslave him to the Tal Alon?  Is he condemned to growing potatoes, now?”

“Oh, no,” Lilastien said, sadly.  “There are powers in this lost land that are older than all of us, perhaps.  They gave him over to one of them, in perpetual service, as his punishment.  Whatever power it was has extended his life by double, according to our accounting.  I thought he would be long dead by now.  His name has been officially forgotten.”

“So this stonesinger was responsible for . . .” I started, desperately seeking a straight answer.

“The release of the Beldurrazeko,” she said, her voice a whisper, now.  I could tell she did not relish relating the tale.  “A force so powerful that a King of the Alka Alon and dozens of great Alkan warriors died slaying it.  A beast so horrific that it slew thousands of Karshak masons.

“That caused a scandal so great it saw the exile of the Kilnusk, nearly brought down the Alka Alon Council, and invited intervention by the High Kings across the sea.  This entire realm was demoted.  Our new king was executed, over Beldurrazeko – that’s how serious it was – and we became a mere principality.  As was the Kilnusk king of the Karshak.  Davachan was spared not because we were lenient and merciful, but because we wanted him to suffer.  That poor Karshak,” she said, sadly, “is responsible for more tragic history in Callidore than anyone you have met – Korbal the Necromancer, included.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Road to Anferny

In Anghysbel, the fair and the foul frolic with each other daily, and the fearsome and the friendly oft come to unexpected terms.  It is this admixture of the mundane and the exotic that captivates the imagination.  We rode the road to Anferny finding that in this strange land knights turn out to be maidens, great monsters are forbidden to be slain by noble knights errant, and salvation oft comes by means of a llama.

Yet this is a fair and attractive land, with abundant hills and inviting valleys made lush by a wet and fertile climate.  It sparkles with liveliness in the warmth of summer.  The aroma of fecundity and flowers is ever in the breeze on your face. It rouses the desires and passions of the traveler as he explores its exciting and unexpected nature and the questions it inspires.

What wonders lie beyond that gentle curve in the road?  What perilous pleasures lie between those perfectly rounded hills?  What tantalizing treasures lie betwixt the limbs of that dainty grove?  It tempts a knight to take lance in hand and go boldly exploring this savagely beautiful land, devoid of magic, but filled with enchantment.

From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Viscount Tyndal of Callierd

Our stay in the village of Midmarket had been intriguing, but it had also had my head reeling at the revelations I’d discovered there.  Rolof.  Davachan.  Beldurrazeko.  Alya.  This lost land produced answers to secrets like Gilmora produces cotton.  And we had yet to be here a week.

“I like the place,” Tyndal proclaimed, as we rode out on the eastern road that morning.  His rouncey kept pace next to our wagon along the surprisingly wide and flat road.  “It’s got a lot of character.  And that market was amazing,” he added.  “I ordered another six cases of beet rum from the Lakeshire Tal – they call it asaloda.  If I can lug it back home, it will make my tavern famous.”

“You want to be famous for a tavern?” Alya asked, amused.

“Among other things,” he agreed, with a grin.  “My tavern, my town, my domain, my viscounty.  And the Knights of Callierd,” he added.  “As well as my magic, my scholarship, and my amazingly good looks.”

“Don’t forget your overwhelming humility,” I reminded him, dryly.

“I’m too humble to mention it.  Pity Rondal couldn’t come with us,” he sighed.  “He would have loved this place.  And it would be good to have been back on the road with him.  After getting soggy by the sea and contending with dull, boring court politics, a bit of adventure would have done him good.”

“He has an intended bride,” Alya reminded him.  “I have the feeling he’s getting all the adventure he can stomach.”

“Yes, he’ll be as boring as old Arborn, before he knows it,” I added, dryly.  The Ranger Captain was the ducal Master of Wood, which meant that, in addition to his oversight of the Kasari lands and his Wilderlands domain, he had dominion over every major forest in Alshar.  And he was married to Pentandra.  I doubted he’d had the time to ruminate about how much he missed a bachelor’s life.  I could not imagine his life was boring in the slightest.

“That’s why a knight should avoid marriage,” Tyndal said, philosophically.  “It robs you of your vitality and ambition.”

“Yes, things have been so placid since we were wed.  Haven’t they been, my love?” I said to Alya, with a sarcastic chuckle.

“Oh, yes, it’s almost depressing,” she assured, in the same manner.  “I’ve considered making eyes at the blacksmith at market just to give me some excitement.  Tyndal, marriage isn’t guaranteed to kill your ambition.  For some men, it ignites it.”

“And some men are content with bean porridge every day and feel lucky to have it.  I prefer more variety,” he said, as he rode away from us, toward the head of the column.

“Did he just compare me to bean porridge?” Alya asked, aghast.

“I’m sure he meant it well,” I soothed, with a chuckle.  “He likes bean porridge.  I do, too.  And I’m lucky to have it,” I said, with sincerity.  “Every day.  Sometimes twice.”  That earned me a gentle punch in the arm.

“That’s just Tyndal’s way,” she demurred.  “He’s a good lad.  When Ishi is ready, she’ll mess up his life well enough.”

“I have no doubt.  But Tyndal does like variety.  He’s the patron of a new temple to Ishi in Nandine.  To ensure that there is a steady stream of lovely young lovelies in his new town.”

“And he prowls the taverns of Vanador every time he is there seeking lonely ladies,” she sighed.  “All it will take is the right one . . . “

“Who could be the right one for Tyndal?” I mocked.  “I thought, perhaps, Noutha might appeal to him, but he has more respect for her as a warmage than as a woman.  No, I think my former apprentice is a permanent bachelor.  Not a chaste bachelor, but a permanent one.”

“We shall see,” my wife murmured.  “I never saw you coming into my life.  I suspect Tyndal is just as blind to such things.”

“I was sneaky,” I reminded her.  “I distracted you with my competence.  And you wanted a discount on my fee that I was willing to give.”

“Sounds like fate to me,” she shrugged.

I was pleased, I must confess.  Alya sounded and acted more like the old Alya than ever before, and I was enjoying it.  While I missed my children desperately, I also had missed my wife.  Seeing a bit of her back in old form made losing magic a bargain, from my perspective.

Perhaps the scenery contributed to my romantic perspective.  The countryside we were rolling through was gorgeous, like the lushest portions of the Wilderlands punctuated by the strange and exotic.

We passed by meadows and glades, and forests and groves, as we made our way to Anferny, and it was all lovely.  Twice I thought we were under attack, when it was just a unique creature I’d never seen before blundering across the road.  We stopped at luncheon to water the horses at a stream and enjoy a bite and – for some – a brief nap.  At some point we’d crossed into the Anferny domain, proper, but I couldn’t tell you precisely where that was.  I just wasn’t paying attention.

I must admit, our party became a bit merrier without our dour dwarven friends.  At luncheon that day there was more singing (thanks to Lilastien’s new machine) and more laughter with the Anferny merchants as we traded tales.  After the torturous crossing of the wastes, that merry sound felt like a drink of cool, clean water.

We were nearing more civilized parts of the domain a few hours later.  The first human homestead appeared on our right, and then two more on our left as we proceeded down the road.  The native folk of Anferny were eager to tell us who lived there and what function their freehold had – I’d gotten the impression that freeholding, not the building of estates, was the norm in Anferny.

What is the difference?  In general, freeholding is the result of one or two families developing their lands as well as circumstances permitted.  Estates tend to be more communal affairs, and therefore larger and – theoretically – more resilient.  Yet I’d seen dozens of freeholders who prospered while estates stagnated or withered altogether, thanks to the strife of internal politics.  Conversely, there were freeholders who endured bitter poverty, thanks to a lack of determination, foresight, and vision.  Neither institution was technically superior, but for some reason the freeholder example held true for most of Anferny.  There were only a few actual estates.

We knew we were in civilized parts when we came to the first tavern – a tiny little public house with the sign of two blessedly normal stylized boars charging at each other.  We stopped for a quarter-hour to water the horses and sample the ale – which was bitter, strong, and tasty.

I don’t think I’m wrong to suggest that a large part of our eagerness was the desire for normalcy, after what we’d encountered in Anghysbel thus far.  That desire had been whetted by our time at the Midmarket Inn, but somehow stopping into a local pub for a quick pint on our journey restored our spirits more than a day spent browsing an exotic market.  The tavern keeper was pleased with the unexpected surge in business, and our presence immediately ignited a wave of gossip and news, as we casually disclosed our plan and purpose.

After that, we could have been traveling through any domain in the Wilderlands, our surroundings were so normal.  The fields and pastures, and meadows and woods that we passed seemed delightfully ordinary – with the exception of a few unusual trees, and the herding of animals I’d never seen before.  The peasants waved from the fields, and the occasional traveler we encountered moving between settlements grunted and nodded at the sight of strangers like any goodman in Vorone.

The first village we passed through, Gorluinol, was a placid hamlet only a little larger than Midmarket.  It lacked the market town’s palisade, but there was a well-manned watchtower that rose five stories above the High Street.  And there were guards at the gated entrance who looked reasonably alert.  But before I could properly admire the architecture and appreciate the charm of the place, we had ridden through it.

Beyond Gorluinol, the road opened up to a wide lakefront to the north, beyond lush-looking grassland.  It would have been perfect, on that cool summer’s day, had we not sighted an aberration in the landscape.

The line of our caravan, by then, had stretched out for a quarter mile as we followed the winding road uphill and down.  Our wagons were of different weights, and our horsemen regularly rode up and down the column on various errands.  Some teams pulled more resolutely than others. It was natural to see gaps in our line.  Perhaps the normalcy of our surroundings had made us lax.  But when someone at the head of our column suddenly blew two loud notes on a horn, we could not even see the danger the notes indicated was ahead.

I readied my newfound weaponry, anyway.  And a moment after the horn, the box on my belt hissed at me, before Ithalia’s voice reported what she observed from the sky.

“Minalan, there’s some beast crossing the fields toward the road,” she informed me over the radio, her voice distant and tinny, as if she was speaking through the Mirror Array.  “A big one, too.  Half the size of a siege beast . . . but it’s . . . it’s odd,” she said, as I watched her bird dive in for a closer look.

“Everything is odd, here,” I muttered, as I fumbled with the device.  It was actually fairly simple to use, once Lilastien showed me the basics.  There was a switch that you pressed when you wanted to speak.  I finally managed to activate it.   “Is it acting belligerent?”

“It looks like it came out of the lake.  It’s moving with surprising speed toward the road.  I don’t think you’ll discover its disposition until it arrives,” she replied.  “It looks like some of the knights are going to investigate.”

“Let me know if it eats them,” I concluded, then released the switch.  I turned to Alya as I pulled the team to a halt.  “There’s a monster or something menacing the vanguard, ahead.  I should probably take a look,” I said, grabbing the plasma rifle and sliding down off the cart.

“Be careful!” she urged.  “Don’t do anything stupid!”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that.  I was a wizard.  I had to reserve the right to do something stupid.  But I didn’t want to explain that, so I blew her a kiss, instead, before I started walking.

Less than a quarter mile up the road from our cart was the lead wagon, where Ormar and Lilastien were sitting and staring out across the meadow to the north.  I followed their gaze and caught sight of the creature that had brought our column to a halt.

It was large – about half as big as a siege beast.  It was difficult to make out details from this distance, but it appeared to be two connected lumpy shapes about three feet taller than a man at the height.  The head of the thing – at least, I was assuming it was a head – was small, far smaller than you would think a beast that size would be, about as large as a big pumpkin.  The entire surface of the beast was covered in gray bumps the size of bushel baskets, and I could see pinkish flesh underneath.

“What in three hells is that?” I asked, my jaw agape.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in fifteen hundred years on this world,” admitted Lilastien, shaking her head.

“That’s comforting,” Ormar said, dryly.  “It looks like two giant mushroom caps trying to drunkenly hump each other,” he observed.

“Where are the Kasari?” I asked.

“Scouting ahead,” Ormar reported as he squinted into the distance.  “That thing came out of nowhere after they left.  Duin’s wrinkly scrotum, that thing looks nasty.  Damn, I miss magesight!” he sighed.

Lilastien nodded, and then realized something.  Quickly, she raised her plasma rifle – but did not fire at the beast.  She peered through the sight.  “Minalan, these things have electronic telescopic sights!”  She lowered the weapon, and then showed me how to activate it.  In moments I was able to observe almost as well as I could have with magesight.

It looked no more pleasant up close.  There were details of its features that suggested an aquatic life, but that was about all I could discern about it. It didn’t have legs, as such, but a ring of small, stubby feet lined the bottom edge of the thing and propelled it forward at an impressive speed, for its size.  It moved in a way that seemed as much comic as horrific, like nothing I’d ever seen.  And the head . . . up close, it looked like a fleshy, toothless mouth that continuously churned in a disgusting fashion, and the three round things I presumed were eyes were glassy and oozing some slime from the edges.

Tyndal and his men approached quickly, but the thing did not seem to notice them as it thrashed its way across the meadow and toward the road.  I watched as they made a close pass to evaluate the thing, pausing a few moments to regard it from a close perspective.  Then Tyndal ordered them to withdraw, and a moment later he and his men returned.

“That thing is as ugly as an infected boil,” Tyndal reported, as he brought his mount to a halt.  “Dangerous, too.  We saw a couple of sheep that got in its way.  What was left of them.  It chews up the ground where it travels, like some mad plowman.  If it reaches the road . . .”

“That could be problematic,” I agreed with a sigh.  The way that was moving, the road would be a quick route to destruction in either direction.

“Shall we charge, then?” Tyndal asked, as he and his men began preparing themselves.

“Or we could just shoot it,” Lilastien said, patting the stock of her plasma rifle as we heard hoofbeats coming from up the road from the opposite direction we were traveling.  It seemed as if the commotion the creature was causing had alerted some folk from Anferny, who were coming to investigate.  “I would imagine we could kill it with these.  I suppose that sort of creature is why they stocked plasma rifles here in the first place.”

“I could blow it up,” offered Ormar, glancing back at his wagon.

“I think a cavalry charge will be sufficient,” Tyndal demurred, as his men turned their mounts to face the thing.  “We don’t have time to prepare an alchemical charge.”

“Shooting is quick,” reminded Lilastien.

“I could just blow it up,” Ormar repeated, a little more testily.

“A cavalry charge is more fun,” countered Tyndal as the horseman from up the road finally appeared over the crest of the hill. A horsewoman, actually – not the Kasari ranger I expected, but a young woman in a hauberk and mantle.  She pulled her mount up in front of the knights, who had already unlimbered their lances and drawn their swords.  They were blocked from their charge by the woman, which inspired a frown on Tyndal’s face.

It could not match the expression on her own face, though – the attractive young lady was irate.  She was dressed in trousers and tunic and rode her horse straddled, not sidesaddle.  There was a cavalry sword at her hip, and a horn on a baldric around her shoulder.  A bow and quiver protruded from her saddle.  She was very pretty, with dark, almost black hair that hung behind her in two braids.

“What in Duin’s name do you think you’re doing?” she demanded angrily, in heavily accented Narasi.

“We’re about to slay a monster,” Tyndal replied, evenly.  “It’s the sort of thing knights errant do.  If my lady will continue her ride, we’ll get to it, then.”

“Do you know what happens if you kill that thing?” she demanded, pointing at the creature.

“Fame, fortune and a story that will ensure I never pay for a drink again,” he answered, reasonably.

“No!” the girl said, her eyes narrowing.  “That, you idiot, is a biberon!  It’s big and stupid and harmless if you don’t get in its way!  Most of the year it sits in the bottom of the lake and doesn’t bother anybody.  But if you kill a biberon on land, do you see all of those bumps on its back?  Each one of those is one of its young – it’s horrible, nasty, carnivorous, vicious young, who will all burrow into the meadow when their mother is dead and then spend the next year attacking everything in sight before they finally go back to the lake!” she related, furiously.  “And there are scores of them!”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Tyndal asked, accepting her tale but disliking her attitude.  “Believe it or not, we’re not from around here,” he pointed out.

“Really?” the lady said, with an exasperated, sarcastic sneer.  “We have ways of contending with such things as the biberon,” she assured, as she drew a horn she wore on a baldric.  She blew one loud, steady note followed by three quick ones.

“Yes, that doesn’t appear to have stopped it,” Tyndal said, frowning at the rapidly approaching biberon.

“Just bide, you idiot!” she snorted.

“Wait for what?” he demanded.

“The patrol,” she said, dismissively.  “I told you we have ways to contend with the biberon.  When one emerges, we summon the patrol to drive it back.  Just stand at ease,” she commanded, “sheath your swords and don’t challenge it.  People get hurt or killed, that way.”

“It’s getting closer,” Ormar reminded them, anxiously.

“Don’t worry, they’re coming,” she said.  “Probably from the northwest.  There’s usually one in the area, this time of year.”

Everyone shifted their attention to that direction, curious to see when the mysterious patrol would arrive.  There was a rise, there, a grassy hill framed by two stands of trees.  To our surprise it did only take a few moments after she’d blown the horn – but the rumble we began to hear was not hoofbeats.

Instead, a line of strange figures suddenly surmounted the hill and began to drive their way toward the biberon.  I quickly raised the plasma rifle and peered through its magnified site at the new arrivals, being careful to keep my fingers away from the trigger mechanism.

“Ishi’s tits!” I said, in surprise.  For the image that appeared in the scope showed a force of cavalry – perhaps two score – but of a kind that I’d never seen before.

Indeed, they were not horsemen, nor even Fell Hound riders.  The mounts were neither equine nor canine.  They were llamas.  Being ridden by the fiercest looking Tal Alon I’d ever seen.

Their steeds were surprisingly large for the species, which is sometimes favored in poorer areas of the Wilderlands and even in the Riverlands for their utility, their flesh, their milk, and their hair.  It serves as the poor peasant’s sheep, cow, and donkey.  But these llamas were massive, compared to their southern cousins, their hair uniformly black.  The bore saddles of leather like a horseman’s, as well as reins and harness.  Some had metal plates strung across their chests.

The riders were just as unusual as the mounts.  I’d met a few of the Lakeshire Tal, at Midmarket, and apart from being less hairy, slightly taller, and perhaps just a bit more irreverent as the Wilderlands variety, they seemed like normal Tal Alon.  But these fellows were the first Tal I’d ever seen bearing armor and helmets.  And shields.  And weapons.  Nearly all of them had a short sword or an axe on their saddle, each had a bow and quiver, and there were little lances at rest in their saddle scabbards.  But each little rider also bore a torch, and it was with flaming brands that they charged the biberon.

I described what I was seeing to the others, as the little cavalry began to surround the beast, waving their torches at its trio of eyes until it halted its progress.

“You have Tal Alon knights,” Tyndal said to the girl, almost accusingly.  “Riding . . . war llamas.”

“They’re the Third Lakeshire Patrol by their banner, if I am not mistaken,” the girl sniffed, as she peered at the Tal Alon cavalry, shading her eyes with her hand.  “They’ll have that bloody thing turned around and headed back to the lake in no time,” she predicted, confidently.  “They’re adept at this sort of thing.  Now, Sir Idiot, would you mind telling me who you are and why you feel you have leave to draw sword in my lands?”

“Your lands?” chuckled Tyndal, irreverently.  “And who are you to regulate my practice of arms?”

“I am Lady Tandine of Anferny!” she said, arrogantly.  “Daughter of Lord Kanlan of Anferny.  My rule is law, here,” she added, in case he enjoyed any doubt.

“Well, my lady Tandine of Anferny, I am Viscount Tyndal of Callierd, who was gifted my lands by my liege Count Minalan, of the Magelaw Palatinate.  But you may call me Sir Idiot,” he added, with a smirk.  “Those lands extend from the Maier River indefinitely to the north . . . to the last human settlement.  Right here, in fact,” he said, gesturing around.

“What?” she asked with a disbelieving scoff.

“My lady, I am your lawfully appointed liege lord,” he chuckled.  “Indeed, I came here in part to secure the fealty of the lord of the domain to myself and Count Minalan.”

“You?” Tandine asked, skeptically.  “You are my liege?”

“And you are my vassal,” Tyndal agreed.  “I have a scroll the size of a blanket to prove it if you require.  And if you can read.”

“And just who is this ‘Count Minalan’?” she asked, her nostrils flaring and her eyes flashing.

“A gentleman of impeccable character and uncommon wisdom,” I offered.  “As well as a magelord of great repute.  I happen to be that gentleman, my lady,” I said, with an informal bow.

“You are Count . . . Minalan?” she asked, even more skeptically.  I admit, I didn’t look much like a count at the moment.  I was wearing a lightweight linen tunic of faded blue, and my old journeyman’s wizard’s hat that looked like it had journeyed a lot.  Except for the plasma rifle, I looked more like a footwizard than Fondaras.

“I am,” I agreed.  “And as cheeky as my vassal has been with you, he has not been untruthful.  We’ve traveled a very long way to inspect your domain and enjoy your hospitality.  Among other errands.”

“A magelord?” If anything, Tandine looked yet more skeptical.  She glanced between me and Tyndal.  “Is he one, too?”

“Yes,” I admitted.  “As is Lord Ormar, an alchemist in the service of Duke Lenguin, himself.  And this is Lady Lilastien, of the Alka Alon.  The Tera Alon,” I corrected, seeing as how she’d been traveling in her larger form.  “They are but a portion of our party.  There are other magelords in our company.  As well as Fondaras the Wise.”

She looked at all of us with new incredulity.  “Magelords.  Wizards.  Magi.  You did realize that magic does not work here before you came?” she pointed out, critically.

“We heard a rumor or two.  But there was no denying us.  We have come with the sanction of the king, himself,” I promised.

“Now you edge into dishonesty, my lord.  There is no king!” Tandine scoffed.

“There is now, my lady,” Tyndal corrected.  “His Royal Majesty Rard I, King of Castalshar.  We are in the fifth year of his reign.  I attended his coronation, myself,” he added, boldly.

“A king?  Magelords?” she asked, shaking her head.  “And you can prove you are who you say you are?”

“Of course,” I assured her.  “My lady, our tale will take long to tell, and we’re eager to keep moving.  If you will allow us to inform the rest of our party that it is now safe to travel without you setting your fearsome war llamas upon us, I think we can tell that tale in the comfort of your own keep.”

She paused, thoughtfully, then carefully nodded.  “Yes.  If what you tell me is true, there has been much that has changed in the south.  I think this is a tale my father and brother will want to hear.  That will be best done at yon castle.  I’ll escort you there, myself,” she added, mistrustfully.

I couldn’t help but notice that Tyndal couldn’t take his eyes off her.

The road to Anferny Town was uphill, as the place had been built on the steep northern slope of the southern ridge.

Indeed, “steep” was an excellent way to describe most of the land in Anghysbel.  With notable exceptions, there was very little land that could be considered flat.  We were nearly always going up a hill or down one, and the road never ran straight.  The long, wide ledge upon which Anferny had been built was easily three or four hundred feet above the road and the fields.  The ridge behind it towered over the roof of the highest watchtower by another two thousand feet.

The simple round castle that gave refuge to the people in dangerous times was perched on a hillock at the eastern end with a nearly circular bailey that extended down to the level of the village, interrupted by a stout gatehouse that separated castle from town.  There was a domestic range of halls that ringed the keep, inside the bailey, and the curtain wall was punctuated with little turrets.

The pitch of the rooves in both town and castle were almost impossibly steep, a testament to just how much snow this place got in the winter.  Most buildings were whitewashed half-timbered lodges with stone foundations.  The town, of course, had the temple and shrine in the center, along with a few larger halls.

It was a delightful little place in a beautiful setting.  The spires of the temple and the steeply peaked thatched rooves of the stone houses provided a picturesque skyline, with the grand backdrop of the steep slope behind it.  As we got closer it only became more charming as details of Anferny’s daily life and unique history emerged.

“There are almost two thousand people, in town,” Lady Tandine boasted, as she rode between Tyndal and I.  I’d swapped horses with one of the knights for the remainder of the journey into the town and let him drive the cart with Alya.  “It’s the largest human settlement in Anghysbel.   There are more than six thousand in the domain.  Most of the farms and estates are within a few hours’ ride of Anferny.  Lakeshire is but half a day.”

“Do you have a lot of commerce with the Kilnusk?” Tyndal asked, curious.

She shrugged.  “Enough.  We sell them a lot of grain and get a lot of iron in return.  And other things.  They’re very helpful, when it comes to the stora,” she said.

“Stora?  What are stora?” Tyndal asked.

Tandine shook her head.  “I forget you are not familiar with the vale, Sir Idiot.  Beyond Grost Kilnuskum – that’s the mountain fortress of the Kilnusk,” she explained, patiently, “there is a large arid plain, almost a desert, betwixt their mountain and Chimney Mountain, where the earth vomits steam and ash.  It is filled with natural stone formations that look like large columns – hence we call it the Plain of Pillars.  It is also filled with huge beasts known as the stora who thrive there.  A single stora is twice as large as the biberon you almost attacked.  Large enough to trample a village.”

“So how do the Kilnusk help with them?” I asked, fascinated.

“They fight them,” she grunted.  “Especially the young stora, who are about the size of an ox.  Indeed, the dwarves see it as great sport.  They send their young warriors out to patrol the frontier between the plains and the south, and when they find a stora too close, they attack it.  If one of the larger adults wanders south, they form a war party and drive it away.  They consider that real sport,” she added, shaking her head.  “They usually lose a few warriors, when they do that, but they see it as worthwhile fun.”

“I can see that,” Tyndal shrugged.  “I slew a dragon once, and it was quite sporting.”

“My lord, I do not appreciate being lied to,” Tandine frowned.  “Empty boasts do not impress me, nor do dishonest knights.  Think me not a gullible maiden!”

I cleared my throat.  “As unlikely as it is, my lady, I’m afraid my vassal speaks the truth.  Or mostly.  He had help with the dragon.  It attacked Vorone three years ago and gutted the town.  We happened to be there for a conference, so the attack was blunted.  Many warmagi fought it.  But I do admit that Tyndal had the idea to slay it, eventually, and he executed the plan with some assistance.  Its skull now sits at the ducal palace in Falas.  It was the second we slew,” I added.  “The third nearly destroyed my home barony of Sevendor.”

“I hear you have your own dragon around here,” Tyndal added.

“In the northwest,” Lady Tandine nodded, though her face was still skeptical about Tyndal’s claim.  “I cannot imagine anything or anyone who could best it.  It is a fearsome beast.  I’ve seen in bathing in the Hot Lake.  And eating a stora,” she added.  “A fully grown one.  I cannot imagine you killing a dragon,” she said to Tyndal, accusingly.

“With magic, these days, a great many things are possible,” I murmured.  “There have been improvements since your ancestors last journeyed south.  Slaying dragons is not easy.  But with magic and a little ingenuity, it’s possible.  If you’re brave and bold enough,” I said, nodding toward my former apprentice.

“We thought them fable, until this one appeared,” she admitted.  “For a few years we feared that it might cause mischief.  But when my brother was a boy, he was out hunting and met an elf in the forest who assured him that it had settled and had no desire to menace us if we left it in peace.  My father believed him when no one else would.  So I beg of you brave, bold magelords: do nothing to disturb the worm,” she pleaded.  “Anferny would pay for your failure.”

“I’m actually more interested in this elf than the dragon, at the moment,” I offered.  “Where, exactly, was your brother hunting when he saw it?”

“Her, actually,” Tandine corrected.  “The elf – he called her a pixie at the time, but I think she was one of the Tree Folk.  They rarely come here, Father Brindus tells me.  But the elf was a female.  He encountered her in the northeast, beyond the Plain of Pillars, in the Gouge.  There are a number of wild beasts in that region, and he finds it good hunting.”

Tyndal and I exchanged a meaningful glance.  The only Alka Alon known to be in this region was Ameras.

“What?” demanded Lady Tandine as she watched our expressions change.  “My lords, what do you know of this elf?”

“She may be someone we’re seeking on our quest,” I explained.  “I will tell the tale later – as much as I can.  We come to Anghysbel on many errands, my lady.”

“One dealing with one of the Tree Folk?” she asked, incredulously.  “Gentlemen, I remind you that I am not some gullible maiden.  The Fair Folk do not mix with humanity!”

“No, my lady, your skepticism is quite clear,” I chuckled.  “But there have been many changes in the greater world.  The Alka Alon have come out of their trees and their hidden refuges to aid humanity in its wars and struggles once again.”

“I cannot believe that!  Indeed, gentlemen, I am starting to believe I am being fooled by a clever pack of vagabonds!” she snorted.  “I have never— Trygg’s grace, what in five hells is that?” she asked, suddenly shocked and surprised.

For Ithalia and Nattia had flown their birds overhead, on their way to Anferny Town, and the shadow darkened our way for a moment.

Tyndal laughed at her surprised reaction.  “Those are giant hawks, my lady, enchanted with magic to bear riders.  Of the riders, one is a fiery Kasari lass in the service of the Count.  The other is a lady of the Alka Alon, though she has been transformed.  Fairly intriguing traveling companions for a pack of vagabonds, wouldn’t you think?”

Chapter Fifteen

Kanlan, Lord of Anferny

The folk of Anferny Town are extremely friendly, hospitable, and welcoming of strangers.  They behave in the manner of most Wilderlords, but maintain a few unique customs of their own.  Though they are few in number, they enjoy a vibrant culture guided by their injured lord and his two charismatic children.  It is an ideal little town in a fair little land, all the more remarkable for the strangeness of the neighboring regions.

From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Gareth of Vanador

There was a lot of excitement in the quiet town by the time we rode through the gates that afternoon.  The giant hawks in the sky had started it, of course, as the populace realized that they were not normal birds, and that had raised an alarm.  But shortly after the first of the merchants back from Midmarket arrived and carried the news of our visit – and our rank and position.  As we slowly rode up the switchbacks to the town gate, an impromptu celebration developed.  By the time we rode through the gates a sizable portion of the town had poured into the cobbled streets to cheer our arrival.

It was nothing, compared to the festivities I’d enjoyed in Barrowbell, Sevendor, Vorone, and even Castabriel.  But what the crowd lacked in numbers they made up for in enthusiasm.

“They don’t see many folk from the south,” explained Lady Tandine, a little sheepishly, when Tyndal remarked about the turn-out.  “Particularly nobles.”

“We don’t particularly look like nobles, right now,” I noted with a chuckle.  “I’m not even wearing armor, much less my court finery.”

“It’s too bloody hot for either!” Tyndal complained.  “We’re terribly far north, for it to be this hot.  How can you stand it?”

“It is said that the ground beneath us brings the heat of the world to warm us,” Tandine said, amused at his discomfort.  “In winter, while the snows bury our rooves, they rarely obscure our streets because of the subterranean heat.  In summer, things can get a little . . . sweaty,” she admitted.  “I wouldn’t think a bold, brave knight like yourself would be bothered by such a small inconvenience.  After all, my lord has braved dragon fire,” she reminded him.  She still didn’t quite believe him, I think, but she was at least open to the possibility.

“I’m merely concerned about the manly aroma that is arising as a result,” Tyndal said.  “A conceit of the magi: without magic to cool and soothe, the heat becomes a distraction.”

“Thankfully, the pride of Anferny is our baths,” laughed Tandine.  “They are heated by those very same fires.  They’ve been here since the time of the Ancients.  Our ancestors were prudent in developing them, for they toiled long to build this place and desired the comforts it could provide.  They are among our most popular amenities,” she assured.  “I strongly encourage you to make use of them.  Soon.”

“I eagerly look forward to using them, my lady,” Tyndal said, proudly.

“I find myself looking forward to that, too, Sir Idiot,” she giggled, despite herself.

“I find myself looking forward to meeting your father, Lord Kanlan, my lady,” I said, wanting to head off the conversation before Tyndal decided to get crude.  That was not only within his capabilities, but he also saw it as a source of pride.  He could travel from charming to vulgar in a surprisingly short amount of time.  “What can you tell me about him before we meet?  Without betraying confidences, of course,” I added, mildly.

“My lord father has reigned over Anferny since my grandsire’s death,” she related with a sigh.  “He married my mother, a maiden of House Niabel, in his youth, just before he took over the lordship of the domain when his sire passed away.  She died of illness a few years after giving birth to my brother, Kanset,” she added, sadly.  “As the elder sibling, I was raised to assume the lordship of the vale.  Should I find a husband and . . . prove fertile.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise.  “Your people allow ladies to inherit rule?”  That was not generally an Alshari custom.  But there had been exceptions, I knew.

“That’s how my grandsire became lord of Anferny – he married my grandmother, who ruled for thirteen prosperous years.  In Anferny, my lord, there are so few people that we elevate the best among us to the highest positions, regardless of our sex.  It is the custom of the land,” she assured me.  “Hence my inheritance of the domain, and not my brother’s.”

“That is fascinating,” Tyndal commented.

“You object, my lord?” Tandine asked, sharply.

“Me?  Not at all, my lady,” Tyndal dismissed.  “Among all the divisions between the sexes, wisdom shows no preference.  Indeed, the leadership of the Court Wizard of Alshar, Baroness Pentandra, has been instrumental in the restoration of Duke Anguin to his rightful coronet.  The duchess of Alshar, Princess Rardine, is accounted one of the most discerning and insightful rulers in the kingdom.  And the queen, herself, Grendine of Alshar, is accounted among the most formidable rulers in history,” he assured.

“My vassal speaks truly,” I nodded.  “A ruler need not don armor and wield a sword to be considered a good steward of the realm.  Quite the contrary.”

“I can do both as well as any knight,” boasted Lady Tandine.  “Try me on the listfield with lance and shield, if you doubt that, my lord.  Or in the eric, with longsword, greatsword, axe, or mace.  Or match your skill against mine at the butts, and I will show you what a bow can do.  My lord father was determined, early on, to ensure that I was the equal of any man who asked for my hand.  Or his better.”

“That is a paternal foresight I can truly appreciate,” I said, digging out my pipe as we came to the High Street of Anferny.  “I have daughters, myself,” I explained.

It took most of the afternoon to get all our wagons up the slope and into town, and by the time the last one came in – driven by Gareth and Travid, both of whom looked tired and irritated – I had met the town’s mayor, his wife, a clerical delegation of five, and a few score other people of import from Anferny.  All were eager to hear the news from the south, of course, though they rarely had the context to understand it.  We spoke to them for a few hours.  Lady Tandine finally escorted us to the castle gate, where her younger brother, Lord Kanset, was waiting for us, personally.

He seemed as youthful and vital as his sister, a handsome lad just a few years younger than Tyndal with dark hair and dark, intelligent eyes and a mischievous grin.  He cheerfully bowed to Tyndal and I, and once the rest of our party caught up with us, he led us through the small courtyard and into the great hall of Anferny Castle.

“Well, this is cute,” Alya remarked in a low voice as we followed the brother and sister through the gate, where a large iron portcullis had been raised.  “It’s small – smaller than Spellgarden,” she noted.  “But they keep it up, well.”

“They likely don’t need much more castle than this,” I estimated.  “That bailey could hold the entire town, at need.  And that slope looks formidable.  But who would attack them?  The Tal Alon?  The Kilnusk?”

“I believe they fear the creatures of the vale more than the people,” agreed Lilastien, who was walking behind me, escorted by Gareth.  “I’ve heard two-dozen names of creatures I don’t recognize, already.  And no talk of any real organized enemies.”

“They fight the lizard-people, sometimes, when they get riled, I heard from one of the townspeople,” Gareth admitted.

“Lizard people?” Alya asked, surprised.

“Some sort of humanoid reptile,” shrugged the Steward of Vanador.  “They live in the swampy westernmost portion of the vale, from what I’m told.  Very primitive.  Stone and bone tools.  They’re not generally war-like, but every now and then they will apparently harass one of the settlements in this region.  There have even been extended conflicts.”

“There are actually two or three species of such creatures dwelling on Callidore,” agreed Lilastien.  “They didn’t originate here, I’m certain, but they came here at some point or other.  I’ve never seen them before, but I’ve heard of them.  Intelligent, but . . . primitive.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of such folk,” I admitted.  “They aren’t Alon?”

“They are one of the Lost Races,” Lilastien explained.  “The Vundel have invited many to Callidore, over the millennia.  But this world is not always kind to such folk.  Or they piss off the Vundel, and the Vundel destroy them,” she added, meaningfully.

“There are other Lost Races?” Alya asked, interested.

“Oh, a few,” Lilastien assured.  “Perhaps even some of these strange creatures, here at the roof of the world.  For all we know, the biberon was once intelligent.  Not all such beings have two hands and two feet.  The lizard people are a cautionary tale, one I hope humanity can avoid.  I fear that, bereft of your tekka and your old civilization, humanity will end up like that, some day.  Little more than animals living in the barest margins of the world.  Indeed, the wild tribes of the Wilderlands are nearly there.  It’s sad.”

On that dire note, we entered Castle Anferny.  The place was well-kept and fairly well-appointed, if antiquated in design.  Perhaps a score of men-at-arms or local knights manned the gate and the small towers, and enough notice had been given to the castle staff so that the delicious smell of roasting meat was everywhere, by the time we were ushered within to meet the lord of the castle.

“We’re preparing a welcome feast,” Lord Kanset grinned.  “I ordered it as soon as we heard the news.  It’s not often we get a count visiting us.  Or much of anyone, actually.”

“We’ve never had a count visit us before,” Tandine dismissed.  “The records say that there was a baron, once.  I assume you will want to hold court for the fealty ceremony?” she asked, bluntly.

“It’s traditional,” I shrugged.  “Wherever Lord Kanlan would like to do it, though, would be fine.”

“Our father is looking forward to it,” Kanset assured us, as he fetched a tray of old silver winecups from a servant.  There didn’t seem to be many servants around the place, I noticed – a butler, a hall steward, and a couple of drudges.  Far fewer than we employed at either Sevendor or Spellgarden.  But then the castle was not terribly large, and it wouldn’t require an extensive staff.  I took the cup and raised it gratefully to my lips.  It had been more than a week since I’d tasted wine.  It was good, too, although it had a distinctly different flavor than the vintages I was used to.

“And I look forward to meeting him,” I agreed.  “It must take quite a man to keep a domain like this in good shape, without a ready liege or vassals to assist.”

“I’ve often thought that it was the lack of a ready liege or vassals that has contributed to our stability,” chuckled Kanset.  “The histories seem to speak of nothing but war between them, back in the Wilderlands.”

“You make a valid point,” I smiled.  “Thankfully the Magelaw is too new a realm to enjoy such strife, yet.  My vassals have largely been appointed by me, personally, and did not inherit their lands and titles.  And magelords have different interests than Wilderlords.  Thus far, we haven’t even had much squabbling between nobles.  We’ve been too busy fighting the goblins to indulge in petty feuds.  But I’m anticipating them breaking out as soon as peace occurs,” I said, wryly.

“Remarkable!” Lord Kanset said, shaking his head.  “An entire realm, ruled by wizards!  I would dearly love to see some magic, some day,” he admitted.  “The only wizard I’ve ever met is old Fondaras, there, back when I was a boy.  He filled my head of tales from the Magocracy, and Old Perwyn, back then.  Indeed, he inspired me to seek out such tales in our lamentably small library, and even the temple libraries.”

“I merely told you of the world beyond the wastes,” demurred the old footwizard.  “And entertained a boy enduring a difficult time.  A good lord should be aware of history, to support his own wise rule.  It gladdens me that I had such an effect.”

“We heard that my lord was a scholar, more than a knight,” Alya smiled.

“Oh, I tilt and take swordplay with the men, but I find it boring,” he sighed.  “I mostly manage my father’s estates and let my sister chase down the odd monster who comes this far south.  Studying magic would be far more interesting.  Tell me, my lords, are the giant birds you brought with you a product of this magic?”

“Of course,” Lilastien agreed.  “I designed the enchantment, myself.  Along with my granddaughter, Ithalia.  She’ll be along shortly, after she sees to her feathery mount.”

“Lady Lilastien is a spellsinger of rare repute, as well as a physician of the highest order,” Alya informed him.  “Back home she is known as the Sorceress of Sartha Wood.  She is herself transformed, as she has done the hawks.  She is a noble of the Alka Alon.”

“You’re an elf?” he asked, in disbelief, gawking at her anew.

“As you would call it,” she chuckled.  Lilastien was not the kind of Alkan who would find the term offensive.  “But, yes, I am of the Versaroti kindred of the Alka Alon.  Of late I am in service to your noble count to assist in this damnable war.”

“And you’re a physician as well, my lady?” Lady Tandine asked, in surprise, as she joined us with Tyndal and Gareth.

“Seven years of advanced medical education on Perwyn, and four board certifications,” she offered.  “And then I’ve been in rural practice for six hundred years.  Why?  Is there sickness in the land?”

The brother and sister exchanged an anxious glance.  “It is just . . . well, it may become apparent, when my lord father joins us.  He was injured two years ago.  The good clergy tended his wounds, but he has not truly been hale since, and it concerns us,” Kanset explained.

“He is too young a man to be so stricken,” Tandine agreed, sorrowfully.  “I lapse into despair, sometimes, when I think of what he has been robbed of by his injury.  My brother and I have done our best to ease the burden of rule for him, but . . .”

“I will be happy to take a look at him, young lady, after the ceremony this evening.  If he permits,” she assured, patting her new device.

“He has had every other leech and monk study the matter; I daresay he will not mind an elf examine him.  An Alka Alon,” he corrected.

“ ‘Alkan’ is the singular,” I informed him.  “What is the nature of his injury?”

“He was riding against a spinteca pack,” Kanset said, sadly.

“That’s a vicious kind of predator from beyond the Plain of Pillars,” Tandine explained, quickly.  “Arachnids the size of goats with powerful claws.  They hunt in packs,” she added with a shudder.

“My lord father’s horse threw him, and before he could rise one of the evil things slashed through his back.  We almost lost him.  But he has not walked properly since, and rarely leaves the castle, now,” Kanset sighed, sadly.

Indeed, a few moments later when Lord Kanlan finally came down the stairs from his chamber, I could see why his children were so distraught.  He was a tall, bearded Wilderlord of regal bearing, broad across the shoulders with well-muscled arms bulging under his tunic.  But, alas, his legs were twisted and barely moved as two servants assisted him down the long staircase.  I could tell by his expression that such movement pained him greatly . . . but when he finally made it down the stairs, he did his best to pull himself up to his full height before executing a bow.

“Count . . . Minalan, I assume?” he asked in a deep booming voice.

“I am,” I agreed, returning the bow.  “And you are Lord Kanlan, I am told.  Well met, my lord.  Thank you for such a welcome for strangers making outlandish claims.”

“If Fondaras the Wise vouches for you, you have my trust,” he assured me.  His voice sounded breathless, and his eyes were unfocused.  No doubt he had taken a draught of some pain remedy before appearing before his liege.  “Fondaras has advised my court, and the court of my father, since I was a boy, when his journeys bring him to Anferny,” he explained, slowly.  It was as if every word was a struggle.

I made further introductions to my company, surprising the lord with the odd collection of travelers I’d brought along with me on my quest.  In deference to his frailty, Alya kindly suggested we retire to chairs out in the courtyard to enjoy wine and the waning day, while the hall was prepared for the ceremony and the feast.  Tandine quickly agreed – she watched her father like a hawk, alert for any problems.

We spent perhaps two hours catching up the nobility of Anferny with the news from the rest of the Duchy once we settled into the courtyard.  Lord Kanlan was shocked and surprised at the great developments since the last time Fondaras had guested in his halls.  The rise of King Rard was of particular interest to him.  As was the continuing war.

“Alas, the gods have kept us busy with the creatures of the vale, else I would have ridden south to add my sword to the defense of the realm, when I heard tale of it,” he sighed.  “That was shortly before my . . . accident.”

“One more domain’s worth of swords would not have mattered in the prosecution of the war,” I assured him.  “You were right to resist the impulse.  It has taken magic and great armies to fight the gurvani and those behind them.  Swords and lances, while helpful, would not have prevailed without magic to support them.”

“Still, it was my duty,” Lord Kanlan said, glumly.  “It is good that the Anferny folk go seek brides to the south, from time to time.  My great-grandmother was from Vorone,” he added.  “We may be remote, my lord, but we do remember our duty.”

“Then it is time the rest of the Wilderlands remember its duty to Anferny,” I replied.  “Too long has your country been left without support or guidance.  Or even the commerce that is the lifeblood of any domain.  I’m very impressed with this little land, but I want to help you improve your lot, here.”

“And I expect you are wondering where seventy years’ worth of tribute has gone,” he sighed, grimly.  “I suppose in that duty we, too, have been lax.  We have always known that the demand for such money could come at any time . . . I know from experience how expensive it is to properly run a domain.  And we have a little saved over the years . . .”

That caused Alya to burst out laughing despite herself, before she excused herself.

“Lord Kanlan, the Magelaw has no need of your coin,” she assured.  “Nor did we come to rob your treasury.  My lord husband is incredibly wealthy, and he did not make that coin on the backs of his people, but through the practice of the arcane arts.  Indeed, he invests in his people and their welfare in ways that would infuriate a Wilderlord – and has.  Perhaps the Wilderlords would have demanded such tribute, but the Magelaw is interested in other things that you have, not your gold and silver.”

“I hereby excuse your arrearage in tribute,” I agreed, casually.  “I’ll make it official, once the oaths of fealty are sworn.”

That news affected Kanlan more than the other news from the south.  He looked positively overcome with emotion.

“My lord count, we are not paupers!” he protested.

“Neither have you called upon the resources of your liege in nearly seventy years,” I reminded him.  “Your debt was with the old regime.  Now that you are a part of the Magelaw, we shall reach a new agreement on what Anferny shall owe.  I do not demand tribute in corn or gold if a domain cannot pay their share.  And I tailor their assigned rate to their prosperity.”

“That is uncommonly generous of you, my lord count!” young Lord Kanset exclaimed.  “I could get used to being ruled by a wizard if such is your governance.  I keep the accounts,” he added.  “We put aside a bit, when we can, toward our presumed debt.  You just made my job much easier.”

“And mine harder,” sighed Tandine.  “If you truly intend to increase commerce with Anferny, that will mean more strangers coming through the wastes.  And more problems.”

“Speaking of which, we were followed into the wastes by a company of gurvani . . . led by some treacherous Alka Alon,” I advised.  “They are on a mission against me.  The Kasari allowed them to pass, but I fear they will create mischief, if you are not warned and watchful for them.  They are our enemies.”

“The Alka Alon?  Are enemies?” Kanset asked, surprised.

“They are but a few renegades, my lord,” Lilastien assured.  “They appear as our old, warlike forms – not the simple ‘elves’ you may envision.  They wear bodies as large as a human, but they are more angular and sparer of form.  They have been the ones stirring up the gurvani, and worse.  It is a long tale, of how they turned away from reason and pursued instead their brutal ideology; perhaps I shall have my granddaughter tell you, for here she approaches.”

Ithalia and Nattia were, indeed, arriving from wherever they had found to settle their hawks, both still wearing their flying gear even in the heat.  Lord Kanset stood, at once, at the sight of the women – particularly Ithalia.

“My ladies!” he blurted out, clearly smitten at the very sight of the Tera Alon maiden.  She was, of course, incredibly beautiful from a human perspective, and she did cut a dashing figure when she was flying.  “Welcome to Anferny!  Please, join us for wine!”

We enjoyed another glass with the newcomers, while we watched an amazingly glorious sunset across the valley below.  Then we retired to the keep, while the important folk from Anferny Town, summoned to court to bear witness to the ceremony, began to arrive.  After Lord Kanlan called his court to order and introduced first Viscount Tyndal and then me and Alya, he declared his intention to renew Anferny’s fealty to their liege.  The exchange of oaths was quickly done, and then I announced the forgiveness of whatever debts in tax or tribute the domain might owe.

That made me extremely popular, as it turns out.

In truth, I spent far more on the expedition to get there than Anferny owed in back taxes.  It amounted to a few hundred ounces of silver which wouldn’t be worth the effort to carry back through the wastes.  But the effect on the local economy was rather dramatic; what was a minor amount to me was a serious matter for the few thousand people here.

The feast that night was merry, elaborate, and fulfilling; there was a string of what I assume were the best musicians in the domain to entertain us while we dined and talked.  I could not help but notice how much attention Kanset was paying to Ithalia during the feast.  He kept in close conversation with her all evening.  Ithalia had long grown used to the stares of mortal men at her maidenly form.  Ishi, herself, could not have designed a more attractive body.  In her time among us, Ithalia had learned how to ignore the sexual attention she received from men (and the occasional woman) moved to impropriety by their attraction.

But it became clear before the end of the meal that Kanset was smitten with more than the maiden’s charms; he seemed captivated by her conversation, as well.  So much so that she did not, apparently, realize the extent of his desires until the trenchers were being carried away.  I think I even witnessed the moment it happened.  Kanset asked her some quiet question and suddenly her entire face changed.  A new expression appeared upon it, and Lilastien burst out laughing.

“Dear gods, Minalan, my granddaughter barely knows the boy is interested in her – truly interested, not merely aroused,” she snickered.

“He cannot be the first humani boy to express an interest,” I considered.

“No, but he is the first humani boy I’ve seen her react to,” she said, smiling.  “She’s hopeless with Alkan males – it’s a little sad to watch.  And she’s indifferent to most human men.  But from that expression, something this lad said or did affected her, I’d wager.”

“He’s an intelligent enough boy,” I agreed, after consideration.

“He’s more than intelligent, he’s willing to listen,” Alya pointed out.  “Unlike Tyndal, over there, who has been arguing with Tandine all night.”

“Tyndal would argue with his horse, if there was no better opponent,” I pointed out.  “He’s clearly flirting with her.  And she likes it, despite herself.”

“Ah, but my granddaughter has never felt real love – desire, arousal, genuine romantic interest.  She’s too distracted by her work and her interests.  And most humani males are so incredibly boring,” she said, without being purposefully insulting.  “Usually, it’s impossible to catch her attention.  But this boy may have a chance, if I read her expression well enough.

“Now,” she said, rising, “let me see if I can find a private room, somewhere, and convince Lord Kanlan to submit to my scanner.  I’m guessing he has permanent spinal injury, but I will know soon enough – and what I might be able to do to assist him, if anything.  Such injuries were daunting even in the days of Perwyn, when I had access to a full surgery suite and a true pharmacopoeium.  But that doesn’t mean I cannot look and see if there is something I can do to ease his suffering.  He’s doped on poppy resin, right now, and he’s still in agony.”

“It would not be amiss if I had this lord in my debt,” I said, quietly, as I helped her tug on her white coat.

“I understand the politics, Minalan,” she said, sighing and rolling her eyes.  “My oath was to the health of the man.  Hippocrates – one of your ancestors from your homeworld – made that clear in the oath he requires all physicians in his order to swear.”

“You would honor an oath to a man who was not even born on this world?” I asked, curious.

“If you knew who you spoke of you would not have to ask,” she said, shaking her head.  “Hippocrates is the basis for all human medicine.  The moral underpinnings of how the sick and injured can expect to be treated, and the ethical guidelines for what is and is not medicine.  How much your people have lost . . .” she said and headed toward the ornate chair that Lord Kanlan held forth upon.

I watched as she approached the nobleman and quietly convinced him to join her in a more secluded place.  In a more worldly court that might have inspired gossip or scandal.  But it was interesting to note that in Anferny it didn’t raise as much as an eyebrow.  The clergy, the burghers and the nobles all dismissed the lord of the domain disappearing with an exotic-looking but nonetheless attractive middle-aged stranger in the middle of a feast.  Indeed, they treated the matter as if it happened frequently.  There was no hint of scandal.  When I overheard the folk from Anferny Town mention their lord, it was always with respect and admiration.

Whatever faults or deficits Lord Kanlan might have had, physically, he had the trust of his people and that’s always an important measure of a lord’s capabilities.  Even without an attendant wife to oversee his actions, he was trusted to contend with strange women slipping off for a private audience without the risk of dark rumor.  That told me quite a lot about the politics of Anferny, too.  And the character of its lord.

It was even more telling that Lady Tandine did not immediately succumb to Tyndal’s increasingly boastful charms.  My former apprentice had found some sophistication, since he left my employ, I noted.  They had been seated proximate to one another, and I’d been paying some attention to their conversation, even when I could not overhear it.  Lady Tandine was resisting mightily; yet Tyndal saw that resistance as a challenge, and he was not relenting in his casual banter.  It seemed to be having an effect on the lass.

More importantly, Lady Ithalia seemed quite disconcerted by young Lord Kanset’s attentions.  Indeed, he was proving quite effective in engaging her interest, and the Tera Alon maiden appeared to have little idea how to contend with such a persistent and charming suitor.  I concluded that the previous humani men who had tried to woo the most wild of the Emissaries had been handicapped by the knowledge of her position and importance within the Alka Alon council.  Lord Kanset had no such knowledge – a fact the maiden could not escape.

Indeed, it became quite apparent that Lady Ithalia had little idea of how to contend with a boy who was interested in her without understanding that context.  Kanset had no idea that she was special, and while he was quite enchanted with her beauty, I was impressed by how he engaged her intellect.  He had just the right combination of genuine interest and charm, as well as a disarming character that proclaimed his nobility without the arrogant manner that most humani women can smell like a discreet fart.  Ithalia was captivated, by the time her grandmother coaxed Kanset’s father into a private room.

“I think I like this place,” Alya whispered to me, as she surveyed our dining companions.  “There is romance, here,” she said, nodding toward Gareth and Nattia.  They seemed to be inordinately affectionate, despite the presence of her disapproving brother.  Even he was flirting with one of the town girls, though he never took his eyes off Gareth.

“It’s exotic,” I suggested.  “That’s going to affect our people.  Besides,” I proposed, “there isn’t a lot of opportunity to find an interesting mate in a place like this.”

“Oh, I understand,” Alya nodded, as she sipped her wine.  “I grew up in Boval Vale, remember?  We could go nine, ten months without seeing a stranger.  When we did . . .” she said, trailing off, staring at me pointedly with a shrug of her head.

“Hey!  I wasn’t a stranger!” I protested.   “I was just a dashing fellow with an interesting trade and an intriguing accent.  Any man from out of town might catch your fancy,” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” my wife shrugged.  “You would not be the first such flirtation I enjoyed.  I’m just starting to believe that Anferny is the sort of place where such fancies are wrought,” she considered, philosophically.

I was silent.  I couldn’t really disagree.  The tension in the great hall between the natives and the visitors was palpable.  Even Tyndal and Tandine were settling down from their thorny discussion and behaving like adults by the end of supper.

“My lady wife, I think you are correct,” I chuckled.  “Though I suspect your motives.”

“If my motives weren’t clear enough,” Alya muttered, the wine clearly influencing her sense of inhibition, “then you aren’t half the wizard the legends say you are.  Indeed, that’s the very reason I brought them up in the first place,” she said, giving me a meaningful glance.

There actually might be some benefit to bringing your wife along on a quest, I reflected, as she leaned into me for a kiss.  It cuts through all of the awkward banter and youthful uncertainty and allows you to get right to the good parts.

Chapter Sixteen

The Shaking Earth

Most disconcerting are the tremors that plague Anghysbel.  One moment life is normal, and the next, with no warning, everything in sight begins vibrating with an unholy intensity from which there is no respite nor remedy.  It keeps a man on edge, until he grows used to the sudden events.  Then, after a few moments of abject terror, life resumes its static state.

From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Gareth of Vanador

Despite the urgency of our errands, our party tarried at Anferny Castle for six eventful days.

I don’t begrudge the time spent there; indeed, it was worthwhile, restful and fulfilling to get to know the folk of Anferny.  In many ways, it was run similarly to most Wilderlands domains.  In other ways it was very different.

The few small estates around the castle produced an abundance of grain, thanks to the rich volcanic soils, but the summer crops had only a few months to grow and be harvested.  The town acted as local market, administrative center and manufactory for goods the estates could not produce.  The High Street was small, but there were shoemakers, chandlers, tailors, and a bakery near the market. There were only three other streets, and a few connecting lanes, where coopers, joiners, carpenters, smiths, weavers, and wheelwrights had their shops.  But there was usually only one or two examples of each craft to supply the small population.

The temple and the few shrines handled recordkeeping, education of the young, and good moral guidance – Huin’s stark sect was the most popular, but Trygg and the other gods of the Narasi pantheon were well-represented.  There were no lawbrothers, but an aging Kasari man acted as magistrate and his judgements were considered fair by all.

But then there were the differences.  In some ways Anferny was already more like Sevendor or Vanador than Vorone.  The castle employed a few Lakeshire Tal as servants and a Kilnusk smith.  Several odd local species had been domesticated and husbanded.  A few shops did things I had never heard of before – what in two hells was a “chaserer?”  Or a “rannit-man?”  One thing that was missing was a decent inn.  Though there were four taverns in town, there were not enough travelers to justify more than a rooming house in Anferny.  It was not particularly nice – indeed, it seemed a little shabby.

But the baths?  The baths were glorious.

An older building in a back corner of town proved to have the most magnificent hot baths.  It had been developed early in the settlement, on the foundations of a building constructed by the Ancients, and then continuously improved since.  It was elegant, in a rustic sort of way.

Two large chambers straddled a central hall, all of it paved with beautiful pink and white marble and other polished stone.  The basins were massive, large enough for three or four people.  Women used the western chamber, while men enjoyed the eastern side.

The baths were a major social function of Anferny, we discovered, far more than in most towns.  All social classes attended at least once a week, and all were afforded the same luxurious service regardless of status.  It was the center of town gossip more than even the market or the temple.

The bath master was a portly man wearing a luxurious brown beard that made up for his balding pate.  He seemed to genuinely enjoy his work.  Incredible scented soaps and lotions were provided, as well as a bath attendant and an incredibly soft llama-wool towel.  Wine, ale and rum were available for a few pennies, and he occasionally had musicians play for his patrons.

The water that was piped in from a natural hot spring so hot it was barely tolerable.  The first basin was like sitting in a soup pot.  The second was mixed with just enough cold water from a separate spring to be pleasant.  The third was far cooler than the first.  The pretty young bath attendant suggested a brief foray into the first great tank, a glass of wine and idle conversation in the second, and a satisfactory cool-down in quiet reflection in the third.  She was eager to help towel off the patrons when they had completed the regimen.  I tipped her heavily and felt like a new man afterward.  A much better smelling man.  Another three pennies got me a haircut and my beard trimmed.

Getting to know Lord Kanlan and his children was also a benefit of our extended stay in Anferny, as well as the five or six other noble families that kept the estates running under their direction.  With the crops in for the summer and the mowing another month away, the folk of Anferny were enjoying a brief midsummer respite from work in the fields, and my people provided them with an ideal, if unexpected, distraction.

Indeed, Lord Kanlan sponsored a hastily organized tournament on the castle’s listfield, just to give his men (and his daughter) the opportunity to cross lances with Tyndal and the six Knights of Callierd he’d brought with us.

That drew a bit of a crowd from the countryside when it was announced.  That was one benefit to having such a small domain: every one of Kanlan’s estates was no more than a half-day’s travel.  Word traveled very quickly, and by the time the trumpets sounded there was even a delegation from Lakeshire crowding the stands and wagering heavily on the results.  It was a merry time, and it gave Alya the chance to present the victor (Lady Tandine, who prevailed over Sir Entargin of Callierd, two lances to one) with the prize.

Young Lord Kanset eschewed the tournament, electing instead to give Ithalia an extensive tour of the castle and towns and, in return, learn about her hawkcraft.  Ormar prowled the gardens and mines of the place examining its natural alchemy, making copious notes.  And Gareth and Nattia disappeared into the temple in town for the opportunity to go through the old records that had piled up over a century.

Lilastien spent her time preparing for an operation.

“Lord Kanlan’s injury is to the lower spine and pelvis,” she reported, showing me a ghostly image on her tray as we had luncheon in the courtyard the day after the tournament.  “It was extensive, but I’m encouraged by what I’ve seen in my scans.”

“How encouraged?” I asked, as I buttered a seed cake.  They had really good seed cakes in Anferny, for some reason.  “He’s a very important figure, here.  Anything we could do to help would be seen with gratitude.”

“The bad news is that I cannot, alas, restore him to his previous function.  I just don’t have the equipment, anymore.  And, perhaps, the skill.  However,” she said, quickly, “with access to the infirmary at the geophysical station, I should be able to surgically repair some of the worst damage, particularly where the poorly healed bone is now pressing on this nerve cluster.  That will remove the source of much of his pain.  If I had songspells to work with, I could begin to regenerate the actual nerves.  He may never ride into battle again or run any races.  But I can at least relieve a tremendous amount of pain,” she promised.

“Are you sure?” I asked, skeptically.

“Compared to healing Alya, this is a residency-level procedure,” she assured me.  “If that remote surgery suite is operational, and I secure some medicines locally for pain control and such, Lord Kanset should be able to walk across the room or go down the stairs without wanting to scream.  You know that’s why he’s so quiet all the time, don’t you?” she asked.  “He’s doped up with opium to keep his pain at bay, and that dulls the senses.  And it’s addictive.  This operation will make that unnecessary.”

“How long will it take?” I asked, concerned.  We did not have very long to complete our quest, here.  I was already starting to get anxious about tarrying in Anferny, and we had yet other stops planned.

“The operation?  Only a few hours.  But it will have to be done back at the Cave of the Ancients.  Say a few days of recuperation in the infirmary there, and then a careful trip back here for more rest.  Then some physical therapy.  I’m writing up a complete proposal for you and Kanlan to look at.”

“I just don’t want to take too much time out of our quest,” I sighed.  “We’ve made some progress, but we’ve already been here more than a week.”

“You can go tromping through the valley without me for a week, I’d imagine,” she snorted.  “Go tour the Lakeshire, visit the Kilnusk, ask your questions, do your investigations, and then return to Unger Station when you’re ready.  I should be done by then.”

“Have you discussed it with Lord Kanlan?” I asked.

“Of course!  It wouldn’t be ethical to discuss it with you until I had, and received his permission,” she said, tapping on her tablet.  “He’s cautiously in favor of it, after he spoke to Fondaras and his children.  But he’s agreed to it.  We can leave in a few days, after I’ve gathered my supplies and he prepares for his absence.”

“I really hope this works,” I said, earnestly.

“I know my business,” she shrugged.  “As long as I’ve got basic equipment, I should be able to handle it.  If I could get him back to the Wilderlands then I could improve things further, with magic.  But I can help him,” she predicted.

Later that afternoon, Gareth and Nattia sought me out in the Great Hall of the castle, where they presented me with their scholarly findings.  We sat at a trestle table near the door – the light was poor, but then the weather had turned by then and a light drizzle was falling and spread out their notes in front of me.  I missed magelights.

“This place is fascinating,” Gareth began, unrolling a large sheet of parchment.  “And they kept astonishingly good records, for Wilderlords.  I fault the Kasari influence,” he said, nodding to Nattia with a smile.  “A surprising number of the folk of Anferny have taken at least the elementary Kasari rites, and a good number of those have taken the advanced, as well – which includes constructing their own Book of the Hand.  And learning how to observe and take notes.  As a result,” he said, pointing at the scroll, “they made really good maps and explained a great number of things in their chronicles.”

“Anything useful?” I inquired.

“Quite a bit,” Nattia nodded, peering at the map.  “Here are the areas we’ve gone through already: the Kasari lands, the geophysical installation at the Cave of the Ancients, Midmarket, and now Anferny.  We’ll go from here to Lakeshire, and thence to Grost Kilnuskum.  Beyond that is the Plain of Pillars, just west of Chimney Mountain.”

“That’s when things get very interesting,” Gareth continued, tapping the map.  “Beyond the Plain of Pillars are a number of regions they’ve identified and explored over the years.  Of particular note is this little island on this little lake at the extreme north of the valley.  That’s where the dragon lives.”

“That’s . . . that’s actually fairly close,” I said, uneasily.

“Close is a relative term,” Nattia said.  “By foot, it’s still a few days through dangerous terrain.  By air, I could be there in twenty minutes.”

“If this wizard Rolof has some knowledge of the dragon, that means he’s probably close by there,” Gareth reasoned.  “I’m hoping we’ll hear more word of him in Lakeshire or Grost Kilnuskum to narrow it down.  But the lake provides a kind of northern center-point,” he demonstrated.  “To the east of it is a lobe of the valley that is even more desolate than the Plain of Pillars.  Some of it is as uninhabitable as the wastes, due to its proximity to Chimney Mountain.

“To the west of the lake,” he continued, “is another lobe of the valley known, imaginatively, as The Lost Vale.  In the records it is among the wildest of lands.  Strange beasts and tribes of lizard men and . . . well, all sorts of things live there.  There are some ancient ruins there, as well, so that might bear investigation.  But it is considered the place where the strangest creatures kept their lairs.  And this is coming from the folk of Anferny.  Did you know that they herd a particular kind of insect, up here?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.  “I saw a flock – herd – a hive of them, being herded along by a maid with a stick.  She acted like I was an idiot when I expressed some surprised.”

“You squealed like a maiden, Gareth,” teased Nattia.

“I was surprised,” Gareth insisted, with dignity.  “And a bit disgusted.  In any case, there are far, far stranger things in the place known as the Lost Vale.  But it’s not the worst place, according to the archives.  Dangerous, certainly, but not the worst.  That would be reserved for this region in the southwest, just on the other side of the central ridge and named, just as imaginatively, The Cursed Vale.  Even the lizard people avoid it.  Men go mad, sometimes, when they travel there.  If they return at all.”

“Why is that?” I asked, mystified.

Gareth shrugged.  “Who knows?  It’s cursed.  Of course, you can’t really have curses in a place devoid of magic, but something lives there that is hazardous to mind and body.  Of the few accounts we read, there is a powerful force deep within the vale, and a few creatures of particularly unusual description who either guard it or just like lingering around, devouring helpless travelers.”

“That sounds like the Lost Races that Lilastien was telling me about,” I nodded, as I puffed on my pipe.  “Remnants of species that the Vundel have invited here in eons past, and who cling to hidden places like this.”

“That would explain their odd nature, then,” agreed Gareth.  “The archives insist the place is to be avoided at all costs.  In local legend, it’s a place only the bravest men dare to go, and the wisest men avoid.”

“What about the central area?” I asked, studying the map as best I could.

“That’s . . . a forest,” Nattia said, cautiously.  “It is forbidden to go there.”

“A Forbidden Forest?” I asked.  “That sounds like a cliché.”

“It’s actually not called that, it’s called the Leshwood,” explained Gareth.  “But it is forbidden – that law was laid down by the very first Lord of Anferny.  And it was religiously enforced.  But there are few details about why.  Apparently, there is a force in that wood that likes its privacy, and the Lords of Anferny have, whether through wisdom or through negotiation, agreed not to venture there.”

“So we have a vale of desolation, one of the wild and lost, and one of the cursed which causes madness,” I nodded.

“As well as a mysterious forest and an island with a dragon on it,” Nattia reminded me.

“Plenty of places to hide,” Gareth agreed.  “We have our work cut out for us, Minalan.  But I think our best effort would be spent finding Rolof.  He would likely know much of what we seek if we can convince him to cooperate with us to find it.”

“Agreed,” I murmured.  “If nothing else, perhaps he can introduce us to the dragon,” I joked.  “Where do you think it likely lives?”

“It could be anywhere, but I would suggest we search the perimeter of the northern lake,” suggested Gareth, running his finger around the representation on the map.  “Unlike the Hot Lake, it is cool freshwater, and there is good hunting along its shores.  That’s where Kanset saw the Alka Alon maiden a few years back.  But he could also be along this ridge to the east, near the Vale of the Lost in the west, or maybe even along the skirts of the Leshwood.”

“Or he could be living out an ascetic life in some cave in the desolation,” Nattia suggested.  “Or even along the ridges, braving the tundra like a hermit.”

“I don’t recall Rolof admiring the ascetics we saw in Farise, but then I didn’t know him that well.  Let’s start with the dragon’s lake,” I suggested.  “We’ll get to the more desolate areas, later, if we don’t find him.  Or get more specific information from the Tal or the Kilnusk.”

“Of course, he could have been eaten by a lizard man,” Gareth pointed out.  “No one in Anferny or Midmarket has seen him for a while.  And the lizard men are known to eat human flesh.  As are dragons.”

“We shall see,” I sighed.  “But excellent work, you two.”

“Nattia did most of the note-taking, while I read,” Gareth boasted.  “She has a hand as neat as a professional scribe.”

“Gareth did the maps,” she insisted.  “He’s much better at that sort of thing than I am.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how are things going with Travid?” I inquired, innocently.

The two looked at each other, a bit guiltily, then Nattia looked down.

“He’s . . . proving difficult to convince that I am a worthy husband for his sister,” Gareth sighed.  “I’ve done everything in my power to be nice to him and impress him, and nothing convinces him!”

I chuckled.  “Take it from a man with five sisters, nothing will convince him but time.  My brothers-in-law were mostly lucky.  I was away at the Academy when they courted my sisters.  By the time I met some of them, they were well beyond my scrutiny and safely wed.  But it still took a few years for them to prove themselves with me.”

“And that’s supposed to be helpful?” asked Gareth, exasperated.  “Travid is worse than Tyndal, sometimes.  He finds fault with everything I say or do.  The one thing I’m best at doesn’t work, here.  So far, he’s given me credit for my ability to read and the fact that I don’t quite fall off a horse when I ride.  Beyond that, I’m as suitable for his sister as . . . as a lizard man!”

“It’s not supposed to be helpful, but as Fondaras says, sometimes wisdom means just having to endure the best you can.  The Kasari, as a people, value honor and competence,” I reminded him.  “But they also appreciate trying your best.  You’ll win Travid over, eventually, because you’ll prove to him your feelings for his sister.  And its Nattia’s choice to court you.  Not his.  He’ll have to get used to that.  If you go through with the rites.”

“The bloody rites!” groaned Gareth, slumping over in his chair.

Nattia giggled.  “They really aren’t that bad, Gareth,” she soothed.  “Mostly a lot of singing, stories, lore, special skills, and long, long discussions of wholesome family life and your duties as a husband.  They even tell you a bit about all the . . . the Ishi stuff,” she reminded him, quietly.

“That is another discipline to which I do not excel,” Gareth said, through gritted teeth.  “Tyndal and Rondal tried for years and . . . I’m hopeless.”

“I don’t think you’re hopeless or we wouldn’t be discussing this.  You can’t really fail,” she insisted.  “Not unless you’re really, really hopeless.  The worst-case is that the council assigns you to marry some fat, frumpy, lazy little maiden with a face like mud pie and a disposition like a wild boar.  I’ll still end up with a good husband,” she teased.  “It just might not be you.”

“You are really not helping matters,” he groaned.

“It will be fine, lad,” I assured.  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  Focus on the quest at hand, and let the rest take care of itself.  If you get eaten by a lizard man, for instance, then you have spent that worry on nothing.”

On the sixth day of our stay, on the eve of our departure, Lord Kanlan had another feast prepared – albeit not as lavish as the first.  It was also the eve of his departure, as Lilastien would be taking him back to the Cave of the Ancients for his procedure.  Ithalia would be accompanying them, as well as Kanset and a few knights and servants.

Tyndal and his men were on a different mission: they would be scouring the countryside for any sight of the gurvani who had pursued us.  We’d received no word of their location, and that disturbed us.  Even without magic, a company of maragorku gurvani could cause considerable problems for Anferny and the other settlements of Anghysbel.  He took a few Kasari with him, including Travid, and then learned that Lady Tandine was insisting on going with him.

She was, after all, the heir to the domain, should her father pass.  She felt a decided duty to hunt down any troublemakers on its frontiers.

As for the rest of us, we were headed to Lakeshire on the morrow.  The Tal Alon settlement was relatively nearby, and by all accounts worth the trip.  It would be a shame to not see it – and see if the Lakeshire Tal had any news of the things we sought.

We were deep in conversation about our various duties when, quite unexpectedly, the entire room began to shake menacingly.  Alya squealed in alarm, her eyes wide, as did a few others.  But it subsided, a moment later, and most of the room returned to normal as if it had never happened.

“What in six hells was that?” Gareth asked, his eyes bulging.

“An earthquake,” Fondaras supplied.  “But just a small one.  They happen frequently in Anghysbel.  That is why there are few spires in town, and the castle is built as squat and sturdy as it is,” he revealed.  “A large one can level buildings and kill everyone inside.”

“That’s terrifying!” Gareth insisted.

“Only the first few times you experience it,” I countered.  “I endured a few such small earthquakes on the Farisian peninsula, in the march south.  They’re disconcerting, but usually harmless.”

Then something occurred to the mage.  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it!” he said.  “When I was reading the chronicles, I kept coming across references to tremors, but I didn’t understand what they were speaking of.  But there have been four Great Tremors since the founding of the domain.  Earthquakes strong enough to destroy the entire town, or a great deal of it,” he explained.  “They just spoke as if it was some great beast, and not a natural phenomenon.”

“Does it matter?” Alya asked.  “Both are just as terrifying.”

“Perhaps not, but it explains a few passages I was having difficulty with.  How can people live in a place where the earth dances under your feet?  Without warning?”

“You get used to it,” supplied Lady Tandine, who approached us with her brother in tow.  “There might be a few more, in the next day or so.  They’re much worse when they happen in winter.  They can cause massive avalanches.  Thankfully, the heat of our ground keeps much snow from accumulating above the town.  That only happens every few years.”

“I, for one, agree with Lord Gareth’s assessment,” Lord Kanset chuckled.  “I hate the things, though I’ve endured my share.  They can disrupt the estates horribly, and even cause fires to break out.  They terrify the animals.  Pesky things, earthquakes.  But usually uneventful.”

“Says the man who has an active volcano on his horizon,” Gareth snorted.

“Chimney Mountain smokes, but there hasn’t been an eruption in years,” assured Tandine.  “Hence the name.  It’s actually quite pretty when you get up close. Just don’t get too close,” she cautioned.  “The prevailing winds push most of the soot and poisonous gasses into the tundra – we call it the Sludge Lands.  That’s not a healthy place.”

“It sounds revolting,” agreed Gareth.

“That’s why we call it the Sludge Lands,” she agreed.

The earthquake was a novel experience, and Alya clung to me extra tightly that night in the hall we’d graciously been loaned for our use.

The next morning, after taking our leave of our gracious hosts and wishing Lord Kanlan luck on his surgery, we took two of our wagons – Ormar’s and my own – as well as some packhorses on our journey to Lakeshire.  Taren rode alongside us, spear in hand and plasma pistol on his hip.  But there was little evidence of danger.  The route was well-traveled and scenic; first we passed through idyllic-looking farms with wheat, barley and maize leaping up from the ground, and then we came to a wood that seemed to serve as a boundary between the two provinces.

The entire journey kept the beautiful sight of Lake Baelor on our left.  The water was a deep blue in the summer light, and there were several little boats bobbing along the shore.  A few even sported sails.  It was hard to believe that there was a bunch of terrifying creatures lurking in its depths.

“This is a pretty place,” Alya admitted, as the wagon rolled on.  Fondaras and Gareth were riding next to us on the wide road.  “Despite the monsters and the danger and the earthquakes.”

“And the lack of magic,” I agreed.  “The people are nice, so far, and the scenery is beautiful.  But it would be nice to have magic.”

“I’m just wondering why the Anferny folk settled here in the first place?” she mused.  “There are far easier places to hold than this crazy place.”

“I think you will find that humanity will find a reason to live wherever they can,” Fondaras said, thoughtfully as he rode nearby.  “And leave a place for no particular reason if they have a fancy.  Sometimes I think that Anferny exists just to prove that man can live in such conditions.”

“It has some benefits,” Gareth admitted, reluctantly.  “There are many wonders, in this vale.  The soil is extremely fertile, in this region, at least – far better than in much of the Wilderlands.  The water is clean, where it isn’t hopelessly polluted, or boiling hot—”

“The Hot Lake is more like bathwater than tea water,” Fondaras said.

“The baths alone would be a sufficient reason to settle here, in my estimation,” I offered.

“My lord is a sensualist,” chuckled Fondaras.  “In truth, I think that the exotic nature of the place encouraged them to stay here.  And the challenge.  It takes a tough spirit to survive Anghysbel, much less raise a family here.  In truth, there are tribes who live out on the barren tundra,” he reported.  “Compared to that hellish existence, this is paradise.”

“There are people on the tundra?” Gareth asked, surprised.

“A few nomadic tribes,” Fondaras shrugged.  “They make their living by hunting and gathering certain plants.  A stark life, at best.  But it proves my point: mankind will live wherever he thinks he can live.  The folk of Anferny are quite fortunate, all things considered.  Perhaps not as secure an existence as the Wilderlands – where there are roving bands of goblins, undead, bandits, and the occasional dragon attack – but they seem to have managed to find a way to thrive, here.”

“A compelling argument,” Gareth sighed.  “I suppose things aren’t any better back home.”

“You consider Vanador home, now?” Alya asked, curious.

“I’ve spent most of the last two years building the place,” the young mage chuckled.  “I suppose it had better be.  I’ve worked too hard on it to leave it, now.”

“Which is why the folk of Anferny love their little land, so well,” agreed Fondaras.  “They built this place out on the edge of the world, and they are proud of that.  They would not abandon it lightly.  It is what they know.  To leave it would be to leave their homes.”

I could appreciate that.  I had built Sevendor from scratch, often with my own bare hands.  I quietly resented being exiled from it, and I missed the place desperately.  Vanador was a substitute, a refuge distant from the designs of Prince Tavard and his mother.  But Sevendor was special.

I missed it, suddenly, with a determined passion.  If these people could manage to fight to live here, on the beautiful slopes of ruin, I could fight to return to the white mountain, and my pretty little land.

It might not have a volcano smoking constantly on the horizon . . . but I wasn’t ready to rule anything out.

Chapter Seventeen

Lakeshire

Of all the regions of the volcanic vale, the little lands of Lakeshire, on the shores of Baelor Lake, are the merriest by far.  The three tribes of Tal Alon have been there for centuries, according to their records and the Kasari.  No one knows why they, among all the Alon, managed to settle here, but they have thrived in their little land with no masters but themselves.  Clearly, they have absorbed customs and crafts from both the humans in the vale and the Kilnusk colony, but their culture is truly their own.  Their unique lives, their amusements, and their passion for sport and recreation made our trip to Lakeshire amongst the most memorable portions of our expedition.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Fondaras the Wise

The Tal Alon have always been near the bottom in Alon society.

According to lore, they were bred that way: a relatively short-lived species of humble gardeners whose dramatic surpluses fed the other subspecies.  Some kindreds of the Alka Alon were involved in food production, but in traditional Alka Alon society it was the Tal Alon who fed the people.  For their trouble they were given guidance, order and participation (in a small way) in Alon society, back in the days of their original settlement.

They were also given short lives, high mortality and virtually no voice in how they were governed.  Only the gurvani enjoyed worse treatment, as a sub-species.  They had been designed with the shortest lifespans – disposable workers who could toil in service to the greater civilization and die an ignoble and anonymous death.

But then structured Alon society in this part of Callidore had apparently broken down and changed, after their brutal wars ruined it.  The various Alka Alon kindreds withdrew from the affairs of the world, clinging to a few refuges and largely abandoned the desire to build great cities or empires.  As a result, the lesser races in the Five Duchies were left free for millennia – and without the far-sighted structure the Alka Alon provided.  The immortals had just lost interest in them.

Bereft of their guidance, most Tal Alon tribes drifted aimlessly through a land now largely controlled by humans where they had no place in the social order at all.  Most devolved into simple tribes and clans ruled by local leaders and living, for once, largely for their own benefit.  While they improved their lot by adopting some human customs, institutions and technologies, they also suffered abuse at the hands of their humani neighbors.  When you look like a bipedal rodent and smell of shit, all the time, it’s hard to get much respect from the average peasant goodwife.

Most tribes went into hiding in the woods, making small camps on the banks of rivers – hence the term “River Folk” – or found subsistence on the margins of human society.  The Tal were not just adaptable, they were highly imitative, and they did not hesitate to adopt human customs, clothing and technologies when they were exposed to them.  In some places this had become a mutually prosperous arrangement; in others, it had led to riots and even slaughter of the Tal Alon who offended human sensibilities.  Their circumstance had reinforced their natural timidity to a terrible degree as a result.

“As you’ve seen, the Lakeshire Tal are not quite the same as the River Folk in the Wilderlands,” Fondaras explained to us, as we rode through the outskirts of their country.  “They don’t hide away in woods or swamps; they have built a legitimate society here.  The Tal Alon tribes in the Wilderlands scrape by in the forests.  In the Riverlands they’re little better than villeins.  The Tal Alon of Lakeshire went in a radically different direction.”

“According to Gareth’s records, there were three tribes of Tal present in their district before the first settlement at Anferny,” I related, as I enjoyed the rustic scenery around us.  “The Kasari concur: their legends agree that the Lakeshire Tal were living peacefully on the southern slopes of Chimney Mountain when humanity first came to Anghysbel.”

“First returned to Anghysbel,” Gareth corrected.  “An important distinction.  The Ancients had some settlement here long ago,” he reminded me.

“Which is likely why the Lakeshire is split into three great houses, each run by a sheriff,” Fondaras agreed.  “Their names translate into ‘the gardeners,’ the Sodiniki; they are the largest clan, and arguably the wealthiest, for they grow the sugar beets with which they make their famous rum and the bulk of the vegetables.  They are prodigious breeders, as well.  They keep to the slopes to the east of the lake as their district.

“Most of the lakeshore belongs to the second group – the poorest of the three, and perhaps the most daring and aggressive as a result.  The ‘fishers,’ known as the Sivaji – they, of course, are the ones in the little boats along the shore,” he said, pointing to the lake.

“I’ve never seen any of the Alon use boats,” I observed.

“Few of them do, in my experience,” he agreed.  “But the Tal picked it up from the Kasari, over the years, particularly when they discovered the better fishing in the deeper parts of the lake.  The dangerous nature of the work, and the occasional attack by the beasts of the lake make them bolder and more daring in outlook than their kin, and far more willing to fight.  Their very lives are a struggle.

“And then there are the Raiteli . . . the ‘riders.’  That’s the smallest clan, whose district is on the western slopes and lowland meadows.  They are the ones who specialize in llama husbandry,” he said, as we passed a surprised Tal leading a llama-drawn little cart in the opposite direction.  I tipped my cap and smiled, as we passed by.

“That’s another innovation of the Lakeshire,” Fondaras agreed.  “The Southern Tal Alon will occasionally use donkeys and even llamas, but only here have they taken to the beast with a kind of passion.  For the last century they have bred them, used them as beasts of burden, learned how to harvest their wool, ridden them, raced them, and taken them into battle.  The Raiteli clan obsesses about their llamas the way a Wilderlord does his warhorses, and for similar reasons.  They provide the clan with wealth through wool and meat, and because of that some of the Raiteli families are considered as wealthy as rum merchants.  But that’s not the only bit of human culture they adopted . . .”

For the next hour, the footwizard explained some of the detailed history he’d accumulated about Lakeshire on his many visits, starting with the arrival of the Kasari, or at least the ancestors of the Kasari.  They’d learned a lot of practical knowledge from the tribe, particularly crafting and construction techniques that were far superior to their native ways.

When the first Wilderlords showed up and claimed the land, they had a new culture from which to steal . . . and apparently theft of more than ideas was an issue, in the early years.  At some point the Lords of Anferny forced the Lakeshire to respect its frontiers and its property rights.  At the point of a lance, in some cases.  Indeed, it was from a negotiation with Anferny that the tribes incorporated themselves as a single political entity: Lakeshire.

In the intervening years, the Tal were quick to absorb as much helpful insight from the human colonies as they could.  The three tribes organized under a three-member council, picked up enough about humani law to establish the rudiments of a system of law themselves, and a few began to pick up literacy.  But they were still three poor tribes that struggled with subsistence in this harsh land.

“Life used to be much harder here, despite the fertility of the soil.  Once some furry Tal Alon genius realized that the sweet beets they used to enrich their famous pies could be brewed with yeast and then fermented,” Fondaras chuckled, “that was when Lakeshire began to prosper.  They had something that the folk of Anferny desired and would trade for.  And the Kasari, to a lesser extent. Much of that trade would be llama breeding stock.  Once the Kilnusk arrived, four centuries ago, things really prospered for Lakeshire, for the dwarves love drinking with a passion.”

“How do they handle defense?” I asked, curious.

“Each clan has an official militia headed by one of the three sheriffs,” Fondaras reported.  “The Raiteli provide their cavalry, the Sodiniki make up an infantry and sappers, when needed, and the Sivaji have what can only be described as a Tal Alon navy.  At need they will sail across the lake and reinforce the others, as well as manning the walls with the Sodiniki.  Purely defensive, of course, but they won’t back down from a fight.”

“They don’t sound like ordinary Tal, at all,” I agreed.  “Mostly they would rather run away.”

“In Lakeshire, there is nowhere left to run away to,” he reminded me.  “They have a good life that they are willing to fight to defend, and their backs are literally against the mountain.  It makes these clans bold, and far more willing to take risks than their southern kin.  In this they are far more similar to the human society they pattern themselves after than the rest of the Tal Alon.  You’ll see more clearly, as we come to their central settlement, Sostine,” he promised.  “That’s the most prosperous part of the land, where the gentry live.”

Among those adaptations that Lakeshire made was, apparently, a stronger conception of the individual than most Tal Alon enjoy.  Perhaps it was the lack of magic, or just the rugged independence that the savage environment of Anghysbel encourages, but the Lakeshire folk were unlike any other Tal Alon I’d ever seen.

Their physical differences were apparent: taller, on average, and less inclined towards chubbiness, as well as less dense coats of fur.  Their faces were far less hairy than usual, too, exposing their cheeks and foreheads, particularly in the females.

But that was minor, compared to the differences in culture.  Typically, the Tal Alon enjoy a heavily communal society, with most of the community living in one big warren or burrow.  Only the young left the burrows when they were of mating age.  After they produced a few litters, they would return to the greater community.

In Lakeshire, the pattern was different, with smaller family groups inhabiting the tiny cottages we saw along both sides of the road, most of them at the center of extensive gardens.  They were simple affairs, round houses with stone foundations and curved wattle-and-daub walls with high-peaked rooves – clearly copied from their humani neighbors, by their construction.  But they were frequently expanded with small pod-like additions crammed onto the sides, indicating a far larger family than most independent Tal dwellings boasted. The homes to the right of the road had far larger farmsteads, whereas the houses along the lakeshore were more densely situated, and much of their lots were devoted to repairing netting or repairing their little boats.

But as we came to the central settlement of the region, there was a decided shift in the style of dwelling.  The Lakeshire Tal seemed to abandon mere surface dwellings in favor of the subterranean.  Indeed, the entire slope seemed to be covered with little wooden doors and windows.  From the road there was no way to determine just how large the interiors were, but many of the entrances were quite grand.

It makes sense when you consider their perspective.  They were living on the southern slope of a mountain, surrounded by dense but fertile volcanic soil.  Digging into the hillside was a reasonable use of the land, for a species that was particularly vulnerable.  In a departure from Tal Alon norms, they had also constructed a series of stone walls and wooden palisades around their settlements, dividing the land in front of their underground homes into tidy little protected gardens.

One could determine the wealth of the resident, Fondaras pointed out, by the amount of garden space devoted to largely decorative plants and not the usual collection of beets, carrots, potatoes, and yams.  On the other side of the road, which did not enjoy the steep slope, was a little market village, where smiths and carpenters traded, just as in Anferny.

Just before we arrived at Sostine, we came to an odd expanse of pasture that was clear of any home or barn.  It was, instead, a close-cropped series of fields dotted with little meadows with the occasional sand pit or pond peeking through the grass.  Though it appeared to be highly fertile, there were no vegetables grown there, and I saw no sign of sheep or llamas grazing.

Instead, little groups of Tal Alon appeared to play some game that involved hitting a tiny ball or rock across the grassy lawns with a cudgel.  They seemed extremely intent on it, and Fondaras explained that it was an ancient traditional game of the clans that they took as seriously as their llama races.  Those most skillful at it were lauded and rewarded, in Lakeshire society, and just being good at the game afforded some status.

But one section betwixt the hill and the lake was much larger than even the gamefield we passed.  After we crossed a decent-sized river (which descended from a smaller lake much higher on the slope, Fondaras informed us) the houses were nearly human-sized but were not residential; they were where the distilleries were.  Three big workshops were busy turning beet juice into rum.  Hundreds of small barrels surrounded each shop, and scores of Tal workers rolled them into smaller warehouses or led llama carts full of fresh beets in for processing.

“I can’t believe that there is this much industry among the Tal,” I said, shaking my head in wonder.  “This looks more like a manufactory in Castabriel than a remote, rustic tribe of spuds!”

“The rum trade has made Lakeshire wealthy,” the footwizard agreed.  “When the Kilnusk discovered their taste for their spirits, they began purchasing a third of their stock.  They had to build more to keep up with demand.  There are probably forty families of coopers, alone, as well as dozens of smiths and hundreds of carpenters.  Just to make barrels.”

“What do the Kilnusk trade to them for it?” I asked, as I watched one wagon get loaded for market.  They seemed to move with a great deal of industry.  The common mode of dress was a kind of vest or waistcoat, as well as short trousers or skirts.  They wore no shoes, of course.

“Silver, mostly, but also copper and steel, and a little gold.  Trifles, to the Kilnusk, but worth a great deal to this little society,” he reported.  “But that has also made some families far richer than their neighbors.  The last time I was here there was a power struggle going on in the council.  Things were quite tense.  But the gentry of Lakeshire don’t let matters like that turn to violence.  I believe they settled their differences with a ritual llama race or other contest.”

In Lakeshire, Fondaras informed me, a far more decentralized social structure had evolved, but the wealth generated by the rum trade had concentrated actual power as it normally does.  That had affected society greatly and caused the Lakeshire Tal to rely far more heavily on record-keeping, matters of inheritance and accounting than normal Tal Alon.  Thus, to one side of the central square (which was circular) was a row of houses devoted to scribes.  While only one in ten Lakeshire Tal could read and write, that was still more than most human villages.

To the other side of the square was the entrance to an underground administrative complex.  Each sheriff, the mayor of Sostine, the harbormaster, the market master, and a dozen petty officials each had an office there, Fondaras explained.

And then, on the other side of the road, was a line of tiny taverns and canopies that seemed to be doing business a fair would be envious of.

“This place looks delightful,” Alya said, as I helped her off the coach.

“A good place to get a pint, it appears,” Ormar agreed, as he led his team to the only horse stable in the town.  “Or a llama,” he added as a smart looking Tal Alon bravo rode by on one of the black animals.

Fondaras conducted the negotiations for stabling our horses, while the rest of us looked around the circular square.  There were other shops there, though it was not a market day, and everyone took the time to look at us.  Big people were not common, even in Sostine.

It took a little more negotiation (and a bribe) to get one of the officials to grant Fondaras and Gareth access to their archives and assistance with translation.  As it would take some time for them to seek the information, the rest of us decided to shop, relax, eat (the pies were delicious), enjoy a few drinks, and gaze out over the tiny houses towards the gorgeous blue lake until the llama races started.

We found a tavern with a perfect view of both lake and the commons the Tal used for llama racing and ordered ale, pie, soup, and roasted fish.  Many of the canopies were hosting games of chance, or cards, or other amusements.  There were several entertainers, from musicians to jugglers, who wandered the gathering crowd.  And the much-anticipated llama races were soon to begin, which involved a lot of wagering.  The Lakeshire Tal were overly fond of wagering, I’d noted.

“This is more like a holiday than a quest, so far,” Alya remarked, when she finished her second gourd of ale.  The Lakeshire Tal grew lots of gourds and used them as pipes, bottles, cups and bowls.  “After the wastes, I mean.  This place is as merry as Anferny was quaint.”

“It’s not bad, as quests go,” I agreed, ordering another round of ale.  It was incredibly good.

“Are you kidding?” Ormar snorted.  “This has been an alchemist’s holiday, so far.  I found more interesting material in Anferny, and the closer we get to that volcano the more interesting things get.  I can’t wait to get up into the desolated areas.  And to have a row of first-class taverns on the way makes it damn close to paradise.  Ale and pie and exotic minerals?  It’s like the gods of alchemy have chosen me,” he said, with serene satisfaction.

“It’s probably nice to be one of the tallest people here, too,” Nattia teased.

Ormar grimaced.  “I cross great wastes at great peril to come to the land of the little people.  And I still get short jokes,” he said with a disgusted sigh.

“The pies are particularly good, but I’m unsure what kind of meat is in it,” Alya said, poking at the remainder of her crust with her eating knife.  “I thought it was pork, but . . .”

“It’s called cavi,” Nattia supplied.  “It’s a domesticated mammal the Lakeshire folk raise.  A kind of rodent.  Travid told me about them.”

“I . . . I just ate a rat pie?” Alya asked, instantly horrified.

“They aren’t rats,” Nattia objected.  “They’re fed grain and scraps.  But they are rodents,” she admitted.

“I just ate rat pie,” my wife said, in a daze.  “I need more rum,” she decided.

“It could have been insect,” I consoled her.  “Consider it a sample of the local exotic cuisine on your holiday.”  That just earned me a dirty look.

“Lovely,” Ormar snorted.  “The fish was just a fish.  And quite well-prepared.  I have to hand it to these little guys, they know how to season everything.  Even rat pie.”

“Cavi are nothing like rats,” insisted Nattia.  “They’re more like pigs.  But nicer and smaller and much easier to raise.  They aren’t filthy, like rats.  And they’re importasta,” she added, a little defensively.  “The Tal Alon just like the taste, and the fact that they’re easy to raise.”

“The soup was good,” I said, after a moment of reflective silence at the table.  “Vegetable.  Very tasty.”

“So this is what a Tal Alon society looks like when they’re left to their own devices,” Alya said, changing the subject.  She looked a little ill.  I got her more rum, quickly.

“It’s not exactly what I would have predicted, but it is interesting,” I agreed, glancing around at the little furry fellows at the tables around us.  “But it is encouraging for our own Tal Alon settlement.  I might even place a wager or two on the races,” I decided.  “I don’t know anything about llamas, but it might be exciting.  Perhaps some dice, my love?” I asked Alya, trying to distract her.  “They keep bringing you free rum as long as you’re playing.”

Every now and then, throughout our supper, a Tal would wander over and speak to us in a kind of pidgin Narasi.  A few even spoke the Kasari language with Nattia, which was interesting to hear out of their mouths.  They were very friendly, and extremely inquisitive, but they did not act with the slightest bit of deference to us.  We were just another set of travelers coming to their land; uncommon, perhaps, but nothing to get worked up about.  Our purses were of interest, not our titles.

But hospitality was important to the Tal.  Before they left, each of our visitors insisted on buying us a drink of ale or rum.  By midafternoon, everyone at our table was reeling.

That’s when I realized the other reason the Lakeshire Tal were likely braver and bolder than their fellows.

They were drunk.  All the time.

All Tal Alon like to drink.  They excel at brewing and distillation.  That’s usually a problem, back in the Riverlands where such things are controlled by the authority of the manor lords.  Here, there were no such constraints.

Lakeshire had turned the practice into a cultural tradition that bordered on religion.  As the workday ended, the row of taverns was flooded with a sea of furry brown bodies and goofy looking felt caps.  Every Tal there consumed an absurd amount of alcohol in the twilight hour.  Not just rum – although that was certainly favored, but ales, beer, wine, brandy, really all manner and flavor of alcohol was brewed and enjoyed in the tiny pubs of Sostine.  Even with the food we’d enjoyed (well, most of us) in just a few hours we were completely staggered.  And surrounded by little furry guys who loved to sing, dance and gamble.

When a toothy fellow in a red cap I’d learned to associate with the Sivaji fishermen, in my short experience of Lakeshire, offered to fill my pipe with some of his own leaf, I accepted as a matter of courtesy.  Ten minutes later, as the sunset began, I realized that whatever was smoking in the bowl of my pipe was not mere peppermint or hemp flower.  I was blasted.

Just before sunset, the llama races began.  For nearly an hour they ran heats of two in sprints across the commons.  Betting was encouraged, of course – all Tal love to gamble almost as much as they love drink.  The conclusion of each race saw a wild round of cheers for the victors.  But with the booze and the pipeweed, the races became incredibly fascinating to me, and I found myself cheering for several dashing llamas and their jockeys.  Indeed, it was more fun than watching a tournament.  I lost a bundle, but I didn’t care.

“These are just the nightly races,” Fondaras explained to me when he and Gareth rejoined us.  Even the normally temperate old footwizard was slurring his words by then.  “The big race won’t be until Midsummer.  Most of the clans hold back their fastest llamas until then.”

“It certainly is more exciting than I expected,” I said as I watched another heat.  The last few heats were finishing up, and I was eager to see if my choice for winner – governed entirely by the certain lucky feel of the wooly ears of my favored beast – would prevail.  I had three ounces of silver riding on the outcome.

“They have a kind of big festival, then, before the harvest.  In another few weeks they’ll have a kind of Midsummer fair, where the distance races and the endurance races will be held.  That’s where the real action is,” he advised.

“If we’re in the neighborhood, I’ll be certain to stop by,” I agreed, eagerly . . . as my chosen pick lost.  “Damn!  I’m out another three silver pennies, now.”

“I told you not to bet,” Alya reminded me, giggling.  She was drunk.

“The ears,” I pointed out.  “That llama had particularly lucky feeling ears.”  I may have slurred my words as well.  It’s hard to remember accurately.

“Yes,” said Gareth, soberly, “you can usually tell how fast a llama goes by the ears.  There was an entire lecture on that, back at the Academy.”

“There was?” I asked, surprised and startled.

“I don’t know if you’ll remember this,” he sighed, taking a seat, “but I feel compelled to inform you the results of our research.  We just spent five hours in a hole looking over ancient parchments by candlelight written in the worst handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

“You were in a hole all day?” Nattia asked, wrinkling her nose.

“It wasn’t damp, or sandy, or too smelly, and there were no worms or things,” Gareth admitted.  “Indeed, it was quite comfortable . . . for a hole.  But we did find some things.  Not much, but some.”

“Like what?” Ormar asked, staring at his mug like it was thinking about sneaking off.

“Like the fact that a hunting expedition the Tal made a few years ago into the Plain of Pillars witnessed a human that may very well be Rolof,” he reported.  “It was near the eastern ridge along the dragon’s lake.  There were also two sightings of an Alka Alon female, in different places.  But no references to magical glassy organic minerals, or anything like that,” he said, discouraged.

“It was a little more helpful than that,” Fondaras insisted.  “My friend sells himself short.  The sighting of the wizard was admirably complete, compared to other references.  It very well could be Rolof.  In the account he indicated he wasn’t far from his home, so I’m supposing that eastern ridge is an excellent place to start looking for him.”

“And our elfin maiden?” I asked.  I really wished his face would settle on how many eyes it had.  It was distracting, with the two beards.  And no one should have that many eyebrows.  Not in public.  It was indecent.

“She was seen once near the Leshwood, and again on the slopes of Chimney Mountain,” reported the footwizard, as he received his first ale from the barman.  “Two pies, please, and some soup,” he ordered from the eager Tal.  “Both times she was reluctant to engage with the Tal.  Almost as if she was afraid of discovery.”

“By the Lakeshire Tal?” I asked, incredulous.  “Why?  These little fellows are great!”

“Except for the rat pie,” Alya muttered.  “Maybe that’s why she was avoiding them.”

“Rodent pie,” I corrected, authoritatively.

“Because of folk like us who are looking for her,” Fondaras explained, patiently.  “The original account of Ameras being in this land that came to the Beryen Council likely came through Lakeshire.  If she is truly in hiding, then minimizing her exposure to discovery would be prudent.”

“But why is she hiding?” Alya asked, unexpectedly.  “Certainly, she should be cautious.  But she’s hiding from the Alka Alon Council.  That doesn’t make sense.”

“Much about the Alka Alon remains a mystery,” I reflected, with a belch.  “Their motivations, their true ambitions, their loyalties . . . even with the Emissaries, Ondarion, and Lilastien – especially Lilastien!  Even with their insights, we just don’t know,” I said.  Perhaps there was a bit too much emotion in my voice.  For once, I was glad that none of the Tera Alon were around to hear me.

“They are an enigma,” Fondaras agreed, quietly.  “Their long lives give them perspective on their motivations that we lack.  But they are not unfathomable,” he counseled.  “Nor are they evil.  They are just as flawed and just as blessed as any creature in creation.  Perhaps we cannot know that perspective.  But we can do our best to understand what they want and how they want to use us.”

“You believe they wish to use us, Fondaras?” asked Ormar, surprised, as he paused his drink before it came to his lip.  The alchemist was putting away a prodigious amount of ethanol, I noted.

“I don’t think there’s much doubt about that,” he nodded, solemnly.  “I’ve come across them a few times in my journeys.  Some I even account my friends.  But their race, as a whole?   They consider humanity both a nuisance and an opportunity.  They aid our efforts in war, but they have kept our own past enshrouded from us.  They may not be sinister . . . but that doesn’t mean they are benign,” he cautioned.

“The Enshadowed are Alka Alon,” reminded Gareth, soberly.  “They inflicted them upon us.  And Korbal.  And the Nemovorti.  Sheruel is the result, and the invasion.”

“In truth, we’ve only encountered the Alka Alon of the Five Duchies,” I reminded them.  “There are realms beyond the seas where far more of their people live.   There is politics afoot that we can only guess at.  Ameras is a part of that.  The Aronin – for those of you who don’t know – was a guardian.  Until recently I assumed that he and his line worked at the direction of the Council.  But Alya is right – why would Ameras disappear and avoid communication with the Council if she was?  It doesn’t make sense.”

“Politics rarely make sense, unless you are arse deep in it,” Fondaras agreed, sipping his ale.  “The politics of the immortals even more so.  Without more information, we shall never know if we are true allies of the Alka Alon . . . or mere servants.”

“Lilastien is telling me as much as she can,” I pointed out.  “In direct defiance of the Council.  But there is only so much one man can learn and then understand,” I confessed.  “I spent a few precious hours in the Cave of the Ancients and learned more about my ancestry than I’d discovered in a lifetime.  Yet I know but a fragment of what there is to know about our past.  The things I saw in that cave, the sights and sounds of our homeworld . . . all of that is riven from us by time and ignorance.  The wonders that brought us to this world are all but gone.  Lilastien hints that this was intentional by our supposed allies.  How are we supposed to contend with that?” I demanded.

“You must tell others about it,” suggested Ormar, drunkenly.  “As many as you can.  No offense, Minalan, but you live in a dangerous world.  I ap-appreciate what you have learned and can only guess at what secrets you know that I don’t.  But I want to know,” he insisted, with perhaps a little more emotion than he intended.  “Others do, too.  If you slip and fall in the baths and break your neck, gods forbid, I would not have that knowledge die with you!” he declared, passionately.

“Uh, thanks. . . ?” I replied, as I tried to figure out what, exactly, the alchemist meant.  “I’ve done what I can to institutionalize this knowledge.  Pentandra knows most of it – if not more than I.  So does Gareth,” I pointed out, “and others.  “And Taren, and the Thaumaturgic Academy, and . . . all right,” I sighed.  “I see your point.”

“The fact is, if you died, my lord, they all might have a piece of your insight,” Nattia agreed.  “But would they have enough to see the truth of the Alka Alon?  Or the Sea Folk?”

The Sky Captain had been close in my counsels, the last two years.  She was no wizard, but she had lived among the magi since she came to Sevendor as a falconer’s apprentice.  And she was smart, observant, and attentive.  “No disrespect to our allies, my lord, but even I smell something sinister in their actions.  They are not being entirely truthful.”

“No,” I agreed.  “And they haven’t been entirely truthful from the beginning, I suspect.  They are afraid of something.  Perhaps that’s why Ameras has not gone directly to them, when she could.  She has duties beyond the Council,” I predicted.  “She answers to a different authority.  A higher authority.”

“She might just be off having a good think,” Gareth countered.  “When you’re immortal, taking five or six years to go wander around in nature to collect your thoughts might be just be considered a holiday.”

“Who would go knocking off into the wild, shirking their responsibilities in the middle of an emergency?” I asked critically.

When I saw the faces of my companions, I reconsidered the question.  Irony tastes bitter when you’re drunk and self-conscious.

“Don’t answer that,” I decided, before anyone else could speak.  “While I take your point, Gareth, as heir to the Aronin, Ameras has more urgent matters to contend with than we mere mortals.  One would think she would be taking action.”

“Perhaps she is, my lord,” Fondaras offered, thoughtfully.  “Until we speak to her, we will not know her mind.  But I do believe she is here,” he insisted.  “Whether she will consent to speak to us mere mortals is another matter.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Alya asked, confused.

“Because she doesn’t know whether or not she can trust us, my lady,” the footwizard considered.  “And, in truth, I don’t entirely know if she is wrong to think that.”

Chapter Eighteen

Grost Kilnuskum

Among the various provinces and regions of Anghysbel, none is more noble in scope and character than the Kilnusk in their fortress complex of Grost Kilnuskum.  It is a solitary mountain on the frontier of desolation to the north, and fertile lands to the south.  Its role as a defensive outpost is welcomed by the Kilnusk, who are the most belligerent of all the dwarven clans, and who most delight in the challenge of battle.  But the Kilnusk are more than mere warriors, or even kings.  In them lies the essence of all the clans refined and exaggerated beyond all reason.  To them lies the glory of the other six clans, untainted by mere humility or grace.  They are, unabashedly, the best of the clans, and they make no secret of that belief.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden

Have you ever had a hangover?

Not a mere consequence of overindulgence, where your stomach rebels at the thought of food and the room spins when you arise.  I’m speaking of the hellish state of alchemical necromancy where your very blood feels like poison in your veins.  The condition where the pain in your head makes you feel like a sharpened chisel being pounded into your temple would be a blessed relief.  The malady wherein your skin feels as if it has been mistakenly stitched upon your half-dead flesh with a particularly rusty needle by a sadistic demon with extremely poor eyesight who is, nonetheless, determined to impress his superiors in hell with his technical expertise.

That kind of hangover.  That was the kind I had as we rode away from Lakeshire, where every bump in the road under the wheel became a new exercise in misery.

I don’t know what those furry bastards put in their bloody beet rum, but the aftermath was devastating.  Ordinarily, I had a dozen little magical charms and spells that could ease the suffering my body was enduring.  But this was the bloody realm of the bloody jevolar, and such comforts were denied me.

Alya wasn’t in any better shape.  She’d puked out her rodent pie and a considerable volume of ale in the market square before she retired.  In the morning she looked almost as bad as she had after Minalyan was born.  Pale, pallid, and nauseous, we rumbled down the road in the seat of a wagon that was, I am thoroughly convinced, designed to torment us as much as convey us.

That was a pity, in a way, because the countryside was, as usual, incredibly gorgeous.  We were in real llama country, now; most of the homesteads and cottages included corrals with at least one or two of the beasts, all of them uniform black.  There were sheep, goats, and pigs – as well as structures I learned were cavi warrens – but llamas were the focus of the Tal Alon husbandry in the western region of their land.

I’d always been ambivalent about llamas.  I prefer horses.  But I had to admit that the continuously chewing jaws and shrill, shrieking calls that penetrated your skull like a steel hunting spear made them even less appealing.  I’m certain, in hindsight, that it was largely my imagination, but for miles along the road I was convinced that the placid-looking beasts were glaring at me critically as I rode past their pens.  I resented their judgement.  I was on holiday.

“Here, my lord,” Fondaras said, offering me a flask, when we stopped at a small village on the road.  “What we lack in magic, here, we can make up for in craft.  A tonic to ease your mind.”

“What’s in it?” I asked, looking at the glass flask uncertainly.

“Best you not know,” he decided, after a moment’s thought.  “It is a recipe of the Lakeshire Tal.  Mostly vegetable-based, but . . . no,” he said, shaking his head.  “Wisdom dictates that you trust me.  Drink two swallows.  No more, no less,” he instructed.

“Is it poison?” Alya moaned, dully, as she slumped next to me.  “Please let it be poison!”

“Merely a local herbal remedy, my lady,” the footwizard assured.  “I’ve had recourse to it myself, in years past.  I secured two bottles last night before bed, in anticipation of such an appallingly bright, aggressively sunny day.”

I tipped it back.  It tasted vaguely of pears, at first, and then a bit of alcohol, and then it became the vilest concoction I’d ever put in my mouth.  Bitter and acrid, it splashed over my tongue like a rotten parsnip freshly harvested from a dung heap and left to soak in a kettle of rotting fish.  Perhaps with some onions.  Someone had tried to sweeten it with honey or syrup, but in truth the sweetness mocked the dreadful nastiness.

But when I didn’t vomit, I started to feel better.  Marginally.  It was vile.  But it was worthwhile.

“Thank you,” I said, sincerely, when I recovered.  I passed the flask to Alya.  “Why in six hells did you let us do that?”

“Lakeshire is likely the safest place to indulge in a night of drunkenness,” considered Fondaras.  “If it soothes your guilty conscience, my lord, your . . . indulgence impressed the Lakeshire Tal mightily.  They place great value in one’s ability to consume as much liquor as that.  They also enjoyed your singing,” he praised.

“There was singing?” I asked, my eyes opening painfully in surprise.  “I sang?”

Alya groaned, handing the flask back to Fondaras.  Her face came back to normal only slowly.  “Gods, do you not remember the singing?  Two rounds of ‘The Road to Sevendor,’ some awful, filthy little ditty you picked up from Jannik, and a song in Old Perwyneese you learned from Lilastien.  It was a . . . it was a big night,” she proclaimed, as her head slumped back on my shoulder.

“Which song?” I asked, curious.  Certainly, it wasn’t the most important question in the world, but riding along with Lilastien and her tekka tablet for a few days, I’d learned several ancient tunes from our homeworld.  They were catchy, sometimes, even if the words didn’t often make sense.  But then you can’t sing an instrumental when you’re drunk.

“‘Viva Las Vegas’, my lord.  I have no idea what it is about, but I assume it’s a romantic ballad,” Fondaras reported, as he pushed the cork back into the flask.  “You sang it four times and tried to translate it into Narasi, before you were . . . indisposed.  Now,” he said, as he studied our faces, “now that I’m reasonably certain you will live until sunset, I need to take some of this potion to Gareth and Nattia.  The Kasari are not known for handling their liquor with grace,” he warned.

“Gareth couldn’t drink his way through a ladies’ garden party,” agreed Alya, sleepily.  “I do feel a bit better, now,” she admitted.  “Thank you, Master Fondaras.”

“It is my pleasure to help, my lady,” the old wizard smiled.  “The journey to Grost Kilnuskum will be brief, so I counsel you to rest . . . and perhaps consider abstaining from alcohol much, today.  But drink as much water as you can.  It will aid the elixir.  I’ll have some tea for you at lunch, as well.”

“One moment of magic and I’d have us feeling as good as a sunny morning,” I muttered, when the footwizard rode out of earshot.

“This sunny morning doesn’t feel particularly good,” Alya complained.  “It hurts.  Still, it was fun.  When you jumped up on the table and started singing, it was . . . fun.  I don’t think Gareth and Nattia will speak of it.  And I don’t think Ormar will remember it – he drank more than you did.  So, your secrets should be secure.”

“I can see why Tyndal is so eager to purchase as much of that rum as possible,” I chuckled.  I regretted it.  Chuckling hurt, too.  “But I’m not certain I want to permit it to be imported into the Magelaw.  Too dangerous.  It’s like an earthquake in a bottle.”

We were feeling much better by noon, as we stopped at the frontiers of Lakeshire.  I no longer wanted to die, at least, which was an improvement.  Fondaras’ tea aided it as well – and it wasn’t nearly as vile as his flask.

“We’re heading into Kilnusk territory, now,” Gareth advised, as he stretched himself after eating.  “Far less farms and ranches.  Far more mines and excavations, according to Anferny’s records.”

“Aye, the land of the dwarf lords,” nodded Fondaras.  “They till little land and raise few beasts.  But they mine, they prospect, they forge, and they delve.  From thence they build treasures to trade to sustain them.”

“I wonder how Azhguri and Suhi’s investigation is going,” I pondered.  I had no idea what criteria they were using to evaluate their former lords, but I was incredibly curious.

“The Kilnusk value their privacy,” considered Fondaras.  “They rarely entertain visitors, preferring to conduct their affairs from Midmarket.  I’ve only been to the mountain twice, and each time only briefly.  It was not a particularly welcoming visit either occasion,” he warned.

“We have the letter of introduction from the Lords of Anferny,” I reminded him.  “That should at least get us in the door.  After that, I’ll just use my charm and my sense of self-importance to convince them to speak to us after that.  They are the most proximate to the wilder portions of the vale; they should have knowledge of what we seek, if anyone does.”

“I warn you, my lord, the Kilnusk may stand against the savage creatures of the vale,” Fondaras cautioned, “but they have little concern for affairs outside of their mountain.  Apart from their patrols, they rarely venture far from their home-in-exile.  Save for prospecting, they keep to their fortress.”

“Yet they are closest to what we seek,” Gareth objected.  “And if anyone can convince them to speak of what they have seen, it will be the Spellmonger.”  He said it with such confidence I was tempted to believe it.

“We shall see,” I said, enigmatically.  I’d learned that from Fondaras, who was a master of enigmatic expressions.  It was worthy of study.

We were riding along toward the little mountain at the center of the vale that afternoon when there seemed to be a shift in the wind.  The warm summer breeze that had blown continuously from the west died down, for a moment, and a harsh blast of much hotter air suddenly blew down from the north.  Like a blast from a smithy’s bellows, the hot wind carried a whiff of Sulphur and other alchemical agents, like rotten eggs mixed with rancid oil.  Enough to make us cough, and it brought back a bit of the morning’s nausea, for a moment.

“A fell breeze from the Plain of Pillars,” explained Fondaras, apologetically.  “Beyond that little ridge, it stretches out for miles.  Sulphur springs, geysers, all manner of volcanic nastiness.  Bide.  It won’t last long,” he promised.

“Can we go?” Ormar asked, eagerly, from the next wagon.  “I’m about to vomit here.  Again,” he pleaded.

“Not until we visit the Kilnusk,” I gagged.  For a brief moment I wanted to borrow one of his masks.  About the time I decided that would be a bad idea – one doesn’t want to throw up while wearing a mask or helmet, after all – the hot wind died down, and the westerly breeze returned.

Perhaps the breeze was a portent, if this place would permit such things.  For a few moments later a shadow passed overhead.  Expecting to see Ithalia on her winged mount, or at least Nattia’s bird, who was flying above, unaccompanied, I was startled to recognize the silhouette that was streaking from the southwest toward the northeast.  One does not mistake that shadow once you’ve seen it.

The dragon was aloft.

I watched, petrified, as the winged drake soared with savage grace over the northern vales.  It took no interest in us whatsoever, but that did not mollify my terror much; I was sitting there in the road, mere dragon bait.  Had it turned its attention to us I was as helpless as my wife, without magic.  The mighty weapons of the ancients I now possessed would have done little to a dragon, I knew.  I’d discussed the matter with Lilastien, outside of the Cave of the Ancients, and she’d agreed.

“I feel sick,” moaned Alya, as she watched the thing intently.

“It doesn’t seem to have noticed us.  Let’s keep moving,” I proposed.  “Only perhaps a little more quickly.”  With that I encouraged the team to pick up the pace.

Grost Kilnuskum quickly grew on the horizon.  The steepness of the mountain made it appear taller than it was and influenced how quickly it sprang up in front of us.  Unlike most of the surrounding ridges, the stone of the mountain was bare of most vegetation beyond the base, save for a few tufts of some hardy breed of shrubbery that could endure the stony heights.  The rock was a spectrum of red, from ocher to scarlet to a delicate pink.  The peak, almost fifteen hundred feet over the valley floor, was sharply pointed, compared to more weathered hills.  It seemed fresh, somehow.  Yet it was clearly eons old.

We saw no real sign of the Kilnusk who lived there until we were only a half-mile away from the mountain.  That’s when we passed by a great, squat obelisk the size of a house that had been carefully carved in bold, angular abstract designs.  At least, they looked abstract to me; it could have been a road sign, for all I knew.  But whether it was art or alphabet, there was no mistaking the style.  This was dwarven land.

The road curved around the mountain to the right, counterclockwise, and skirted close enough to the Plain of Pillars that we could see it in the distance.  It wasn’t until we passed the first great rocky spur of the peak that we witnessed the first evidence of actual Kilnusk.  Unlike the Lakeshire Tal, they did not build much outside of their central stronghold.  I found out later that their population was so small that it was unnecessary.  Their ancient mansion was large enough to accommodate the entire clan within its subterranean halls.

“Why did they build it in the first place?” I asked my footwizard guide when he joined us once again on the road.

“The Kilnusk made this place, originally, as a remote refuge.  A retreat where they could meet in privacy and practice their skills.  The jevolar keeps the other clans from using magic to spy on them, and it forces them to develop their nonmagical skills when they trained here.  It was never the greatest of their halls, it is said, but when they were exiled, it was the natural place to retreat to.”

“What skills are those?” Alya asked.  “The Karshak work stone, the Dradrien metal, the Wood Dwarves build in the dirt of lumber, but what do the Kilnusk do?”

“They rule,” Fondaras explained, thoughtfully.  “And they fight.  But they also practice all arts of the clans they once ruled.  They, among all the dwarven clans, are allowed to marry within the clans they ruled.  Their children are all born with golden hair.  Therefore, the Kilnusk clan are masters of all the crafts, as well as some they have developed on their own.  There are Kilnusk stonesingers, steeldancers, woodmasters, the entire lot,” he reported, as we passed a cluster of well-built workshops made of stone and wood.

There were several of the wide-statured dwarves hard at work in and around them, and it was a wonder to see.  A single dwarf hefting a tree it would take four men to move was impressive.  Seeing a Kilnusk use an axe to pare off the bark like a carrot’s peel was even more so.

The north face of the mountain was lined with little workshops like that, or at least their balconies and windows.  Many even had glass leaded into their frames.  Dozens of chimneys released the smoke of their forges and cookfires from the upper portions of the mountain, mimicking Chimney Mountain in miniature.  As we got closer, we could see many balconies and porticos lining the mountain at many levels.  There was even a kind of watchtower built out onto one cliff that was impressively elegant, like a human castle.

The gateway to Grost Kilnuskum was a wide, low door with stone lintels large enough to admit several wagons.  There was a guardhouse, where a pair of enormous armored Kilnusk stood, great axes in hand.  They seemed far more concerned about things on the horizon than a pack of mounted strangers approaching their gates.

Then I remembered that there was a dragon out there, and I began to understand their preoccupation.

“Welcome to Grost Kilnuskum,” a young dwarf bid us in accented Narasi, as we were waved through the gate.  He was dressed somewhat better than the workers we’d passed on the road, and his golden beard was neatly brushed.  “I am Drajo, the gatewarden.  You must be the wizards that the emissaries spoke of.  They said you would try to visit.”

“At your service, Drajo,” I said, courteously.  “I am Count Minalan of the Magelaw, and my companions are my wife Alya, Lords Ormar, Gareth, Taren, and Fondaras – magelords,” I added.  “And that is Sky Captain Nattia of the Vanador Mewstower.”

“The bird rider,” the dwarf grunted.  “We heard tell about that.  Interesting,” the gatewarden said, stroking his beard.

“We come asking to see your mountain and speak to your scholars.  And meet with your king if he is willing.”

“I will pass that along,” he agreed.  “The prince has already granted you hospitality, and a suite has been prepared for your comfort.  No doubt the emissaries from the Karshak and the Dradrien will want to meet with you as well,” he added, a little uncomfortably.  “They spoke very highly of you . . . for humani.”

“I am friends of them both,” I assured him.  “I’ll try to put in a good word for you.  Tell me, has the dragon we spotted in the sky on the way here ever menaced you?” I asked, as I hefted the plasma rifle out of the wagon.

“Nay, but we keep a careful watch,” he admitted.  “In the olden days, the Kilnusk faced them in battle.  It rarely went well.”

“It rarely does,” I agreed, sympathetically, as Ormar and Gareth saw to the wagons.  “Now, is there some place we can rest and freshen ourselves?  We tarried in Lakeshire yesterday, and . . .”

“Say no more, master wizard!” laughed Drajo, harshly.  “We have all tarried in Lakeshire, from time to time.  We know well the fire in the head that results.  Follow me,” he offered, as courteous as a courtier.  “Your rooms have been prepared.”

Hospitality in Grost Kilnuskum was far different than the Lakeshire Tal offered.  We were led into a labyrinth of corridors that wound into the mountain.  Some were clearly well-crafted stonework; a few were natural formations that the Kilnusk had turned to their own purpose.

The effect was stunning.  A hall could begin with all the precise form a free-standing building demands, and by the time you reached the end of it you appeared to be in a natural cavern.  The windows in the mountainside provided daylight for some of the chambers – the Kilnusk had crafted lanterns of crystal, mirror, and glass to reflect and direct light within.  At night, as we soon found, those same lanterns were fitted with lamps that provided sufficient illumination for most activities.

Thankfully, the former kings of the dwarves thought enough of themselves to build their mountain mansion with high ceilings – for them.  For us, they were at least comfortable.  Gareth and Fondaras had to crouch the entire time they were in the Lakeshire tunnels.  Nor did the air ever grow stale.  Some contrivance captured the constant westward breeze and channeled it deep inside the mountain.

As we walked, we politely interrogated Drajo about the place.  Apparently nearly two thousand Kilnusk lived here.  The tunnels and underground halls extended throughout the entire mountain, providing homes for all.  The lower levels were reserved for common areas and storehouses, but as you climbed (always through cunningly built ramps, but rarely stairs) the upper chambers were reserved for workshops, and then residential areas.  The highest chambers in the mountain, Drajo informed us, was where the Royal Family lived.

When we finally came to the chambers set aside for our use, we were surprised to see our two friends had already arrived.  Masters Suhi and Azhguri, the emissaries, were awaiting us.  Both dwarves looked a little uncomfortable in the brightly colored garb the Kilnusk wore, but they seemed to patiently endure it for the occasion.

Perhaps because of their commission we were given splendid lodging.  There was a perfectly circular common room, complete with fireplace, fountain, and comfortable furniture, as well as doors leading to our individual rooms.  We found them small but warm and cozy, and much to our liking.  There was a basket of fruit and another of bread and cakes in the common area, and a small cask of ale for our pleasure and comfort.

“We were wondering what was keeping you,” Azhguri said with a sigh once I’d tucked Alya in for a nap she needed more than food and drink, after our tedious day on the road.  “More than a week, we’ve been in this mountain.”

“We had to see Anferny and Lakeshire,” I reported, as I sprawled into an over-stuffed chair.  “There were a few complications.  Some were rum-related,” I admitted.

“How goes your great commission?” Fondaras asked, taking a seat next to me and striking his pipe.

“The Kilnusk have not been among us in nearly four hundred years,” Master Suhi sighed.  “We’ve been here a week, and I already find them insufferable.”

“How so?” I asked, following the footwizard’s cue and packing my own pipe.  I made certain that it was well-cleaned from the last time I smoked.  I didn’t want any repeats of the Lakeshire experience.

“They are arrogant beyond measure,” Azhguri said, condemningly.

“Proud,” agreed Suhi, his eyes narrowing.  “Conceited.”

“They are extraordinarily competitive – about everything.  They are thoroughly convinced of their own superiority in all matters.  At all times.”

“Vain,” Suhi nodded.  “Smug.”

“They are confident that they are correct.  No matter the subject.  Their heads are as big as a bushel basket, when it comes to their sense of righteousness,” the Karshak stonesinger said, miserably.  “We are honored commissioners elected by our people to determine their status.  And we have been treated no better than humani!” he said, clearly insulted.

“And they fight,” condemned Suhi, shaking his head.  “They call them ‘contests,’ but they are really just occasions to beat each other bloody.”

“Oh, they wrestle, too,” Azhguri added, despondently.  “They love to wrestle.  I’ve had six young Kilnusk challenge me to a bout since I’ve been here.  Including the prince.  They do it only to show that they can beat you.”

“Kilnusk know only wining,” Suhi agreed.  “Only combat and competition.”

“Well, they were bred as fighters,” I reminded them.  “Were they not supposed to protect your peoples?”

“Protect?  Yes.  But they are bullies, Minalan,” Azhguri accused.  “Big, friendly, incredibly strong bullies.  With no sense of taste or decorum, even after their long exile.  Oh, there are some good craftsmen, here,” he admitted, reluctantly.  “Some of the stonework is almost as good as the Karshak.  Some of the smithcraft might be superior to Dradrien—” he said.

“It’s crap,” dismissed Suhi.  “They only think it’s good.  So do you,” he challenged, condemningly.

“My point is,” Azhguri said, patiently, as he shot a harsh glance at his colleague, “the Kilnusk have managed to not just survive this harsh land, but they seem to have made a bit of a home out of it.  They seem quite comfortable here.”

“So they don’t want to return?” asked Fondaras, confused.

“They demand to return,” Azhguri said shaking his head.  “Frequently.  Politely.  But loudly and insistently.  They may have made a kind of home, here in Anghysbel, but they would prefer to leave it and take up their old positions.  They feel that the other six clans were wrong to send them into exile.  They feel that we overstepped our bounds and upended the natural order.”

“Straw-beards,” snorted Suhi, derisively, as he shook his shaggy head.  “They are lucky exile was their only sentence.  They expected us to come back here and beg them to return to rule over us.”

“Arrogant,” nodded Azhguri.  “Prideful and arrogant.”

Apparently, I reflected, dwarves have no sense of irony.  Whatsoever.

We dined with Prince Husadri, that evening, the same golden-haired heir to the Kilnusk throne who had come to Midmarket to fetch the emissaries.  The king, we were told, would meet with us later, in the Kilnusk version of court.

Prince Husadri proved fluent in Narasi, as well as being a generally knowledgeable fellow in most things.  He had a certain style – arrogant, but polite.  I could not disagree with Suhi and Azhguri’s assessment of the clan, but the prince was engaging and hospitable without being openly condescending.

He was very interested in all the news from the south, including the actions of the Alka Alon Council and the new Beryen Council.  He was even familiar with some of the names.  He was shocked to hear that the Wood Dwarves had been welcomed in Vanador, was impressed at the work the Karshak were doing in Sevendor, and surprised that the Dradrien were cooperating with humanity at all.  He was even curious about humani politics, though not entirely familiar with the feudal nature of our society.

We dined in Prince Husadri’s private apartments, which included a broad glass window overlooking the Plain of Pillars.  We were attended by three servants who ensure our comfort with admirable hospitality, and three of the Prince’s “gentlemen” dined with us – important members of the clan, but all younger than the elders that officially governed their affairs.  The fare was good, to a human palate, if uninspired and under-seasoned.  But there were no rodents involved in the meal.  Alya checked.

“I hear that you met Lord Kanset,” the prince said, after the last course.  “Good man, he.  I’ve hunted with him a few times.  And his sister Tandine is a righteous warrior,” he praised.

“He is a scholar, she a warrior,” I agreed.  “Good Wilderlords, each.  Their father, as well, poor man.  Of course, they are now under the jurisdiction of the Magelaw,” I reminded him.  “As my vassals, I want to ensure good relations with other local powers.”

“You’ve naught to fear from the Kilnusk,” the prince chuckled, affably.  “Why, if we attacked Anferny, who would grow barley for ale?  No, we are good friends,” he insisted.  “It will make me sad to leave them behind.”

“There is no determination, yet, on that, my lord,” Master Azhguri reminded him.  “We are far from making one.  There are many questions that need to be asked and answered before we return to our mansions and deliberate.”

“We are still far from reaching a decision,” agreed Master Suhi.

“Bah!” dismissed the prince.  “What other answer could the clans return?  You have languished in our absence.  You are forced to work for the humani,” he said, disparagingly.  “No offense,” he added – to me, not them.  “You are nearly lost, without us to inspire you.”

“Inspire us?” snorted Azhguri.  “That is not the perspective of the Karshak.”

“Nor the Dradrien,” agreed Suhi.

“I have every confidence that the clans will reach the right decision,” I said, diplomatically.  “The emissaries have only just arrived.  I’m certain that they will give an honest accounting to their fellows when they return.  I understand that I’m an outsider, but I am curious about the circumstances of your exile.  If it is permitted.”

“It might help increase our understanding of the situation,” Fondaras added, sympathetically.

The dwarves at the table exchanged looks, some dark, some questioning.  Finally, Prince Husadri gave a deep, heaving sigh.

“It is rare that we tell that tale to outsiders,” he said, slowly.  “For good reason.  It is our shame.  A Karshak engineer desired to delve into a deep vein of jacasta – stone of adamant, with special properties.  Very valuable.”

“Jacasta can withstand great punishment without harm,” added Azhguri.  “We prize it greatly.  It can shield against a great many magics.  To find a vein was considered fortunate – to find one of such size and quality was incredible.  Yet the stonesingers who sang the vein were fearful.  The engineer was ambitious.  He delved on . . . and then the disaster happened.

“The Beldurrazeko was loosed,” the prince continued, somberly.  “We did not alert the Alka Alon Council when the beast was loosed from the mines.  We thought we could contend with it ourselves, prideful in our might.  Yet might, alone, could not prevail against it.”

“It was vicious,” Azhguri related, gravely.  “A thing of absolute darkness.  It was passing strong and was possessed of a rage that could not be faced without consequence.  Two hundred Karshak masons died the hour its chamber was breeched.  Stonesingers of great repute, masters of the craft – gone, in an instant.”

“For nine years we stalked it.  Then it struck.  For five bloody days, it killed us all, it is said,” Master Suhi offered, darkly.  “It slithered through the tunnels and slew all it encountered.  A living darkness, moving with the speed of shadow.  The ‘creeping doom,’ we called it.”

“The Kilnusk came on the fourth day,” Prince Husadri said, shaking his golden head.  “We knew it was dangerous, and we came armed and prepared for battle.

“And battle it gave us.  Two hundred of our finest warriors trapped it in a great chamber under the mountains.  We believed it captured, and we tried to take advantage.  It was a mighty battle – a glorious battle.  But our power was for naught.  One by one the warriors fell.  Some never had a chance to strike a blow.  The mightiest warriors of our generation battled for two days and nights, until only the greatest – or the luckiest – remained.

“The most that could be done was to drive it back deeper into the mountains.  Hundreds more Karshak were killed, and dozens more Kilnusk.  Only then did we summon the Alka Alon.  They, alone, could challenge it,” he said, with a mixture of respect and humiliation.

“It is said that the Alka Alon spellsingers used sorceries forbidden since the days of their ancient wars against the terror,” sighed Azhguri.  “Spells made illegal because of the ancient wars.  But they were forced to.  Nothing less could have challenged the Beldurrazeko.  It took their finest art to slay it, at last, when it took refuge in the chamber it had been released from.”

“Perhaps we could have escaped further repercussions,” the prince said, thoughtfully, “if the Alka Alon of the elder realms had not taken notice.  But they did.  They demanded accountability from the Council.  They demoted this land, and the status of the Council.  They took possession of the chamber of the Beldurrazeko.  And they demanded the Karshak pay for their role.  And, aye, the Kilnusk warriors, though we had sacrificed so much in the battle already,” he said, sadly.

“The Alka Alon Council ordered a conclave of all seven clans to judge the Kilnusk,” reported Suhi.  “It was our decision to demote the Kilnusk from their oversight of the rest of the clans and send them into exile.  Here.”

“But it was never meant to be a permanent exile!” objected Husadri.  “I have been here since I was a child, and don’t wish to die of old age without having seen the world!  My people languish, here,” he insisted.  “We have paid for what crimes we have committed . . . if they were crimes at all!”

“It sounds as if the clans were being pressured by the Alka Alon Council,” I observed.  “By breaking the hold the Kilnusk had over the other clans, they were able to divide you.  Control you.  Splitting the leadership of the other six clans between the Dradrien and the Karshak allows them to play both sides against each other.  It would not be the first time they have intervened in the affairs of the other Alon.  Or humanity, for that matter,” I reminded the prince.

“They fear the elder realms, first, and the rage of the Vundel next,” agreed the prince.  “They do not care about the concerns of the Karshak or the Kilnusk nor the Dradrien.”

“Such disdain forged renegades,” reminded Suhi.  “Many of my folk have fought against the dictates of the Council.  Not all of their reasons were good.  Some were,” he admitted.

“The longevity of the Fair Folk encourages a subtle perspective about power,” Fondaras argued.  “To what end they use it, that is the question.”

“There have been many questionable ends, over the millennia,” agreed Azhguri.  “Our people suffered damnably in the ancient wars.  Now they act as if that never happened.  We have been used and discarded when we were no longer convenient.  For all their pretensions of benevolent leadership, the pattern of corruption that arises is plain to see, if one knows history.”

“I had one other question,” I said, after a moment’s thought.  “Davachan – the engineer – I saw him at Midmarket.  He is said to be over eight hundred years old, now.  How is that possible?”

The Kilnusk at the table stiffened and looked to their prince.  Husadri looked uncomfortable as he stroked his golden beard.

“That is not a matter for outsiders,” he insisted.  “He was punished for his arrogance and willingness to delve when his stonesingers begged him not to.  His greed wounded our people damnably.  When he accompanied us in our exile as our prisoner, we could not bear to keep him near, after what he had cost us.  So, my grandfather bargained with a . . . a power.  An ancient spirit deep in the most desolate portions of this valley.  Something that has lingered here since before the Alon came to this world.”

“What kind of bargain, Prince Husadri?” Fondaras asked, somberly.

“We begged the boon for the power to enslave him, after he was shorn and stripped and cast out of our halls.  Since that time, he has been one of the servants of that power, forbidden from ever returning to Grost Kilnuskum.  Or any of our lands.  Lest he be slain.  That power keeps him alive beyond his years,” explained the prince.

“What is this power you speak of?” I asked, curious.

“No living Kilnusk has seen it,” assured the prince.  “But it is known as Szal the Yith.  Legends say that none may see him or speak with him and not risk madness.  The very madness Davachan suffers. He’s gone quite insane, now,” the prince assured, sadly.  “He is no longer Karshak.  And he is best to be avoided if you are wise,” Husadri warned.

Chapter Nineteen

The Hall of the Mountain King

The impressiveness of the Grost Kilnuskum cannot be overstated.  The halls are exquisitely excavated and beautifully and the amenities provided the colony-in-exile are superb by any reckoning.  It is as if the sting of exile and the shame of their condition inspired the Kilnusk clan to repent not with humility or sorrow, but with the spite of redoubled ambition.  There was no guilt in the manner of the Kilnusk, but neither was there repentance.  They seemed entirely devoted to their eventual return to civilized lands, and utterly convinced of their eventual vindication.  If pride was a burden, then the Kilnusk took double their allotment and begged for more.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Taren the Thaumaturge

The next day, we toured Grost Kilnuskum with Prince Husadri as our guide.  It was a truly magnificent place, and it didn’t get the tourist trade it deserved.

The Kilnusk pride themselves at being masters at every dwarven tradecraft, only better.  The other clans dispute this as a matter of course, but that doesn’t stop the Kilnusk from behaving that way.  In the centuries they had been in exile, they had turned those skills on the mountain with a fierce desire to prove themselves.  And because they were bored, I think.

None of the dwarves can last long without some constructive project to occupy them, I learned.  Inactivity is foreign to their nature.  A dwarf without a job is a dwarf in peril.  When the Kilnusk arrived at the mountain, they saw it as an opportunity to fill the time, and they felt compelled to fill it with grandeur.

We saw workshop after workshop on our tour, each occupied with a crew of craftsmen busily working on everything from blowing glass to metalcraft to pottery to weaving.  Indeed, the Kilnusk prided themselves on a skill that the other clans largely eschewed. That is not to say that their visual aesthetic was anything less than jarring, but they produced a good quality of cloth.

When they weren’t attempting to show up the other clans in matters of craft, the Kilnusk indulged in their other fairly unique passion: combat.  The Kilnusk took an intense interest in the physical health of their bodies and took great pains to train their mighty musculature to the peak of perfection.

Indeed, one of the most impressive sights of the day was when we were shown the great gymnasium they had constructed for the purpose.  Massive blocks of stone and weights of iron and lead were lifted and carried to improve their strength.  Smooth balls of polished stone were flung from one mighty arm to another, to better their dexterity.  Ropes, chains, and other implements were available to exercise with, and hundreds took advantage of the opportunity.  I only wish the Kilnusk exercised with clothes on.  They preferred to achieve their physique completely nude.  That was a disturbing sight.

Among the more sophisticated exercise available was a section of the gymnasium that was given over to the art of combat.  The Kilnusk relish personal combat the way a knight delights in the crash of lances at tournament.  They are natural fighters, eager for a conflict in which to prove their bravery, strength, and endurance.  They prize skill in wrestling, in particular, but do not disdain the importance of mastering weaponry.  This consists, mostly, of a number of blunt and sharpened objects which they bash against their foes with abandon.  Not that they were devoid of skill – some of the instructors, older Kilnusk who had been fighting for centuries – demonstrated the kind of extreme adeptness at arms than any weaponsmaster gets, if he survives combat.

They fought mostly with padded staves, as a training device.  But there were also wooden axes, spears, hammers, cudgels, and great shields of wood that were used as weapons as much as their axes.  The signature weapon was a wide-bladed, double-headed axe with a short haft.  Despite the brutal nature of the weapon, the Kilnusk wielded it with great skill.  They hacked at each other with the wooden version like the chivalry practicing swordplay, including dodges and parries that showed an elegant dedication to their mastery.

I was startled when I noted that something I expected, while watching the dwarves fight against each other, was missing: the entrainment effect that I’d come to associate with the Alon.  The Karshak and Dradrien demonstrated it when they worked, and I expected to see it when the Kilnusk were practicing fighting each other . . . but it was entirely absent.  Each of the largely naked warriors operated independently.  They bashed at each other without any sort of coordination, which was interesting.

What was also interesting was the amount of punishment the Kilnusk could take without effect; I saw one young warrior receive a bash to the head with a wooden axe that would have splattered humani brains across the gymnasium.  This lad shook it off like it was a sucker punch in a pub brawl and kept going.

That was, perhaps, the greatest lesson of the tour: the profound endurance and resiliency of the Kilnusk.  They were a tough people, whose culture prized that toughness over other matters.  The young warriors practicing before me were adept at absorbing incredible punishment, shrugging it off, and continuing to fight.  It was painful to watch, at first, and then a sense of admiration began to blossom.  If Lilastien was admiring of humanity’s resilience, I had to respect the incredible endurance of the Kilnusk after watching them beat the living hells out of each other.

Perhaps the Dradrien had better armor.  Perhaps the Karshak had better endurance.  But the Kilnusk took the prize for being able to both absorb punishment and deal it out.  I’d nearly put them up against a dragon, if need be.  Their ability to accept damage and laugh it off – literally – was awe-inspiring.  I could not even blame magic for it, in the realm of the jevolar.  It had to be some innate quality that kept the young Kilsnuk warriors going in the face of adversity.  Indeed, they seemed to welcome the punishment as some vindication for their effort.

The Kilnusk.  Stupid, but brave.

“So, you like the valor of the Kilnusk?” the prince inquired, as we strolled through dozens of pairs of naked, fighting dwarves.

“It’s impressive,” I admitted.  “I have recently been at war – with the gurvani,” I informed him.  “Many long years of war.  I’ve seen tens of thousands die upon the battlefield, prey to gurvani, maragorku, Nemovorti, dragons, and fell magic of all descriptions.  I’ve seen the Dradrien in war – wielded against me.  If I had even a tithe of Kilnusk, I would have triumphed – without magic.”

“We are few,” he said, pleased by the praise.  “Especially since the creeping death.  Some of the best of our houses were decimated.  But we have bent our will to improving ourselves, to making children bent on triumph and victory.  These lads,” he said, indicating the young Kilnusk warriors, “are our pride.  They contend with the worst the valley can produce, and they triumph.  When they do not die,” he added, wistfully.

“Has that been a concern?” I asked.

“This is a savage land,” Prince Husadri shrugged.  “Danger lurks around every corner.  Two in ten die, before they reach majority, as they patrol our frontiers.  Our youth are dedicated to the protection of the mountain.  They contend with all manner of beasts from the north.  It is a brutal duty, but our warriors keep the mountain safe from the horrors of the Vale of Pillars.  It has kept our skills sharp.”

“This seems a profitable exile,” I murmured.  “As one experienced in exile, I encourage you to appreciate the benefits such austerity.  Our enemies may rationalize their punishments as justice; I prefer to see them as opportunities to advance ourselves.”

“We have a common perspective, then,” Prince Husadri agreed, quietly.  “Since I came into my majority, I have sought to train my warriors to the peak of their abilities, despite the deficits our exile has imposed upon us.”

“I could not agree more,” I declared.  “In contending with the Nemovorti and their minions, we have found our strength; we are more than a match for our peers, now.”

“The emissaries have told me much about what you have accomplished in such a short time,” he said, thoughtfully.  “The gurvani.  Sheruel.  The war.  Korbal and the Nemovorti.  And what you have done to advance your craft.  As well as how you have assaulted the good order of the universe by allowing the Malkas Alon the dignity and respect of Karshak.”

“You object?” I asked, curious as to the young prince’s perspective on the matter.

“No,” he shrugged.  “When we ruled the clans, we tried to balance each of them equally in council.  The good of the Malkas weighted against the good of the Dradrien, or the Karshak, and so on.  Without the Kilnusk, there is no force to keep that balance, anymore.  The clans fractured, with the Dradrien and the Karshak dominating the others.  No one prospers, as a result.”

“An interesting system,” I nodded.  “And an intriguing result.  I merely gave the Malkas an opportunity to use their craft for some of my projects.  And paid them well for it,” I added.

“Ah, another area in which the Kilnusk are missed,” he said, shaking his head.  “We regulated such commerce between the clans and kept any of the six from cheating the others in trade.  We ensured the trust and the accountability between the clans,” he boasted.  “If it hadn’t been for your patronage, I think the Karshak would have starved.  And the Malkas along with them.”

“In confidence, I favor the return of your folk,” I told him, quietly.  “As splendid as this mansion is, there are bigger things going on in the world.  Things that the Kilnusk could participate in, to their glory.”

“Even if we are permitted to return from exile,” he sighed, “it is unlikely that the other clans will accept our kingship over them.  My grandfather was harsh, and he made many mistakes.  But they might allow us to return to our homes and make our way in the world as equals.  Until we won our kingship back again.”

“Do you think that could happen?” I asked.  “In humani society, when a noble line loses favor and the faith of the ruled it is often permanent.  Sometimes lethal.”

“If the glory in war or craft is admirable enough, mayhap,” he considered.  “Our kin all respect and admire that.  It is in our nature.”

“Well, I have a bunch of intractable enemies surrounding me, and I would give your folk both a home and a war worth fighting,” I proposed.  “If you seek a chance at glory, I have the perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate that.”

The young prince considered, startled at the offer.  “You would have us fight the gurvani?”

“I need warriors,” I pointed out.  “Someone to face off against the Dradrien renegades and the gurvani.  And the occasional siege worm.  And other things,” I said, pointedly not mentioning dragons.  “Korbal is in a state of deep rest, after I wounded him.  He is decrepit and weak, at the moment.  I seek weapons to take advantage of that weakness.  The Alka Alon already fight alongside us,” I pointed out, without mentioning how controversial that was to many.  “If the Kilnusk should take the field, even defensively, it would give us great advantage.”

“And it would give us purpose, if our kingship is denied us,” Husadri agreed.  “That is a very interesting proposal, Count Minalan.”

“We wizards are fond of making interesting proposals.  I’ve always admired your people: their industry, their ethics, and their craft.  I see in the Kilnusk the epitome of those things.  Your service could help conclude my war.  Think on it, my friend,” I said, as we came to the door to the next chamber.  “Should the Kilnusk return from exile, there are great, glorious deeds to be done.”

“These are a strange folk,” Alya said, as we were preparing to dine with the king.  “I’d grown used to the Karshak and even the Malkas, but it’s as if the Kilnusk are a mixture of both . . . magnified,” she said, frowning.

She had spent the day amongst the Kilnusk women, attempting to form some sort of common bond with them, but as they were most proud of their crafts – spinning, weaving, dying, and sewing – and Alya despises the textile arts, it had proved difficult.  It had, however, given her some insight into our hosts.

“I’ve never met more arrogant bastards,” I agreed.  “But I understand them, I think.  Which says a lot of uncomfortable things about me, I suppose, but I’ve been talking to their prince all day.  He’s quite intelligent and ambitious.  He could be a good ally for Vanador.”

“But he is not the king of the Kilnusk.  King Charak is.  Let’s see of what mind his royal father is,” she counseled, cautiously.  “And see if Suhi and Azhguri are willing to recommend ending their exile.

I started to respond, reflexively, and then stopped myself.  While it was true that Alya had spent the last few years out of her mind, I had to credit my success in part to her ability to detect subtleties that perhaps I had missed.  Her instincts when it came to her position on the Sevendor Town Council, as my representative, had kept several projects and policies that might have hurt the town – or my interests – from bearing fruit.  Likewise, when she had favored a proposal or procedure I had no opinion of, she had largely been correct.  Not always, but her instincts had proven trustworthy when mine had little to say.

Particularly now.  Alya was sounding more like Alya than she had since Greenflower.

“We will listen and observe,” I agreed.  “This is not our mess, but theirs.  Of course, if we can take advantage of it . . .”

“And send a legion of Kilnusk warriors at Olum Seheri?” she asked, sharply.  “I understand the appeal.  But I think this situation may be more complicated than we know.  Courting the Kilnusk could alienate the Dradrien and the Karshak.  Who, by the way, thought the Kilnusk were more trouble than they were worth.  Let us tread carefully.”

“I defer to my lady wife’s judgement,” I shrugged.  “Are you ready?  Dinner is soon,” I reminded her.

Dinner with His Majesty, Charak, King of the Mountain, was a magnificently ornate affair.  The heads of each family in the clan were invited, and all wore what I assumed was their finery for the occasion.  I suppose state dinners are rare, here in Anghysbel.  Considering the dwarves are the only sub-species of Alon who prefers to wear clothing, even when there aren’t humani around, it was an intriguing chance to see dwarven formal fashion at work.

The garment preferred by both male and female was a kind of long tunic, surmounted by a mantle, with the males preferring to show off their muscular calves with knee-length hems.  Luxurious but angular patterns were embroidered at hem and sleeve.  Shoes were a kind of leather slipper, richly decorated, and both lord and lady wore thick metal belts from which hung pouches, sheathes for daggers, and even ceremonial tools.

There was a plethora of beautifully wrought ornaments of gold and occasionally silver woven into beard and mane.  Jewelry was common for both genders, from earrings to necklaces to bracelets or bracers.  But no headgear was worn by either sex, save by the king and prince.  Every golden mane was coiffed to brilliance, including the sprinkling of shiny minerals into them and brushing them to a sparkling luster.

The hall itself was a foundation of the dinner’s magnificence.  Known as the King’s Hall, it was the throne room, court chamber, and dining hall for official state functions.  As such, it bore the marks of a creative people’s frustration.  The pillars, windows, and doorways were impressively carved with blocky, regular abstract patterns cut with instances of incredibly intricate ornamentation in a very small area.  Stone, wood and gemstones were woven into incredibly potent instances of art.

Above our heads in the lofty hall was an ingeniously contrived and beautifully appointed chandelier.  It was a series of concentric brass rings, the largest at least twenty feet across.  Both sides of each one was lined with scores of oil lamps behind lenses of crystal and translucent quartz.  A massive uncut stone, which glowed from the reflected light, hung from the central axis, with a second tier of lamps suspended on wire rotating around it.

The entire thing moved, and at first, I thought it was some clandestine magic the Kilnusk had managed.  But on closer examination I saw that the mechanism was an elaborate clockwork powered by a great spring.  It was a beautiful thing, when you realized what kind of engineering had gone into it to achieve the effect.  With the elaborate sconces that lined the hall every ten feet, the hall was illuminated nearly as well as a magelight.

The statues of ancient, honored ancestors were everywhere, as support pillars, stand-alone effigies, or busts set on elegantly simple pillars of stone.  Weapons of especial pedigree were given their own displays, often with symbols I assumed titled them and denoted their histories.  The walls between the supporting pillars and windows were painted with impressively stylized historical scenes, often of Kilnusk defending their people, dueling each other, or contending with strange-looking monsters.  Other sections were clearly celebrations of the various crafts, which all dwarves held in high esteem, but whose glorification it appeared the Kilnusk was particularly eager to celebrate.

Indeed, for a clan exiled from their people, the noble Kilnusk appeared to be more willing to acclaim the achievements of the clans than the clans themselves.

I got some better understanding of the matter once we were led to our table, near the royal table, which I assumed was a token of high honor.  What humans would call a High Table, where the king and his kin sat, was near the gloriously impressive mosaic wall depicting a heroic Kilnusk leading six nearly-as-heroic dwarves against some unseen enemy.  Our table was off to the left; to the right, before the seven tables representing the leaders of the seven clans, was a table reserved for what the humani would term the “clergy.”

I knew precious little about the dwarven society, and what little I knew made me an authority on the subject, in contrast to the rest of humanity.  They were a secretive people, regardless of clan; I had been Master Guri’s employer for years, now, and I still had little idea of the customs of his kin.  Twice I’d been asked to participate in an advancement ritual for his lodge, after they came to Sevendor, but I had little idea of the meaning or significance of my role.  I assumed it was “asshole client” and spoke the strange words in the ceremony with what I’d hoped was sincerity.

But our dinner with the King of the Mountain was more educational about all the clans than my entire experience with Master Guri had been.  Or even the Dradrien.  For a people who do not share a collective term – each insisting on their clan with “alon” to rationalize their importance – the dwarves of Callidore were best represented by the one clan they had exiled from our knowledge.  While the Karshak and the Dradrien, and their subsidiary clans, were reluctant to credit the others with dignity and respect, the Kilnusk clan seemed determined to advance the importance of all the clans (with themselves in leading positions, of course) to Callidore’s greater society.

It was a telling and effective piece of propaganda.  There was glory, in the Kilnusk’s art.  But it was not theirs, alone.

That is where the table filled with old, clearly revered golden heads near the High Table took significance.  I inquired of the Kilnusk nobility assigned to our table, and they confirmed my suspicion.  That particular table was reserved for the zaklinak – a body of learned sages and important officials that was in charge of keeping track of . . . everything.

The zaklinak were technocrats and record-keepers, counting men and sages.  Told out by their blue hooded mantles, the zaklinak were the body who had kept the dwarven society balanced.  I learned, through casual conversation, that their interpretation of the inter-clan rivalries had kept the peace and ensured the prosperity of the clans, until the Beldurrazeko and subsequent exile.

The zaklinak were responsible for mitigating the executive order of the king, and the needs of the clans at large.  I was surprised to see that not all of them were Kilnusk, There were representatives of the Karshak, the Dradrien, the Malkas, and the other clans among them.  Most were old, even ancient.  But they had accepted exile along with their chief patrons, the Kilnusk, and I got the feeling that the other clans had suffered as a result.

Without their traditional nobility, the Dradrien and the Karshak felt liberated.  But without the zaklinak that the Kilnusk sponsored, dwarven society had plummeted in both culture and function.  The dwarves had not just exiled their nobility, but their purpose and institutions, as well.  Sure, the Kilnusk were assholes – but they were assholes who wanted to rule the best-functioning peoples in the world.  Without that structure, both the Dradrien and the Karshak were floundering, culturally and politically.

Or, at least, that’s what I was able to surmise, after one formal state dinner.

King Charak was presented to the assembled by ritual after the first course, and the immensely obese old monarch waddled to his place at the High Table followed by his wife, his ministers, and important members of the court.  He muttered a pre-written speech about the importance of inter-species cooperation and respect – utterly generalized, for a state dinner – along with a thinly-veiled plea to the emissaries to repeal their exile.

King Charak did not look well, at least from the perspective of an alien observer of Kilnusk health.  He was very old, a stark visual contrast to the vitality of young prince Husadri.  His face was sallow and wrinkled, and his great golden beard was streaked with the silver of age, as much as the silver used in ornamentation.  He used an ornate cane to move his great bulk to his throne, assisted by the two honor guards who accompanied him.  His wife was younger and seemed more hale.

There were seven courses (of course), each ascending in flavor while shrinking in portion.  That wasn’t a bad idea, I decided, around the fourth course.  The Kilnusk ate heartily, and their food was laden with both protein and starch.  I was squirming with fullness by the fifth course; by the seventh, I was ready to swoon.

The music was surprisingly good, too.  The minstrels played a kind of square harp, as well as drum, horn, and a sweet-sounding pipe.  The rhythm-heavy songs they played were quite elegant, and occasionally one of the Kilnusk would stand and sing in their deep, throaty voices.

After the debacle at Lakeshire, I was sparing with my drink, sticking to ale and avoiding the rum.  Alya was, too, I noticed.  The dwarven nobility, however, seemed to view any such occasion as an excuse to drink heavily.  They were swilling down rum by the pint, like it was ale, and showed only the mildest effects.

Yet I thought it might be the ale when I heard a voice boom out over the hall.

“I bear a message for Minalan the Spellmonger!”  The demand echoed across the hall; it was spoken so loudly.  It was a dwarven voice, but it spoke in Narasi.

The chatter in the hall fell silent.  The honor guard flanking the king pulled their great axes to the ready and stood protectively around their monarch.  Everyone looked toward the source of the hail.  Their eyes soon met with the dark figure who had spoken.  It was a Karshak, I saw, not a Kilnusk, and its face and head were bare.  He wore the same black robe I’d seen him in at Midmarket, but he stood with more purpose this time.

It was Davachan.  The Betrayer.

“Hold!” Prince Husadri said, angrily, as he stood and strode forward toward the Karshak outcast with surprising speed.  One of the guards slapped the haft of an axe into his palm as he passed, unbidden.  Prince Husadri took up a defensive stance in front of his father, the weapon held at the ready.  “You are forbidden from returning to the Mountain, Davachan!” he declared, angrily.

“I do not seek to return to the Mountain, my prince,” Davachan said, sharply, cutting his eyes at him.  “I said I bear a message for the humani called Minalan the Spellmonger.”

“You are forbidden from these halls.  You are accursed,” pronounced the king, pulling himself to his feet with his cane.  The bodyguards did not move.  “You risk execution by returning.”

“And bring me release from my torment?  I do not think you have grown that kindly, King Charak.  Nay, I bear a message.  I will deliver it, and I will depart.”

“What message could you possibly have for the Spellmonger?” Prince Husadri asked in disbelief.

“That is for his ears.  I see him, sitting there.  You are called Minalan the Spellmonger?” he asked, probingly.

I sighed, then wiped my hands on a napkin and stood.

“I am Count Minalan the Spellmonger,” I said, even though I doubted he cared about the title.  When one has such things, one uses them.

Davachan looked me up and down.  “Yes, you were the one I saw in Midmarket.  I bear you a message from my master, Szal the Yith: he invites you to visit with him and tell him of your travels.  Consult if you will the wizard Rolof, for he knows the way and the terms,” he advised.

“For what purpose would I do such a thing?” I asked.  “I have many tasks in this lost land, and my time here is short.”

“You seek answers, Spellmonger?” he asked, sharply.  “Szal the Yith can give them to you.  For he has knowledge beyond the ken of all mortals.  If there are answers to be had, he can provide them.”

“Go not to the Yith, my lord,” Prince Husadri urged.  “That is a dark power, in this land.  Ageless, ancient, hidden here for purposes of its own.  We gave this outcast into his care to become his servant, and madness was his reward.”

“You know not of madness!” Davachan barked.  “My message is for the Spellmonger, alone!”

“How did your master hear of me, here?” I asked, curious – and eager to avoid bloodshed.

“I spied that bauble of yours,” the ancient Karshak croaked, pointing.  “It throbs with power, even here.  It disturbs the placidity of this place by its presence.  My master knew of it the moment you crossed the wastes.  It is . . . interesting.  It drew his attention.  Szal sent me to seek you out.  My master seeks to know where you acquired it.”

“That is, indeed, a long story,” I admitted.  “Perhaps I will tell it.  You say the wizard Rolof can tell me how to find your master?”

“He knows the way, through the Leshwood,” Davachan nodded.  “He has taken conversation with my master.  He was interrogated.  He survived.  He has the answers he was seeking.  You can, too, Spellmonger,” he pledged.

“And what would your master know of my quest?” I asked.  The Kilnusk were getting fidgety about Davachan’s presence, but I needed more information.

“Szal the Yith knows many things – perhaps all,” Davachan declared – not a boast, but a statement of fact.  “If you wish answers to your questions, you must come converse with him and strike a bargain.  There is a deep ravine north of the Hot Lake.  Beyond is a hill that sits betwixt the northern lake and the eastern desolation.  Seek Rolof on the high ridge.  He will explain everything.”  He turned to go, his commission apparently ended.

“You dare come to my hall without my leave and accost my guests with no repercussions, Davachan?” King Charak asked, saying the Karshak’s name with open revulsion.

“I go whence my master bids me,” Davachan said, dismissively, as he halted and turned back around.  “I have no choice but to obey.  You saw to that, Charak, you and your sire.  Slay me if you dare, but death does not frighten me.  But I will not die by your hand, nor by your order.  For you will soon be absent from this hall,” he said, cryptically.  And then he left.  Two guards escorted him out, their great double-bitted axes at the ready.  But no one dared stop him.

“It is an ill omen, to attract such visitors when an honored guest is at board,” Prince Husadri said, shaking his head apologetically.  “I’m sorry, Minalan, my friend.  That was unexpected and brings shame to my table.”

“It is not the first time I’ve had an unexpected message in the middle of dinner,” I smiled.  “Let it not worry you.  I am used to such things.”

“’Tis the messenger, as much as the message that I find objectional,” he protested.  “Davachan is forever outcast.  His presence defiles this hall.  He dishonors my father with his disobedience.”

“Then I’m sorry my presence brought him here,” I said, sincerely, “though I did nothing to do so.  I had no idea this would happen.  Alas, humani wizards are often subject to such unexpected turns of events.  It’s the nature of the job.”

“Of that I can attest, my prince,” Fondaras said, quietly, from a few seats down.  “Our profession attracts such occurrences like a lodestone.  Even the lack of magic does not change that.”

“Yet it is the nature of the message that bodes ill,” the prince said, genuinely concerned.  “Davachan is insane, my lord.  His service has driven him beyond madness.  The legends of the Yith all speak of madness, madness and death.”

“Tell us about this . . . Yith,” prompted Fondaras, conversationally.

“The Yith is an unholy power,” Prince Husadri answered.  “I beg you to avoid it, lest you lose your mind!” he insisted, with the utmost seriousness.  “If your fellow wizard has had interaction with Szal, I urge you to be cautious . . . for he is likely mad now, as well,” he said, sadly.  “He may be dangerous.”

“Rolof was a good warmage,” I recalled.  “But he has no magic, here.  I will seek him out regardless,” I proposed, “but I’m not likely to take Szal the Yith up on his offer.  The answers I seek are not with some malevolent power.  They lie elsewhere.  And I have plenty to occupy my brief time in this land without adding a chat with the local sinister hermit.

“Now,” I said, as everyone settled back down at their tables and began drinking and murmuring about the exchange, “did I overhear someone talking about seven desserts?  Dear gods, you people can eat!”

Chapter Twenty

A Prophecy of Doom

The Cave of the Ancients may seem a tepid accomplishment of our ancestors, compared to the great feats they are known for, but its opening heralds a new age of knowledge and insight on Callidore.  With the information it contains within its ancient structure, it predicts the very future.  It promises a raise in station for the sick and infirm.  But, most importantly, it gave us the warning we needed to preserve the merry folk of Anghysbel.  For that reason, alone, our quest was justified, though we may never fulfill it completely.

From the Book of the Anghysbel Expedition

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

The Hot Lake borders Grost Kilnuskum to the west, stretching from south to north across the landscape in a more or less straight line.  It wasn’t uniformly hot – the thermal springs that gave it its name were scattered across it in various spots, not constant.  While there were areas that steamed and boiled and occasionally erupted in showers of hot water and hot mud, most of the lake was no warmer than bathwater.

It had another virtue: crossing it spared us a day and a half on the road, for our destination was the Cavern of the Ancients.  Lilastien had called to me on the radio, the morning after Davachan had issued his cryptic invitation.  She had good news.

“Lord Kanlan’s operation went splendidly,” Lilastien reported, over the device.  Her voice was tinny, but still clearer than using the Mirror Array.  “It only took three hours, and there were no complications.  He’s spent two days healing and resting, but I’m planning on running some tests this evening, if you’re interested in observing.”

“How is he doing?” I asked once I pressed the proper switch.

“That’s one of the things I’ll be testing,” she assured.  “We took him off opiates this morning.  By the time you get here, I’ll be able to assess his pain level.  If all goes well, he can be gently transported back to Anferny tomorrow.  Oh, and Forseti says he will have an update for us, when you arrive.  He’s been anxious to speak to you.”

“I’m on my way,” I promised.  “We just need to say good-bye to our hosts.  Fondaras says he knows the way across.  We should see you soon.”

“Good,” she replied.  “There are some things I want to show you, too.  Things from the colonization.  And before.”

“Well, that certainly sounds mysterious,” I said into the device.  “Anything useful?”

“It’s context, Minalan, and you need context.  I’ll show you.  Just get here,” she urged, and signed off.

We said our farewells to the Kilnusk royalty and assured them that we would return before we left.  Prince Husadri escorted us all the way to the dock on the Hot Lake that was closest to the mountain.  It was manned by a pair of Kasari, who ran a kind of ferry service across the steaming expanse of water.

We did, alas, have to say good-bye to Ormar, Taren, Nattia and Gareth, who would drive the long way around with the wagons.  The little skiff the Kasari polled across the lake was far too small for them.

That left just Alya, Fondaras and me on the boat with the eager young Kasari.  We endured a brief lecture on boat safety and were shown where rescue devices were stowed before they cast off across the misty surface, but we were underway by mid-morning.

It was a fascinating journey.  The elder of the two Kasari rangers pointed out landmarks and points of interest during the crossing, including prominent geysers and underwater thermal vents that spewed steaming bubbles to the surface like boiling soup.  But they soon ran out of fascinating explanations.  We settled into quiet conversation, Fondaras and I continued the conversation we’d been having since we’d left Vanador.

“An admirable people, the Kasari,” Fondaras observed, quietly, as he sparked his pipe with flint and steel, and then courteously passed his tiny ember to me to light mine.  “All people suffer from hierarchy, in one way or another, but the Kasari manage to turn it from a necessary evil into a boon for their culture.  They use rank to recognize, not to dominate.  Yet, they pay a price for that,” he sighed.  “They are so dedicated to their rites and their laws that they lose the power to innovate in their quest for order and achievement.”

“They seem to fare better than the Wilderlords in such things,” I pointed out.  “They are tremendously knowledgeable, thanks to the institution of their rites.  Universally literate, competent and skilled . . . if they didn’t have a cultural taboo about expanding beyond their territories, they’d control the entire Wilderlands, by now,” I argued.

“Oh, there are Kasari out in the world,” Fondaras assured.  “And you are correct, it is their dedication to their codes that keep them from any quest for domination, if they became warlike.  They sacrificed the lure of conquest in the quest for knowledge.  To the Kasari, conquest has no value, compared to personal achievement.”

“They seem happy,” Alya considered.  “I’ve never seen a starving Kasari.”

“Nor will you,” chuckled the footwizard.  “The Kasari can survive on water and a banquet provided by nature if need be.  They do not need to sow and reap the way the Wilderlords do.  They are self-sufficient.

“But that doesn’t mean there aren’t unhappy Kasari,” he continued, philosophically.  “The ones who are truly unhappy leave the society and make their way in the world.  But they bring their knowledge with them.  Some even become wizards, if they have rajira.  Some of the greatest Good Fellows of the Road have been Kasari who have left their troops and lodges for the decadence of Narasi civilization.”

“The Kasari don’t tolerate wizards in their culture?” Alya asked, surprised.

“They discourage it,” agreed Fondaras.  “There are a few good witches and hedgewizards among them, more physicians than magi.  There are some Wild Magi among them, as well, whose Talents lend themselves to their rustic existence.  But there is no Kasari badge for Magic,” he revealed.  “It was never mentioned in the Book of the Hand.  Therefore, the Kasari lack a structure to consider it.  Instead of innovating, they banish their magi or keep them quiet.”

“Everyone contends with magic in different ways,” I sighed.  “As repressive as it is, the Kasari’s way is superior to the Censorate’s.”

“That’s why this place is so important for them,” Fondaras agreed.  “And why I’ve visited it so often.  Every trip has been instructive.  Visiting a place with no magic helps keep a good wizard sharp and on his toes.”

“It seems a hard price to pay, for the prospect of hot springs, beet rum, and rat pie,” snorted Alya.  “Minalan is half-mad, without magic,” she accused.

“I am not!” I argued.  “It’s taken some adjustment, but I think I’m managing fairly well.  It is keeping me sharp and on my toes,” I agreed.

“You may fool yourself, my husband, but you cannot fool me,” Alya said, shaking her head.  “You’ve been anxious and jumpy since we crossed into the realm of the jevolar.”

“And you seem to have prospered, and come into your health, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lady,” Fondaras observed.

“I do feel better,” Alya admitted, gazing out over the misty lake.  “I feel more . . . myself.  As if a fog has lifted from my mind.  Don’t mistake me, there is still much that is . . . damaged.  But this is the first time in a long time I’ve felt fully human, if not fully healed.”

“What if your condition returns, when you do?” Fondaras inquired.

“I might have to take regular visits here, myself, if that is the case,” she admitted.  “Do you know, I think I miss my children more now than I did six months ago?  And I’m enjoying that – not the actual longing for my children, but the fact that I feel that powerfully about it.  I didn’t, before.  It’s a sweet, sad and terribly anxious feeling, but one that I cherish, now that it has returned.”

“It seems a high price to pay, for such knowledge,” I pointed out.  “We’re hundreds of miles away from them and can’t even check on their condition with magic.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me!” she snorted sarcastically, giving me an irritated glance.  “But my anxiety is not too high a price to pay to feel that again.  To legitimately feel.  I went too long without that ability.  Imperfectly as it is returning, I am greedy for every new revelation.”

“Which leads to the philosophical question: what is the price of knowledge?” Fondaras nodded, as he puffed away on his pipe.  “We give up magic, temporarily, to learn more about ourselves as wizards.  My lady gives up the assurance of her children’s safety to feel the acute nature of her motherhood.  These are bargains we make at the market of experience, and trade bits of ourselves in exchange for knowledge and wisdom.  Something is lost, something is gained,” he reasoned.

“Ah, but is the bargain worth it?” I asked, amused.  Fondaras was actually retracing a very old, very famous series of discussions from the Later Magocracy, between two competing schools of magical philosophy between the magi of Wenshar and those of Merwyn.  I wondered if he had read the lectures and letters involved, at some point on his storied career on the road.

It was an obscure body of work, but the fact that we were paddling across a steaming lake in a hidden land full of lost creatures in the caldera of a super-volcano beyond a desolate wasteland proved that Fondaras the Wise had a knowledge of the obscure.

“A good question,” the footwizard admitted.  “And one that each of us can only answer in our own hearts.  Often, when I encounter a young lad with a burning desire to know something, my experience tells me that they will be disappointed with that knowledge, once they do the work and suffer to gain it.  I might even instruct them so.  But, in the end, it is their own passion that will propel them into learning, or their own wisdom that will dissuade them from pursuing an unfruitful path.  Just as often they’re young idiots who blunder ahead with enthusiasm and end up bitterly surprised.”

“What do you do in such cases?” Alya asked, genuinely curious.

Fondaras shrugged.  “I let them.  Every wise man was once a young fool.  Experience and failure are excellent instructors.”

“Learning from our mistakes is the path to wisdom,” I agreed.

“No,” chuckled Fondaras.  “Learning from our mistakes is common sense.  Learning from other people’s mistakes is wisdom.  I need not pick up a coal to see if it’s hot, if I’ve seen you do the same.  Sometimes the price of knowledge is mere observation and contemplation.”

I considered that in silence as we approached the far shore of the lake, where a wooden dock suddenly emerged from the mists.  There were a few people on the shore, we saw, as the Kasari guided the little skiff to it and tied it off.

The people proved to be Lord Kanset and a few of his men.

“Lady Lilastien sent us to welcome you,” he said, as he helped Alya from the boat.  “Did you have a good journey across the Hot Lake?”

“My pores have never been clearer.  How is your father?” Alya asked, concerned.

“In fine spirits, now that the poppy haze is clearing from his head,” Kanset reported, proudly.  “We shall know how he walks and how much pain he is in by this evening, according to the Sorceress.  How was your journey to Lakeshire and Grost Kilnuskum?

“Eventful,” I chuckled, as I stretched on the dock and retrieved my plasma rifle.  “I’ll fill you in over dinner, this evening.  This is a fascinating little land, and the inhabitants are just as interesting as the landscape.”

“I always thought it was a bit boring, actually,” Kanset admitted.  “Until you go north, into the wild.  Then it’s far too exciting.  Come along,” he urged.  “I have horses waiting for you.  But it is only a short ride.”

Indeed, the route from the dock to the long ramp up to the Cave of the Ancients did not take terribly long to traverse, although we had to dismount and lead the horses across the narrow path that skirted the great boulder along the way.  Once we arrived at the meadow, I saw that it had been somewhat transformed.  There was a pavilion erected upon it, and a small camp where the Anferny men had been living while they waited for their master to be healed.

“The Sorceress gave us all a tour of this magnificent place,” Lord Kanset told us, as we tied the horses.  “I found it fascinating.  Most of my men were frightened.  We’ve long known about this cave but had little idea what wonders were beyond the door.  There is a lot of legend and superstition surrounding it,” he explained.  “Now that it’s open, and it isn’t full of goblins or giants or ancient spirits, I suppose those legends can fade.  But what I’ve seen has been wonderous,” he admitted. “Far more impressive than the legends suggested.”

“The price of knowledge,” chuckled Fondaras.  “I’ve been curious about it, myself.  I look forward to seeing what our ancestors have wrought, so far from civilization, and what brought them here in the first place.”

“Curiosity,” I answered.  “And caution.  This place was a potential danger to the colony.  They took steps to monitor it from here, to alert the rest of the colony if an eruption was imminent.  And they liked the natural beauty of the place, and the unusual plants and animals, according to Forseti.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Forseti,” sighed Lord Kanset.  “We’ve had some very interesting conversations.  I am unsure I understand them all, but they were interesting.  And somewhat informative.  Indeed, the thing wishes to speak with you at length, it says.  It has learned things.  Things perhaps a wizard would understand better than a mere lordling.  I don’t think it has a terribly high opinion of me,” he said, sorrowfully.

“Forseti has a unique way of looking at things,” I explained.  “From his perspective, he is responsible for seeing that the human colony on Callidore is viable, prosperous, and well taken care of.  He’s a bit alarmed by the fallen state he’s seen us in.  As charming as you might be, Kanset, to him you’re just a small regional official of a marginal settlement.  I’m sure that after he learned what he needed to know from you, he had little further use for your insights.”

“Well, at least he’s polite about it,” Lord Kanset admitted.  “My sister just usually calls me an idiot and stomps off.”

“Where is your sister?” Alya asked.  “Has she reported in?”

“Tandine does not see the need to report to me,” he grinned.  “She has been anxious about our father’s care, however.  Thankfully, Lady Ithalia has kept the Sorceress informed of their efforts to track those gurvani across the land.  From what I understand, they’ve had limited success.  But they will report about that themselves this evening when they arrive.”

“They’re coming here?” I asked, surprised.

“That was their plan,” agreed the young lord, as we entered the cave.  “There was apparently an encounter, but they were lamentably thin with the details.  I expect we’ll hear about it at dinner, tonight.  Ah!  The ancient wains,” he said, as we came to the Ancient’s carriage house.  He put his hand reverently on one of the two vehicles that had been stored there.  “I am fascinated how such large and heavy wagons are able to be moved without oxen or horses.  But after all the other wonders of this cavern, I suppose that’s a trivial thing for our ancestors to have achieved.”

“They are incredible!” Fondaras agreed, as he stared at the two big vehicles.  “All metal!  Six wheels!  And not even a place to attach a harness if you wanted to!  It’s like Forseti’s little carriage, grown large!”

“The Sorceress thinks that they might be made to move again, someday,” agreed Lord Kanset.  “She says they are intact, but will require some maintenance to activate.  I would love to see them move!”

“It will be a short trip, with that bloody great boulder blocking the path,” I sighed, regretfully.  “I could remove it with a spell, if magic worked.  Without it . . . well, perhaps a gang of Kilnusk could be persuaded to move it, but I’m not up to it, myself.  But you are right: the vehicles are the least of the interesting things in this cave.  You said Forseti wanted to speak with me?”

“At length,” agreed Kanset.  “Indeed, he wants to address us all about some matter, tonight.  But he wished to speak with you at once.”  He led us back to the stark room where the ancient intelligence was now nesting.  “I’ll leave you two alone, while I show your lady wife and Master Fondaras around the place.”

“Minalan, you have returned,” Forseti’s voice observed when I entered the little room.

“I have,” I agreed, setting my rifle near the door.  “It was an eventful exploration.  The folk of Anghysbel are varied and interesting.”

“I look forward to a full accounting,” the machine agreed.  “I, myself, have made considerable progress about re-establishing control over the facility and its peripheral instruments.  I have learned a great deal in the process.”

“We were just having a discussion about the price of knowledge,” I informed him.  “What cost did yours come at?”

“Hope, among others,” Forseti reported, in a rare display of something akin to emotion.  “I have established from what records I can access that the primary colony on Perwyn is, indeed, destroyed.”

“That was a matter of historical record for nearly seven hundred years,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but this was the first confirmation I received of that fact.  Though I have yet to be able to establish communication with the Calsat constellation, this station received updates from high-orbit weather satellites for years before it went dormant.  The imaging clearly demonstrates that the island is no longer there.  It appears that, as your records have reported, Perwyn was attempting an engineering project that led to the sinking of the island.  I can find no other plausible cause of the disaster.”

“I do hope that’s not the only thing you have learned,” I said, dryly.  “We knew Perwyn was sunk, already.”

“Of course.  I merely confirmed it.  However, I have re-established control over more than ninety remote sensing devices placed by your ancestors throughout the caldera and evaluated the accumulated data over the last few centuries.  In doing so, I’ve learned something alarming that I need to report to you: according to the most recent readings, considered in context with the data pool this station has archived, I conclude that there is a disturbing build-up of geophysical pressure in the active zone of the caldera.”

“Which means . . . ?” I prompted.

“If the data and the analysis of the situation is correct, then there will likely be an explosive release within the next eighteen months.”

“An explosive release?” I asked, skeptically.

“Yes.  The station’s sensors indicate that the activity in the active eastern portion of the caldera has led to a dramatic increase in pressure on two distinct magma systems.  The first is feeding the currently active volcano known as ‘Chimney Mountain,’ referred to in the colonial records as ‘Mt. Hutton,’ named for the 17th century Scottish geologist who founded much of the science of geology and vulcanology on Earth.  The increase in activity suggests that there will be a more active eruption when the pressure of the magma reaches a critical point in approximately three years.  The analysis predicts a four-to-six-week ejection of ash and pumice.”

“But you said eighteen months,” I said, confused.

“The second system is fueling the activity in the geyser field the residents refer to as the Plain of Pillars, but which was referred to on colonial maps as the ‘Currituck Colonial Hydrogeological Park,’ named after a Colonial Terraformation Authority official responsible for exploring it first.  According to the sensor analysis, there is a very large pocket of gas building that will result in an explosive pyroclastic flow in approximately eighteen months.

“The explosion will send a cloud of heated acidic gas, between 250 degrees and 450 degrees, into the caldera sufficient to instantly kill all unprotected life.  While there appear to be certain native flora and fauna that may endure and survive that outflow of gasses, all Terran-derived life and a significant portion of native species will likely be exterminated in the process.  The effect will likely be concentrated in the eastern caldera, which is lower in elevation than the western portions.”

Forseti helpfully displayed a map on the screen and turned the projected effected area a foreboding shade of red.  It included every bit of human, Tal Alon and Kilnusk territory.

“Dear gods!” I whispered, as the implications of the machine’s prediction were demonstrated on the map.  “They’ll all be killed!”  The thought of Anferny, the Kasari camp, merry Lakeshire, and even the Kilnusk exiles all being wiped out in an instant filled my imagination with dread.  Then he began his litany of doom.

“The heat of the gas, alone, will be sufficient to suffocate all mammalian species within the first thirty minutes,” Forseti predicted, its tone unchanged from normal despite the horrific nature of its report.  “Normal aquatic species will survive up to two days after the eruption before the deoxygenation of the local atmosphere affects the oxygen concentration in the water.

“Before that, however, the extreme acidity of the pyroclastic flow will have poisoned the biochemistry of the water.  Both native and imported amphibians and reptiles will die within the first day.  Most insect species, both native and imported, will take significant loss, though some in dormant phases or encysted and hidden species might survive the eruption.  Plant species of all varieties will be severely damaged, though select species that have evolved locally may actually thrive under those conditions,” he pointed out.  As if that was a positive perspective.

“You mean to tell me that every man, woman, and child – that every living thing – in Anghysbel will be slaughtered by this?  What can we do?”

“Without advanced terraformation and geoengineering equipment, there is no way to actively affect the geophysical course of events,” Forseti reported.  “Even with such equipment and specialized engineering intelligences planning the effort, it is unlikely that the eruption event could be halted.  By comparison, raising the seabed in Perwyn would be a relatively simple task.”

“Yes, and see how we mucked that one up,” I nodded to myself.

“The best course of colonial administration is the declaration of a disaster and the orderly evacuation of the settlement to a more secure location.  The good news,” Forseti said, without a trace of irony in his artificial voice, “is that conditions should stabilize within two years of Mt. Hutton’s eruptions to allow limited resettlement in the region.”

“Yes, I’m sure that will be a great solace to the ten thousand people who live here.  More than ten thousand,” I realized, as the populations of the Alon entered into my mental equation.  “If they even believe me.”

“Why would they not believe you?” Forseti inquired.  “Are you not the recognized colonial authority in the region?”

“On parchment,” I agreed.  “But your own knowledge of human history should demonstrate how mistrustful of authority humanity can be.  Not to mention willing to ignore any dire prophecies they don’t like.  There were still people clinging to the peaks of Perwyn, when it sank, because they were unwilling to accept the predictions of the magi.  For all I know, their descendants are still there,” I observed, discouraged.  “How can I inform these people that they need to leave the lives they have built because of what some ancient machine told me?  They just met me, godsdamnit, and they’re just getting used to the idea of a wizard as their liege!  Now you want me to upend their lives?”

“The alternative is their extermination.  Considering the primitive nature of the culture, it is, indeed, a challenge of your leadership abilities,” conceded Forseti.  “I suggest a combination of exercised executive authority, financial incentive, and reasoned persuasion,” he suggested, unhelpfully.

“I don’t even have authority over the Tal Alon and the Kilnusk!  And if the Kasari didn’t listen to me, what could I do about it?” I groaned.

“I suggest that you discuss it with your advisors and formulate a plan for evacuation and outreach to the aboriginal communities to persuade them to do the same.  I could be of more assistance if I had more knowledge of the population, settlement density, and resources available.”

“Sure, sure, I’ll have Gareth catch you up on our observations.  He’s not Festaran, but he’s a keen observer and pretty fair record-keeper.  He should be able to help,” I admitted.

“Gareth has a particularly well-developed intellect.  He has a formidable intelligence, for a human raised in such a primitive culture.  I recommend that he be further trained and educated in advanced concepts your ancestors would have considered essential for understanding their civilization.”

“He’s learned a lot, just talking to you,” I admitted.  “But he was already a genius when he came to Sevendor.”

“Even with the limited facilities at this installation, there is much that he could learn in the short amount of time we have available, here.  While this installation is built to weather such an eruption as I predict, it will be inaccessible for years.  I encourage you to take full advantage of the opportunity while it is available.  I can direct his field of study at an accelerated pace.  You should consider recruiting other intelligent individuals for such a program.  I think you will find it will aid you in the tasks that lie ahead.”

“Of course,” I sighed.  “I’m sure there’s plenty I need to learn from here, myself.  I suppose I should make this my base of operations for the expedition, while I’m here.  Soak up as much Ancient lore as I can.  It will cut a few days out of the expedition, but it’s probably a good idea.  The price of knowledge,” I said, sourly.

“Being better-informed about the terrain and the conditions would be prudent, in such an environment, if you are considering a cross-country expedition,” Forseti agreed.  “There is a comprehensive guide, as well as a shorter summary designed for casual use, available for study and replication.”

“Well, that could prove useful,” I admitted.

“It was part of the marketing effort for the region, which evidently developed into an attraction in the late colonial period.  There was once a small resort complex built roughly where Anferny is now situated.  It was built just before this installation went dormant.”

“It’s a pretty enough place, and the baths are delightful,” I agreed.  “If it was easier to get to, it could turn quite a profit.  Just how detailed does this guide get?” I asked, curious.

“Quite.  It was partially a scientific survey report.  It provides raw data and analysis of the several scientific anomalies in the caldera zone.  The guidebook, on the other hand, is smaller and sticks to more basic information, often presented in simple, lighthearted layman’s terms.  But it does have clear and concise information about the area that can be produced in a portable form.”

“It’s rare that you get a guidebook to a quest,” I observed, pleased.  “And Alya might like the chance to rest, after the last couple of days.  Is that everything?”

“That was the most urgent piece of information I needed to share with you,” agreed Forseti.  “As regional administrator, I wanted to make you aware of the nature of the emergency before I share it with others.  A professional courtesy,” he added.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my mind already outlining the daunting tasks ahead.

“There was one other matter I wanted to discuss with you in private,” continued the machine.  “While assessing the inventory and other records available with my access of the archives, I discovered a late colonial period development that is not listed in most of the other records.  Apparently, just before the collapse of human civilization on Perwyn, the Colonial Defense Force constructed a concealed installation near this site.  The nature of the installation is classified beyond my ability to access, but I have a theory.”

“A . . . military installation?” I asked, surprised.  “On a volcano?”

“From the size of the site listed in the records, it was not a full-fledged military base, but a utility outpost.  But I agree, the positioning of the site is suspect, considering the nature of the terrain.  I theorize that the lack of a localized quantum field effect was the primary factor in their decision, not the volcanic nature of the site.”

“They came here because of the jevolar, you think?” I asked, curious.

“The quantum field effect has a pronounced effect on electronic systems, on which the Colonial Defense Force depended for their weaponry.  For certain sophisticated systems it’s likely that this site’s unique characteristics, relative to the rest of the planet, made it desirable to locate them.  The data I have access to suggests the site is hardened, secured, and concealed to blend in with the terrain.  But the nature, contents, and mission of the installation is unknown.  I suggest further exploration, if possible.”

“Could you access it, if we find it?” I asked, eagerly.

“Unknown,” Forseti admitted.  “I was a civilian-use Constructed Intelligence, not a military unit.  Apart from one consulting project with the Colonial Defense Corps of Engineers, I had no access to military-grade programming or codes.  I doubt the universal code I used to access this site would work on such an installation.”

“Pity.  Still, I’ll send someone to look for it, if you can give me a good idea of where it’s located.  What could be in there?  Weapons?  Armor?”

“More likely communication, command and control equipment,” corrected Forseti.  “That would be their top priority to keep in a zone like this.  It would be logical for them to tap into the antenna facility at the top of the mountain and piggyback on the Colonial Science Foundation’s datastream to the Calsat constellation.”

“Pity.  I was hoping for something we could smite Korbal with.”

“Do not underestimate the importance accessing such a site might prove, Minalan,” Forseti insisted.  “There is much we do not know about the final days of the early colonial civilization.  That installation was not even planned, when I went dormant.  It is quite probable that using military-grade communications equipment will become necessary if we are to locate the New Horizon.  That might not seem like a useful weapon, but it could prove an important resource in your quest to rescue the Forsaken.  Perhaps I will learn more once I manage to access the satellite network, myself.”

“You haven’t, yet?” I asked, surprised.

“I am having to re-write and edit a new control code.  For some unknown reason, the original programming was corrupted and useless, preventing the use of the antenna.  But I am making progress.  With the help of a human acting as a technician, I might be able to establish control sooner.”

“Gareth can help with that, too,” I agreed.  “Now, if there aren’t any more prophecies of doom you want to burden me with, I want to go see Lilastien, and check on Lord Kanlan’s progress.  She, at least, should have some good news for me.”

Intermission

Welcome to Your Gateway to Adventure!

The Northwest Reserve Park and Recreation Area was designated a Colonial Park under Section Nineteen of the Callidore Colonial Charter on July 13th, CY 51.  Since then, this unique region of the Colonial Zone has been explored, documented, and developed into a first-rate exotic destination where you can experience the natural beauty of one of Callidore’s most exotic environments!

The Park is comprised of eighty-one square miles on the northwest edge of the Colonial Zone, at the edge of the pre-arctic tundra, within the caldera of one of Callidore’s four major super-volcanoes, and the only one within the Colonial Zone!

As dangerous and exciting as that sounds, the Colonial Science Foundation’s Geophysical Studies Department maintains an advanced monitoring station on site.  They have studied the caldera and assured us than any serious eruption from the largely dormant volcano is centuries away!  Your safety is assured while you enjoy the breathtaking spectacle of geysers, thermal badlands, hot lakes, the decadent pleasures of a four-star resort complex, and the delightful pastoral countryside around smoldering Mount Hubbard!

Your Volcano Adventure Starts Here!

You’ll begin your adventure when you land at Callidore Disney Colonial Resort’s picturesque new Volcano Adventure Resort, a one hundred and eighteen room hotel and conference facility that is now accepting bookings for winter and summer seasons!  Only five hours away from Perwyn and three hours away from the Merwyn Valley by Orvatas Air Excursions luxury stratoliner, you can take a nap after takeoff and wake up in an enchanting adventure at the edge of the world!

Once you arrive, you’ll check into your suite in the stunning lobby of while experiencing the sublime beauty of the rugged scenery either on the patio or balcony, during Summer Season, or through the panoramic bay windows during ski season!  That’s right – you can ski the exciting southern slopes of Mount Hubbard, where five challenging world-class slopes have been established by the colony’s most expert skiers!  And that’s just the beginning!

Once you arrive, your first stop will be the stunning lobby of the Fire Mountain Hotel & Convention Centre, home of the four star Fire Mountain Restaurant and Lounge, where you’ll check into your suite. From there, you may experience the sublime beauty of the rugged scenery either on the patio or balcony, during Summer Season, or through the panoramic bay windows during ski season!  That’s right – you can ski the exciting southern slopes of Mount Hubbard, where five challenging world-class slopes have been established by the colony’s most expert skiers!  And that’s just the beginning!

Our Amenities Are Part of the Adventure!

Whether you decide to stay in the Main Lodge of the three-thousand-acre Volcano Adventure Resort or want a little more privacy in one of the forty-three secluded bungalows and cabins – perfect for honeymoons, anniversaries or just a quiet holiday away from the kids – your comfort and security is our first priority!  Enjoy the unique shopping opportunities of the shops and displays along the Grand Caldera Concourse!  Art, jewelry, fashions, and traditional crafts from nearby Cultural Preservation Settlements provide a special shopping experience you’ll never forget!

Feeling hungry?  You’ll love the adorable bistros and coffee shops of the concourse, where more than twenty different culinary experiences can tantalize your tongue while you drink in the scenery of the beautiful caldera.  You have a bounty of dining options, beyond the stately Fire Mountain Restaurant, during your holiday.  The Grand Caldera Concourse is filled with them!

May we suggest the Fire Lion Tavern, a traditional British Pub, for a hearty pint of the locally brewed Vulcan’s Best brown ale to wash down your fish and chips?  How about Café La Montagne de Feu, featuring delicious seasonal daily specials for lunch and light dinner?  Chef Paul Reymond’s award-winning French Provençal-inspired menu is a fusion of native varieties and traditional French recipes that will make your mouth water!  Or delight in the hospitality of The Swiss Chalet for a delicious white wine and fondue nosh après ski!  Try a couple of fruity signature cocktails at Volcanic Sam’s Tiki Lounge before you go swimming and take home a terrifically campy souvenir ceramic Tiki glass if you finish your volcano-shaped Virgin Sacrifice Daiquiri!  Your holiday won’t be complete until you grab a bowl of spicy romazama from the Malagasy street vendors – and be certain to explore their delicious vegetarian dishes during your stay!  Start your day with a plate of tasty mofo gasy and locally-sourced maple syrup at Michele’s Malagasy Bistro – and don’t forget the artisan roasted coffee!  It’s as powerful as a volcanic eruption!  Yum!

Don’t think you’ll be bored between meals!  There are nine different shows, amusements, and entertainment venues available along the Concourse, from the intimate Caldera Cabaret’s rotating line-up of solo performers and stand-up comedy shows to the family friendly Callidore Disney Volcano Adventure Revue at the beautiful Alpine Opera Auditorium!  And don’t forget the breakfast and lunch character interaction opportunities, to keep the kiddies smiling!  And on Sundays there is a special matinee performance of Legacy: Songs and Stories of Distant Earth, the award-winning patriotic musical documentary featuring the vocal talents of Ishi Naka!  At the Cosmic Café you can enjoy the eerie, alien songs of the native Alka Alon trio Taganath Ior, singing excerpts from their famous epics while you enjoy a tasty giant burrito!  Try your luck at the Gold Mine Penny Arcade, for a chance to hit the big time in a modern micro-casino or enjoy the number of outdoor entertainers the Volcano Adventure Resort provides along the Concourse, for free!

After a hard day shopping, you’ll want to rest your tired bones in the Harmony Mountain Spa, where mud baths, massages, natural steam saunas, herbal treatments, and a full range of natural thermal springs will restore your skin, your body and your soul all at the same time!  Stop in at the beauty shop to try a new hairstyle from one of our professional stylists or manis and peddies!  Be sure to check out the unique array of custom compounded skin treatments in the boutique to take home a little magic from this enchanting land!  Your skin will thank you later!

And what are the kiddies up to as mom and dad hit the Concourse for lunch?  Why, during the day they’re cooling off at the Misty River Waterpark, and at night they’re at the Cascadia Colonial Development Corporation’s Old Time Fun Park enjoying an old-fashioned carnival midway, rides, snacks, and other traditional wholesome entertainment!   They’ll love the Nature Trail llama rides!  But that’s just the beginning of the fun!

What better way to enjoy your magical holiday at the Volcano Adventure Resort than with sun, sand, swimming, and sailing?  Take the whole family up to the Baelor Lakeshore Marina and Beach Complex to enjoy the finest of watersports in this majestic volcanic lake!  Enjoy our delightful black volcanic sand beach for a summer’s day of sunshine or rent one of the exciting sailboats or canoes for a day on the lake you’ll never forget!  Fishing gear is available for rent at the Tackle Box, where you can grab a sandwich and a drink at the Beach Bum Bar and Grill!  It’s across the road from the elegant clubhouse of Ironwood at the Mountain, the eighteen-hole Bob Sandoza signature golf course!  Who wouldn’t want to brag that they’ve played eighteen holes on the edge of a live volcano?  And be sure to tip the adorable aboriginal caddies!  These fuzzy fellows are real troopers, and they have a real passion for the game, too!

During the summer, enjoy fishing the exotic depths of Lake Baelor for a variety of Terran and native sea life!  Or consider a hunting expedition with staff hunting guide Stephan Moller, retired Colonial Exploration Corps captain!  Captain Moller will show you the range of exotic native wildlife that has developed a unique biosphere in the caldera.  Who knows – you may even be able to dine on your catch that night!  The Fire Mountain Restaurant Staff are always happy to dress and prepare your kills!

Volcanic Excursions Bring You to Adventure!

The southern slopes of the volcano have miles of pristine hiking trails to enjoy.  Or just arrange with the front desk at Volcano Adventure Resort and you can have a gourmet picnic lunch flown to you by remote delivery anywhere in the park!  Need to get away from civilization?  You can enjoy family or group camping through the Callidore Authority Scouting Association.  The CASA has developed the stunning Camp Melleray High Adventure Centre since CY 31!  In addition to the high-adventure scouting outpost, the center has ample space to enjoy the great outdoors in over thirty different primitive campsites open to resort guests and their families!  A perfect way to enjoy your stay on a budget!

Mad for Science!

Your holiday doesn’t have to be all rest and relaxation, though!  Science is King of the Caldera, and there are many exciting scientific expeditions and research projects underway here that you can experience in affordable paid excursions!

Have a yen for subterranean adventure?  Disney Colonial Resorts own expert spelunkers can guide you through three stunning cavern systems in the park, showing you the unusual animal life and mysterious fungus forests inside ancient lava tubes and long-dormant volcanic cones!

Seeking a more cosmic adventure?  Did you know that the super-volcano caldera was also the site of an ancient asteroid impact?  The Sean Gulik Centre for Astrophysical Studies, in partnership with Disney Callidore, offers guided tours to the deep back country, where the two major impact sites can be explored and experienced for yourself!  You’ll be enthralled by the two-day expedition, including a catered menu delivered fresh to you by remote at every meal!  Cap it off with a two-hour presentation at the portable planetarium to learn the secret natural history of this cataclysmic event from ancient Callidore’s past!  And don’t forget to visit the gift shop, before you leave, for a variety of whacky, out-of-this world souvenirs you’ll cherish forever!

Want to enjoy an alien safari?  Volcano Adventure Resort runs three extended expeditions into the caldera’s mysterious backcountry every week to see some of the strangest creatures in one of the most genetically diverse biospheres on Callidore!  And, by special arrangement, brief tours of the Colonial Science Foundation’s Advanced Biodiversity Observation Laboratory, run by the Department of Xenobiology’s top scientists, will let you see their work on the native sauroids, reptoids, insectoids, and even stranger creatures in the park!

Some of them aren’t even animals – they’re plants!  Holy Photosynthesis!  Trees that move?  Vines that slither?  Predatory shrubbery as vicious and bloodthirsty as a lion?  See it all at Kenwick Station at the park’s Arboretum Reserve, featuring some of the craziest critters on Callidore!  Some of these creatures may even possess intelligence close to human levels, scientific reports have suggested! (Note: Not all excursions are suggested for all age levels.  If you have young children, please consult the Volcano Adventure Resort’s staff for the appropriate age for each individual excursion.  Volcano Adventure Resort, its agents, contractors, and subsidiaries, are not liable for witnessing naturally occurring events which young children may find traumatic.  Parents are encouraged to use discretion in choosing their excursions.)

If Xenoarchaeology is your passion, take the Ancient World Of Callidore tour, and follow experts as they guide you through the ruins of several alien civilizations from our adopted world’s murky and mysterious past!  Five different sites of alien ruins are on this high-adventure premium tour!  The Alka Alon are but one mysterious race whose ancient civilization built – and abandoned – an outpost here in the caldera!  Some have not even been identified!  Explore the world beyond the mists of time with credentialed experts in this once-in-a-lifetime, hands-on opportunity!

And finally, the premium excursion Vulcan’s Forge brings small groups through the magnificent, sophisticated geological history of the Northwestern Caldera, including tours of the active cone of Mount Hubbard!  This three-day, action packed investigation into the mighty power of the super-volcano and its potential dangers to the colony is for the high-adventure lover, only!

There’s never been a safer, more exciting way to enjoy the majestic beauty and raw power of nature while enjoying the comforts and luxuries of a first-class resort!

You’ll enjoy every minute of your Volcano Adventure!  Book your reservation today!

Chapter Twenty-One

A Grim Warning

I’ve taken thorough inventory of the Unger Station facility, and while small, there is much here that will be of use in the future.  But the most fascinating thing I found is of little real consequence, but of much historical interest.  I discovered a promotional brochure for the resort the colony built here, before the Inundation, and reading the pamphlet gave me a welcome wave of nostalgia about the optimism the Terran colonists had about their lives and future.  It was both tragic and poignant to see how the colonists viewed this dangerous place before they abandoned it.  In many ways that mirrors the fate of the entire colony.  The Terrans came to Callidore to build a new life, and instead were battered by their own misconceptions and the deceptions of the Alka Alon.  It makes me angry, bitter, and frustrated to think that their vision and effort were washed into the sea in just a few brief years.  I think I’m going to get drunk, tonight, now that Lord Kanlan is well into his recovery and does not need my sober oversight anymore.  And perhaps watch an old movie.  In celebrating the sad legacy left to the ignorant Terrans, that seems an appropriate response.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

I found Lilastien sitting in the Infirmary lab room, a small alcove next to the patient area, staring at a screen full of unusual shapes.  She wore her long white coat and had some medical instrument draped across her neck.  She barely registered my arrival, as she studied the . . . actually, I had no idea what she was looking at.

“How is our patient?” I asked.

“Lord Kanlan is my patient, not our patient, and he’s doing well,” she said, tapping the screen.  “It’s been six centuries since I used a robotic surgery suite, but it all came back to me.  The surgery went fine,” she reported, with a hint of professional pride.  “It helped that it was relatively simple.  Two hours, and I was closing the incision.  He’s been recovering nicely, since.  My latest scan shows that his internal wounds are healing well, no sign of infection – a miracle, considering I can’t sing up an anti-infection spell.  The primitive antibiotics I was able to produce here are working, apparently.  Thank goodness for moldy bread.”

“Moldy bread?” I asked, confused.

“Common bread mold contains a potent antibiotic, a useful substance against infections in humans,” she told me, finally turning around.  “It’s actually not that complicated to do once you know how.  One of the many, many secrets your people lost, when they decivilized.  Most of the medicines they had at the height of the colonial period were synthetic, of course, and then afterwards they used magic to combat infection.  But if they had retained that knowledge, hundreds of thousands of lives would have been saved over the centuries.  That’s one of the things I’m hoping to restore at the new hospital.”

“Bread mold is medicine,” I said, shaking my head.  “I wish my dad had known that.  He could have made a fortune.”

“The extraction process requires a simple laboratory, and a small percentage of humans are allergic to the stuff, but in general it keeps most infections at bay.  In Lord Kanlan’s case, there’s none – white blood cell count is normal, and there’s not even much inflammation.”

“But will he walk?” I asked.

“I believe so,” she agreed, turning back to the screen.  “I removed two small bone fragments and repositioned four others away from the nerves.  It should allow him to move with much less pain . . . but that’s the theory we’re about to test now that you’re here.  I figured you’d want to be around to take the credit, for political reasons.”

“Or take the blame, if it didn’t work,” I pointed out.

“Of course,” she smiled.

“Well, I hope it does work.  I’m going to need his help, apparently.  I need to evacuate all of Anghysbel,” I announced.

“I know.  Forseti told me,” she sighed.  “A pall of super-heated poisonous gas.  In the next two years.  A pity.  I quite like this place.”

“The people who live here like it even more.  They are going to be reluctant to leave.  Well, except for the Kilnusk,” I admitted.  “They’re quite eager.  But the Tal, the Kasari, and the folk of Anferny are not going to be happy about relocating.”

“Oh, it’s just for a few years,” she dismissed.  “It will be good for them.  They can come back afterwards.”

“If they even believe me,” I pointed out.  “That’s why I’ll need Lord Kanlan’s help.  I have to convince him if I’m going to convince his people.  His gratitude for being healed would certainly help that argument.”

“He won’t be healed, exactly,” Lilastien objected.  “He still has some severe limitations to movement.  I can’t restore those without a long course of treatment and physical therapy.  He won’t be able to ride a horse, for instance.  But the pain will be reduced.  That was the point of the surgery.  Let’s go see if he’s awake enough to judge his pain level,” she said, rising.

I followed her to the infirmary room, which was well-lit, for an underground chamber.  There were four beds, one of which was occupied by the Lord of Anferny, who was laying on his side and sipping water through a reed.

“How are you feeling, Lord Kanlan?” I asked, politely, as I pulled a stool near his head.  Lilastien began checking the dressing on his back.

“I . . . I feel better,” he admitted, surprised.  “The poppy gum has worn off, and I don’t feel the same pain I did.  That’s remarkable,” he smiled.  “There’s still some pain, but not nearly the torment I endured before.”

“The wound looks well-closed,” Lilastien pronounced.  “Let me change the dressing, and we’ll help you stand.”

“This place is a wonder, Count Minalan,” Kanlan said, shaking his head as his doctor worked on his back.  “I’ve known about it since I was a boy, but never thought I’d see what was behind that great door.  If I’d known what I do now, I would have found a way.”

“A wonderful legacy from the Ancients,” I agreed.  “I’ve made a kind of hobby about studying them.  You’re doubly fortunate, as Lilastien was trained as a physician on Perwyn, six centuries ago.  She’s the only one who could have used this equipment as adeptly as was needed to aid you.”

“To be honest, it felt good to practice surgery again,” she admitted, as she dispensed something from a beaker and rubbed it on Lord Kanlan’s wound.  “Your people are talented in the art and built some ingenious tools to aid their efforts.  Were,” she corrected.  “Nowadays the most common surgery is amputation, unfortunately.  But I was glad to help,” she smiled.  “Now, if you’ll help support his shoulders, Minalan, and if you’ll swing your legs around, Kanlan, let’s see if you can stand, yet.  The anesthetic has worn off, so you shouldn’t have any trouble,” she predicted.

In moments, the Wilderlord was, indeed, standing, first with support and then by himself.  He managed a few cautious steps across the tiled floor of the Infirmary before breaking into an enormous grin.

“No pain!  Not to speak of, at least – it’s still a bit tender, and there’s the occasional twinge.  Can I . . . can I take a little walk?” he asked, pleadingly.

“Only down the hall and back,” Lilastien agreed.  “But then back into bed.  You can rise again for dinner if you use a cane,” she proposed.  “And take Minalan with you, in case you stumble.”

“Astounding place, this,” Kanlan said, as we slowly shuffled down the hall.  He glanced into the other chambers along the way with a mixture of curiosity and awe.  “Dr. Lilastien showed me a few of its wonders before the operation.  Music.  Pictures.  She showed me the world our ancestors came from before they emerged from the Void.”

“A rare and special treat,” I agreed.  “Our ancestors had even greater wonders at their command.  All without magic.  They were the greatest of mariners; they were able to cross the Void, in their giant ship.  They ruled the air, once.  They built a great civilization when they first arrived.  This place was built at its height,” I gestured, when we got to the end of the hallway where it opened to the common room of the installation.

“But why?” Kanlan asked, mystified.  “Why build such a wonder in such a strange and remote location?”

“To watch the volcano,” I explained.  “They saw it as a danger to the entire colony, and they set this place as a watchtower over it.  It was designed to warn the rest of the colony if there was a danger of a major eruption, so that they could take steps in advance.”

“I’ve watched that mountain my entire life, and it’s never done more than smoke,” he dismissed.  “Their fears were unfounded.”

“This world is nearly nine billion years old,” I informed him.  “In the realm of rocks a few centuries are but moments.  But our ancestors were cautious, about their adopted world, and preserving their security here was paramount.  Thankfully, their efforts survived . . . and as a result you can now walk without pain,” I pointed out.

“So I can!” he agreed, a big grin splitting his beard.  “I almost didn’t notice it, you had me so distracted.”

“The wealth of this cave is not in its medicine, though that has been helpful,” I continued, as he turned around and headed slowly back to the Infirmary.  “It is in its records.”

“I have not seen many books or scrolls around,” he said, confused.

“Our ancestors had more efficient ways of storing their knowledge,” I explained.  “As I said, studying their methods has become a hobby of mine.  I have access to their archives, and more works than I could read in a mortal lifetime.  But I hope to find the answers that I’m looking for, there.”

“Answers to what, my lord?” he asked.

“Oh, a great many things,” I said, not wanting to try to explain the nature of my many quests.  “Things that will help in the war . . . and perhaps improve my people’s lives.  Questions about the mysteries of our ancestors . . . the nature of the Alka Alon . . . the enigmatic Sea Folk who control our fate.  The sorts of things of interest to wizards.  But I am a liege lord, as well,” I reminded him.  “This place is within my territory.  I’m claiming it for my own,” I informed him.

“As is your right, my lord,” he agreed.  “I confess, I would not know how to approach its secrets.”

“As your liege lord, I have a responsibility to care for my vassals,” I continued.  “That’s why I directed Lilastien to help you.  I’m hoping the things we find here can help a great many of my subjects.  That is my primary duty.”

“As it is with any good lord,” he agreed.

“As such,” I continued, “it is my responsibility to protect my subjects from any foreseeable danger.”

He halted his progress, just a few steps shy of the Infirmary.  “Is there danger, my lord?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes,” I sighed.  I’ll speak to your people of it, tonight.  But I wanted to prepare you, first.  One of the things that I have learned since we opened this cave is, indeed, a danger to your people.  My people,” I corrected.  “One that could kill them all, if nothing is done.”

Kanlan suddenly looked anxious.  “Really, my lord?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I sighed.  “I’ll explain in more detail, tonight, but there is, indeed, a danger to all of Anghysbel.  The kind that this place was designed to alert us to.  But I have a plan to contend with it.  One I will need your assistance with.”

“Of course, I shall do whatever I can to help, my lord,” he assured me, as he continued walking toward the hospital bed.  “But this news concerns me.”

“As it should.  But we have some time to prepare.  Enough, I hope.  But do not worry – compared to some perils we face this one is relatively straightforward.  I just did not want you to be taken by surprise.  Get some rest, Kanlan.  I’ll explain further at dinner.”

“He handled the news well,” Lilastien observed, after we’d taken our leave of the recuperating Wilderlord and headed for the common room.

“That’s because I led with a vague premise, without too much detail, and then assured him it was well within my capabilities.  Basic spellmonger practice,” I smiled.  “Never tell the client too much, and always act like you can handle his problem, no matter how great or small.  Later, you can explain the details, slowly, carefully, always leaving a little out.  If you tell him everything first, he thinks he understands it and can quickly lose confidence in you.  Worse, he might object to the price.”

“Interesting approach,” she admitted, as we settled at one of the three tables in the common area.  “You’re planning a general evacuation?”

“I don’t really see a good alternative,” I sighed.  “We can resettle them in Vanador easily enough.  But the passage through the wastes will be difficult.”

“I’m sure that you can find a way,” Lilastien nodded, as she started to fiddle with her medical scanner.  “Especially with Forseti’s help.  His capabilities have expanded significantly since he came here.  Besides providing me with entertainment,” she chuckled.  “Your people had a history of technologies that, I think, could prove very useful to you.  Forseti can lead you to some of that, now.”

“He’s already producing a guidebook for our expedition into the wilderness,” I agreed.  “I’m hoping he can tell us something about the Forsaken, while he’s here.  He wants Gareth to work with him for a while to that end.”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged.  “But there is so much more he can do, here.  We’ve been discussing some possibilities . . .”

“Don’t we have enough quests ahead of us to be looking for more?” I countered.

“It’s all the same quest, Minalan,” she said, shaking her head.  “To save the world.  And make it better, a bit.  That’s really the only quest there is.”

Gareth, Nattia, and Ormar rode up the trail on horseback a few hours before dusk.  They’d had to leave the wagons behind, thanks to the boulder in the path – something which irritated my alchemist mightily.

“That rock offends me,” he said, indignantly, when he dismounted.  “Tomorrow, I’m going to fix it!”

“Without magic?” snorted Nattia.

“With alchemy,” Ormar shot back, proudly.  “The kind you don’t need active magic to create.  You see, back at my workshop at the Stenchworks is a fifty-gallon glass tank the size of a bathtub, filled with the vilest substance known to man or nature: the stomach acids from a dragon.”

“And you brought this tank with you?” Nattia asked, as she dismounted.  “You intend to melt the rock with it?”

“No.  But do you know what happens when you soak a bale of cotton in it for a few minutes, and then let it dry?  And then repeat the process?  You get something I call Dragon Cotton.  Highly volatile.  Explosive.  I brought some.  And I’ll use it to remove that boulder.  No active magic involved,” he boasted.  “Hey, what’s for dinner?” he asked, glancing over to the pavilion where the servants Lord Kanlan had brought from Anferny were cooking over an open fire.

“They better prepare more than that,” Nattia sighed, as she stretched.  “We saw Ithalia on her bird as we were coming up.  It looks like Tyndal and his knights are returning from their hunting.”

As if summoned, the radio at my belt started to chatter.  It was Ithalia’s tinny voice that came from the little box.

“Can you get them to clear the lower part of the clearing for me?” she asked.  “Kaunotar doesn’t have room to land!”

“That’s her bird’s name!” Nattia whispered to me when I looked confused.  I fumbled with the box until I found the proper switch.

“I’ll take care of it, Ithalia.  How many should we add to our dinner plans?”

“Nine,” she reported back, after a moment.  “Two of the Anferny knights went back home.  The rest are headed up to the cave now.”

It only took a few moments to convince the cooks and servants that half the meadow was needed to allow a giant hawk to land.  And then a few more moments to explain how we were getting nine unexpected guests for dinner.  Ithalia landed Kaunotar effortlessly on the ledge, which did not comfort the horses one bit; but after she dismounted the bird was happy to perch on a smaller ledge above the cavern entrance and stare majestically out over the valley.  The cooks, however, went into a tizzy over the extra mouths to feed.

Tyndal and his company took care of that, however, when they rode proudly up the trail; they had killed a deer on the way in and were happy to dress it and butcher it for the cooks.  It wasn’t the only trophy they brought up the mountain with them: Tyndal triumphantly opened a sack and displayed two freshly killed goblin heads.  Both had small holes in their skulls.

“Those ancient weapons are almost as good as war wands,” he declared.  “That Travid boy is particularly good with them.  He took both of them at over two hundred yards.  I didn’t even see the second one.  He’s shot the deer, too.”

“Where?” I asked, concerned.  “The goblins, not the deer,” I clarified.

“Between the Hot Lake and the Kilnusk mountain,” he answered.  “We tracked them that far, but as soon as they hit the desolate north, they split up their group.  One headed east, the other west.  We screened the entire region to make sure they weren’t preparing an ambush, but they seemed to be moving quickly.  These two were left behind, probably to guard their exit route.  Ithalia’s bird spotted them.  Scouts,” he suggested.

“They split up?” I asked, surprised.

“That’s what it looked like – Travid is an excellent tracker,” he nodded.  “Tandine thinks they’re headed to some ruins in the east and . . . well, she wasn’t certain what the group that went west was headed for.  That’s largely unknown territory.”

“We haven’t sent anyone that way in a generation,” agreed the Lady of Anferny.  “Only half of the last expedition came back.  It’s dangerous.  There are things in the west that defy description.  If some of them are headed that way, they will discover that themselves.  But I’m satisfied that no more of them stayed in our lands.  Viscount Tyndal was most . . . thorough,” she said, meaningfully.

“I got good at hunting scrugs when we were cleaning up Callierd,” he shrugged.  “You get to know where they’re likely to hide out.”

“There were two score of them, I counted from the air,” Ithalia reported, as she joined our discussion.  “Lightly armed, for the most part.  They gave the Kilnusk a wide berth.  But they seemed to know where they were going.”

“Which I find disturbing,” I nodded, stroking my beard absently.  “I expected them to attack me at once, not disappear into the wild.  Or at least search for me.”

“Perhaps you aren’t as important as you thought, Master,” Tyndal suggested.

“That would be a relief.  But it begs the question of what in Anghysbel is more important than me.  And the answer to that is bound to be disturbing.”

Dinner that evening was lovely, as the folk of Anferny reunited with our expedition.  Lord Kanlan walked carefully out to the meadow, using a cane and the support of a servant, and we dined at sunset on roast venison, potatoes, and a few vegetables I was unfamiliar with.  Lord Kanlan and his children were delighted with his progress.  Apparently, the painkilling poppy gum he had taken for years since his injury had dulled his senses and forced them to take a more active role in the affairs of the domain, and they were happy to have their father lucid, again.  I enjoyed the camaraderie, as well as the food.  But the entertainment was particularly interesting.

Lilastien oversaw that.  With Forseti’s assistance, she was able to project images on a boulder and issue sounds from her medical scanner.  She began just before the porridge course, with a gentle song in Old High Perwyneese.

“This,” she announced, as she fiddled with her scanner, “is a particularly important song for your people.  They chose it as their planetary anthem when they established the colony.”

“It’s pretty,” Alya commented, as the first strains of music filled the meadow.  “What is it called?”

“‘What A Wonderful World,’” Lilastien supplied, a pleased smile on her lips as a man started singing in a deep, gravelly yet golden toned voice.  The images projected on the rock portrayed scenes from both Callidore and what I was coming to recognize as Old Terra.  “It’s by a legendary musician named Louis Armstrong.  A trumpet player who lived two hundred years before the New Horizon left, but his voice was amazingly sublime, for a human.  The recordings he made with Ella Fitzgerald were particularly brilliant,” she sighed.  “He was one of the practitioners of a musical discipline known as Jazz, perhaps one of your people’s greatest cultural achievements.  At least in my opinion.  Here, let me apply the Narasi translation algorithm, and you can at least understand what he’s saying . . .”

It was, indeed, a beautiful song with beautiful lyrics, even in translation, sung in noble tones but with a wistful quality.  It was a simple song, too – one about the pleasures of Nature and the beauty of love and friendship.  A fitting song, I decided, to describe both our ancestor’s aspirations on their new world and their affection for their homeworld.  I tried to commit the melody to memory, knowing Jannik would want to hear it.

“A lovely melody,” Fondaras pronounced, over his porridge.  “And a fitting verse for our home.  It is, indeed, a wonderful world,” he said, nodding toward the gorgeous sunset in the distance.

After that, Lilastien played a number of other songs from our distant past and even was able to show us some of the dances our ancestors enjoyed.

“All of this is from fairly early in your history,” she explained, as she paused between performances.  “It was a widely held view that human culture diminished, after it made contact with other races.  That was one of the reasons that they decided to emigrate – to recapture the native creativity of your species, unburdened by the influences of alien cultures.”

“And so, they moved to a planet with several of them,” Gareth said, shaking his head.

“Yet they largely achieved their goal,” Lilastien argued.  “Despite the fascination some of your folk held for Alon civilization, they were eager to cling to their ancient customs.  The Five Duchies looks a lot more like Ancient Terra than the mega-cities they were fleeing.”

“I’m just amazed that we’re hearing music that hasn’t been played in centuries,” Nattia admitted.  “It is pretty.  Most of it.  I’m glad to have heard it.”

“Alas, that is not the only reason I asked Lilastien to prepare this projection,” I sighed.  “Forseti, I think it’s time you told our guests about the danger ahead.”

“Of course, Count Minalan,” the machine said through the medical scanner, formally.  “I have prepared a complete demonstration for your guests to consider, based on the data arriving from the remaining remote sensors.  Please attend the images,” he directed, as a stylized map of the region appeared on the rock.

It only took Forseti twenty minutes to reveal the doom that awaited Anghysbel in the next two years.  A frightening display of an eruption of super-heated poison gas quickly covered all the inhabited regions of the valley.  Forseti calmly reported figures he’d taken from the installation’s instruments, dispassionately foretelling doom in his even voice. While the figures he displayed were mere imagination clothed in light, the results on the folk of Anferny – and everyone else – were appallingly direct.  They watched in horror as Forseti predicted their deaths in a particularly nasty fashion.

“I . . . I cannot believe this!” Lord Kanlan declared, shaking his head in shock.  “When you said you were aware of a danger to my domain, Count Minalan, I thought perhaps the gurvani were coming in force, or perhaps some magical event.  But this – how can I defend my people against this?”

“You cannot,” I agreed, sadly.  “You must lead them south, my lord.  All of them,” I emphasized.  “That includes the Kasari, the Kilnusk, and the Lakeshire Tal Alon.  Anyone left behind will perish.”

“I cannot ask my people to uproot their lives and become refugees, abandoning their homes!” he insisted.

“It doesn’t look as if you have any choice in the matter, my lord,” Tyndal offered.  Tandine, who sat beside him, looked aghast at what she had just seen.  “Neither did I, when I had to abandon my home in Boval Vale, when the goblins came.  But you must preserve your people’s lives,” he reminded him.  “It is your duty.”

“There is no bargaining with fate or nature,” agreed Fondaras.  “We cannot persuade the mountains not to breathe if they are preparing to exhale.  No more than we can persuade the sunset to move out of the way, or the rain to stop falling.  We can only move out of the way.”

“My people will not like this news,” Lord Kanlan said, grimly.  “Nor will the Tal Alon be eager to hear it.  Some may disbelieve it altogether as a wizard’s tale.”

“And if our wizards had not told us, we would have blundered into it unawares and died horrifically as a result, Father,” Tandine countered.  “Are you certain that this will happen?” she asked, concern on her face.

“It is unavoidable, considering the pressure building up in the volcanic system,” answered Forseti.  “The only question is when.  It could occur at any point after fourteen months and is certain to occur within twenty-one.  I am sorry.  There is no way to avoid disrupting your communities to survive this eruption.  Evacuation is the only solution, I’m afraid.”

There was a long moment of silence as everyone contemplated the dour words of the dispassionate voice.  There didn’t seem to be a lot of skepticism amongst the Anferny folk.  But there was a lot of disgust and anger.

My people, surprisingly, were not overly challenged by the prediction.  Collectively they had been through a lot: invasion, war, genocide, evil dark lords, dragons.  They had seen the darkest things that fate could throw at them.   A simple evacuation with over a year to prepare for it seemed an inconvenience, in comparison.

“Don’t panic,” Lilastien finally advised them, as the sky darkened overhead.  It gets dark quick in Anghysbel.   “You are fortunate enough to be led by Minalan the Spellmonger, the greatest mage of the era.  If anyone can manage your orderly retreat from this unique place, it is he.  Forseti, too, will be of invaluable assistance in this endeavor.  I’d counsel you all to heed his advice, follow his orders, and recognize that he has only your security in mind.”

“To flee my land at only a hint of peril, when we have spent lifetimes making a place here . . .”

“It is a hard thing, my lord, to abandon what we hold dear, what we have fought for,” Tyndal agreed.  “But there is a time to recognize our inability to continue when fate intervenes.  That intriguing mountain,” he said, pointing to Chimney Mountain in the distance, “it doesn’t care about how hard your people have toiled.  It doesn’t care about the work you have done.  It will do as it wills.  You can either adapt to avoid its danger, or you can suffer the consequences.

“But I will host all of Anghysbel in Callierd if you can find your way to retreat to there.  An entire domain, thrice as large as all of Anghysbel and largely unpeopled, since the invasion, is yours until you can return here,” he promised.  “A bountiful land, if properly worked.  A land of just laws, wise leadership and strong defense in the face of an uncertain future.  Gods, I cannot promise you more than that,” he said, fervently.

“The folk of Anferny are welcome in the Magelaw,” I agreed.  “As are the Kilnusk and the Lakeshire Tal.  And the Kasari,” I added.  “Apart from a few pesky Nemovorti and an army of gurvani on our frontiers, it’s as close to paradise as I can make it.”

“That . . . that is a generous offer, Count Minalan,” conceded Lord Kanset, standing to address us.  “One as unexpected as the crisis, itself.  I cannot speak for my lord father, but I find your consideration passing kind, in the face of such a disaster.”

“Oh, posh!” Lilastien dismissed.  “They’re doing it largely because Tyndal has an eye for Tandine, and Kanset for Ithalia.  I can think of a score of political moves with less pure motives than sexual interest,” she pointed out, swaying slightly.

Clearly, I realized, she’d been hitting the Tal Alon beet rum tonight.  It’s often hard to tell when an Alka Alon is drunk, but I was used enough to Lilastien’s mannerisms to recognize it.  The blushes on the faces of the four young people were testament to how accurate her observation was, however.  Ithalia and Tandine, in particular, looked guilty and embarrassed.  Ithalia twice as much, considering it was her grandmother pointing out her budding relationship with the young human lord.

“But to give up our lands,” Lord Kanset said, shaking his head sadly.  “It is an affront to our noble ancestors.”

“Your ancestors would want you to live, regardless of the country in which you live,” Lilastien answered, defiantly.  “And you aren’t giving them up, you are merely giving them a rest for a few years.  You should all feel incredibly lucky that mere sexual attraction has rescued you all from a hideous doom, she continued.  “I’ve seen the reverse countless times, in my examination of culture.  For once, let’s let infatuation work in our favor: Anghysbel must be evacuated,” she declared.  “As much as it pains me, there is no alternative.

“Let your lords and ladies guide you, as you find new solace for your losses in the south.  For the Spellmonger will not see the least of his subjects suffer, if he can offer a solution – which he has,” Lilastien pointed out.

“Now, who’s ready for a real treat after that depressing presentation?  Forseti has cued up the audiovisual representation of an ancient Terran entertainment of which I am particularly fond: the tale of a noble lad returned home to his island estate after military service but is unwilling to accept the rich legacy of his parents when the allure of romance with a girl of dubious status blossoms and tempts him to forego his patrimony to follow his heart.  It also features your people’s mastery of the aerodynamic arts.  I’ve had Forseti ensure that the translation into Narasi is as accurate as possible.  I only regret that we lack the traditional ritual foodstuff associated with the presentation of this drama, popcorn.

“My friends,” she announced, dramatically gesturing toward the rock where the projection was displayed.  “I present to you . . . ‘Blue Hawaii!’ ”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ordering the First Expedition

One of the nicer things about Unger Station is the maps that are available.  They are invaluable to planning.  Though there were maps found in Anferny and in Lakeshire, the maps Forseti is able to provide are far more accurate and filled with useful information.  Even the simple maps included in the guidebook are more helpful than the stylized art that passes for a map among the Wilderlords.  While they are six hundred years out of date, they still provide much helpful information.  Among other insights they provide, it is revealing that the Ancients had a curious obsession for “gift shops.”

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

The next day, Lord Kanlan was pronounced recovered enough by Lilastien to return to his home with his party.  She gave his attendants a detailed list of instructions and a sack full of medicines she had compounded, as well as direction for their use.  The folk of Anferny departed after luncheon, with Lord Kanlan’s son and daughter carefully helping him down the trail, one under each arm, until he could pass the obstructing boulder and get into the wagon the Anferny had used to transport him.  His servants struck camp and followed dutifully behind him.

Tyndal and Ithalia escorted them to the bottom of the mountain, no doubt to say goodbyes to their erstwhile paramours.  With the Anferny folk gone, the Cave of the Ancients was left to our original expedition, with the addition of Travid, Nattia’s brother.

“You almost seem glad that he’s gone,” I observed, watching Lilastien’s face as we waved one last time to Lord Kanlan.

“Oh, I enjoyed his company,” she admitted, “but I didn’t come here to be a surgeon.  I’m glad the gentleman is healing well, and that the operation was a success.  But we have work to do, Minalan.  And our time is growing short.  We have a little over five weeks to make our discoveries,” she reminded me.  “That said, I do think spending a few days here doing some research could prove productive.”

“I’ve had Gareth working with Forseti since he got up this morning,” I nodded.  “He’s compiling a list of resources we can use in the future.  I planned on spending a few days here, myself – but your point is well-taken.  We do need to push on.”

“Where did you want to head, first?” she asked.

“I’d like to start by going to the ridge where Rolof might be living,” I answered.  “If we can establish contact with him, he may well be able to direct us to where we need to go.  If he isn’t mad,” I added, mostly to myself.  “I told you about the Karshak who paid me a visit at Grost Kilnuskum and his master’s offer.”

“Yes, that was interesting,” Lilastien nodded.  “Disturbing and undoubtedly dangerous, but interesting.”

“While he was there, Davachan informed me that Rolof had taken the Yith up on his offer a few years ago.  The Kilnusk warned me that he might still be crazy, after that.”

“That doesn’t really recommend his offer,” Lilastien pointed out, as we turned and walked back into the cave.  “But I think it’s worth the chance to see your friend, if he’s still there.”

“‘Friend’ might be overstating our relationship,” I said, with a sigh.  “We were never terribly close.  Still, he’s our best opportunity to find what we’re looking for.”

We ended up spending five glorious days at the Cave.  While Alya was not thrilled with sleeping underground, the rest of us quite enjoyed it.  We spent the time investigating the secrets of our ancestors, as presented by Forseti and Lilastien.  Gareth, in particular, haunted the control room, speaking to the computer at length about all manner of subjects.  Other times he disappeared into the carriage house to work on the two vehicles, or into the bowels of the installation to aid Forseti’s attempt to establish full control over the place.

But he was far from alone.  Nattia spent half of her time in the control room with him, taking copious notes, and whenever Gareth was not using the room Ormar, Lilastien, or myself were.  Even Ithalia, Alya, Travid, and Fondaras spent hours conversing with Forseti.  I’m unsure of what they spoke, but each of them seemed to take some wisdom away from their conversations.

As for myself, I spent at least four or five hours a day speaking with the tireless machine and watching his presentations on all manner of subjects.  When I wasn’t thus engaged, I either spent time with my wife just relaxing or lingering in the common room, where the screen was constantly displaying visuals of things Lilastien felt we should know.  That included everything from our homeworld’s geography to ancient history to colonial history to physics and alchemy.  All of it was translated into Narasi, though Lilastien and Forseti had to fiddle with the translation algorithm frequently.  There just weren’t words in Narasi for many of the things displayed.

I learned much, and I absorbed it with the eagerness of a first-year student.  The experience was both brilliantly enlightening and maddeningly disappointing.  But there were jewels, among the dross; some of my long-held questions were answered in splendid form.  I’m not certain that what I learned was always useful, but it was incredibly satisfying to know.  When the secrets of history are spat out by a nearly blank wall, a good wizard does his best to listen.

When we weren’t learning new things in the command room or common room, we busied ourselves with other matters.  I assisted Gareth a few hours in his quest to get one of the vehicles working.  I watched Ormar pack a pound of Dragon Cotton around the boulder on the path and then blow it off the mountain with a mighty boom.

I continued to practice with the ancient weapons the cave had gifted us with – though Lilastien cautioned us about using up too much of the firearms’ ammunition.  The plasma rifles were easier; a single hour spent recharging from the installation’s systems replenished fifty charges.  I practiced with that one a lot.  It was like a very simple but very powerful warwand.  In this nonmagical part of the world, I cherished the idea that I could protect myself without mere steel.

After five days, however, it was time to get going.  I could feel it in my bones.

“For the initial expedition, I think we’ll take Tyndal, Lilastien, Taren, Ormar, and Fondaras,” I decided over dinner with Lilastien and Alya that night.  “I want Ithalia and Nattia to remain here and continue patrolling the skies against the gurvani.  We’ll call you by radio if we need you.  Gareth needs to work on Forseti’s list, and the Callierd knights will be more comfortable here.  But I think we’ll also take Travid.  He’s familiar with that region, he says.”

“I didn’t hear my name mentioned in that roster,” Alya pointed out, her eyes narrowing, when we were alone after dinner.  Lilastien was going to watch some other epic of my ancestor’s culture, something with puppets, I think.

“This is an exploratory expedition,” I argued.  “Until we know more about the reality of the situation, I want to keep the potential casualties minimal.  If I do get into trouble, I want ample resources to come and rescue me.  No one is going to be more passionate about that effort than you,” I proposed.

Alya studied me for a few moments.  Her skepticism was tangible.  “You’re using flattery and emotion to manipulate me into staying behind,” she accused.

“That is a strong possibility,” I admitted.  “What makes you think so?”

“I’ve been talking to Fondaras,” she explained.  “He cautioned me about being manipulated by flattery and replacing emotion with reason.”

“It occurs to me that Fondaras the Wise is too wise for his own good.  Or at least my tastes,” I said, dryly.  “Not that he’s wrong, in this instance, but his advice, while wise, doesn’t serve me.”

“Why would you want to leave me behind?” Alya asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Honestly?” I asked, actually considering an honest reply.  “Three reasons.  The first is that having my wife along in that kind of unknown, dangerous situation would make me more concerned with your safety than my own,” I proposed.  “Secondly, I may be in a position to make a foolish decision – and I hesitate to put you in a position that would challenge that.  I do some of my best work, making foolish decisions,” I pointed out.

“You have an example, my husband?” she asked, her eyes no less narrow.

“Well, thinking that I could have a life of peace as a quiet village spellmonger in the mountains, far away from the strife of civilized life.  That one didn’t work out as planned,” I pointed out.

To her credit, she sighed.  “You make a compelling point,” she admitted.  “Although for me it worked out fine.”

“Another compelling point,” I nodded.  “But thirdly, I want you – and the rest of the party we leave behind – to be in a position to come rescue us, when we make a foolish decision.  From my reckoning,” I considered, “no one else in the world would be more motivated to come save me when I make the inevitable poor decision than you,” I said, as charmingly as I could.

“More flattery . . . and emotional manipulation,” Alya sighed, shaking her head.

“But nonetheless true,” I said, struggling.  “Do you think Lord Kanlan or the Kasari would give a damn if I disappeared into the wild?  The Kilnusk?  The Lakeshire Tal?  Only you and the others have any incentive to mount a rescue operation,” I reasoned.  “I need that security, if I’m about to go into the wild and do something stupid.”

“But why do anything stupid?” she asked, frustrated.

“Because that’s likely what’s called for, Alya,” I sighed.  “I’m running out of time,” I explained, desperation seeping into my voice.  “The Vundel are expecting me to produce more snowstone.  If I can’t, they’ll come after Sevendor.  All of it,” I said, with an air of finality.  “Every grain of sand, every pebble in the place.  And they can do that, too,” I reminded her.  “They can pay for it, after the fact, and feel like they’ve gotten a bargain, but they don’t even really need to do that.  They’ve proven that they can take what they want from the drier portions of Callidore, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it.

“So, my only real answer to that is to find out a way to produce more,” I sighed, feeling a bit defeated.  “The answer to that riddle may well lie here, in Anghysbel.  But if it does, you can bet that the price of that knowledge will be steep.  Which means I may have to do something stupid.  And if my wife is over my shoulder, telling me not to do it . . . well, that could be problematic,” I concluded, diplomatically.

“You’re going to try to blame failing to find your answers – answers that could save our home – on your wife?” she asked, her eyes cutting at me like lances.

“No!  No,” I insisted.  “Why would you – never mind.  I need your support, here, Alya, I need your cooperation.  And, mostly, I need you to pull me out of a bad situation, if we get into one.  I don’t have Azar or Sandoval or Terleman to help me, here, I only have the few people I brought on this mad expedition to rely upon.

“You wanted to come with me, and I let you.  Part of my reasoning was that you would be the one with the greatest motivation to see me survive.  Hells, I’m relying on that,” I confessed.  “If I take you with me, who would try to come for us, if I got into trouble?  I’m taking Tyndal with me, so he can’t help.  Gareth might come for me, as would Nattia.  Ithalia might because her grandmother is involved.  But how motivated will they be to find me?  Not as much as you.  I need you to stay behind.  For my security.”

“That,” she pronounced, “is incredibly manipulative!”

“It isn’t any less true,” I sighed.  “Do you think it makes me feel more of a man for asking for this?” I challenged.  “I’m weak, right now, Alya,” I pointed out.  “I am at my weakest when the stakes have never been higher.  I have no magic to rely on.  Just my wits – which could very well mean we’re all doomed.  Not just me, you, everyone we love, but the entire world.  But I damned-sure will be doomed if I don’t have anyone looking out for me.  Someone who will come for me, no matter what, if things go awry.”

“Things usually go awry,” she snorted.

“My point, exactly,” I nodded.  “I’m going to talk to a quite possibly mad wizard who’s been hiding in a land where magic doesn’t work, about things that he may well not even understand.  With goblins and a dragon in the neighborhood.  There is a lot to risk, in doing so.  Knowing that I have support ready to come and get me if things go wrong will give me the confidence I need.  Having to watch out for my wife’s safety will diminish that confidence when I need it the most.”

I thought it sounded reasonable.  Hells, I’d practiced this speech long before this conversation had arisen.  I’d figured it was inevitable. I just hoped that it was convincing.

“Fine,” she grudgingly admitted – finally.  “You have three days.  You have to take those talking boxes with you – the radios – and let me know your status.  And I want you to teach me how to use those ancient weapons before you go,” she demanded.  “If I have to come and get you, it won’t be with a dagger.”

“I . . . all right,” I conceded, with a sigh.  “We’re being stingy with the ammunition, but Gareth found two additional pistols in each vehicle, for emergencies.  They’re smaller than this one, but they should be effective.  But they’re loud,” I reminded her.

“My ears can take it,” she said, still staring at me.  “Three days,” she reminded.  “Three days, and then I come looking for you.”

I knew that was about as good as it was going to get.  I shut up and kissed her.  A lot.  You’d be surprised at how well that ends an argument.

Lilastien had not stopped her nostalgic reminiscence with Ancient humani culture.  Indeed, the paltry remnant of culture that this remote station contained in its unseen bowels seemed to sustain her more than songspells or Alka Alon nut juice.  I never encountered her without some song or other haunting our conversation in the background.  She claimed there were only six thousand seven hundred and sixty songs in the archives, but I swear she listened to every single one.  Twice.

She had favorites, of course, just as she favored some dramas and comedies from my ancestor’s cultural legacy.  I didn’t understand half of it – I lacked the context she had gained on Perwyn, experiencing life as a humani colonist.  But I observed enough of her indulgence in our ancient culture to detect some patterns of behavior.  For instance, her preference for instrumental music was obvious.

“It’s because most Alka Alon music favors vocals – what your folk would call a cappella, in one of the ancient dialects,” she explained, the day before we set out.  “We elevate the voice over all other instruments and treat them as mere accompaniments.  Even the Vundel favor the voice in what passes for music in their culture.

“But me?  I like the drums.  And the horns.  Especially the horns.  They make me . . . well, let’s just say that Narasi doesn’t have the subtlety to treat with that subject,” she sighed.

“Why are you so enthralled with our music?” I asked, curious.  She got a faraway look in her eye as she recalled the past.

“I spent decades on Perwyn, while I was studying your culture.  I spent a lot of time in your clubs – taverns, music halls, and auditoriums.  To know a people’s music is to know a people,” she declared.

“I’ve heard what the Alka Alon think of human music,” I reminded her.  “Even masters like Jannik.”

“Which is incredibly short-sighted of them,” she insisted.  “The strength of humanity’s music is not in its voices, as impressive as they are.  It’s in its rhythms and its melodies.  Its lyrics.  And all the instruments!  The trap set.  Tympani. Bongos.  The bass guitar.  Harmonica.  Banjo.  Harpsichord.  The Moog synthesizer.  And the horn section.  Dear gods, I enjoy a good horn section!  Especially live music, not recordings.  All those bold sounding instruments, all in brass.  It was almost bawdy,” she reflected, fondly.  “And once you add in an electric guitar . . . one of your ancestors, Les Paul, invented the instrument.  It changed your music forever,” she informed me.

“But why is it so compelling?” I insisted.  “I’ve heard Jannik the Rysh keep a crowd near tears with one simple mandolin.  Why the need for all of those drums and horns?  And why do you like them so?”

“I suppose because it’s an element lacking in my people’s music,” she reflected, after a moment’s consideration.  “Alka Alon music isn’t mere entertainment, it’s how we keep our world functioning.  It has practical purpose.  But because of that, it’s extremely structured and limited in scope, each element filled with predetermined meaning.  Oh, it’s powerful, enough,” she conceded.  “But it’s missing some of the things I found intriguing about human music.”

“Like what?” I asked, intrigued.

“Like . . . improvisation,” she decided.  “The ancient discipline of Jazz is the best example.  Musicians understood the melody and rhythm so perfectly that they were able to improvise on the music as it was composed.

“Each performance was a unique artistic experience.  It’s subtle . . . but it’s something my people lack.  We wouldn’t know how to improvise a melody.  Our music is fixed, more doctrine than indulgence.  Jazz would scandalize our sacred melodies.  Blues?  I shudder to think what would happen if we incorporated that into our music.  We might discover something new about ourselves, or something,” she said, sneering at her own culture.  “Departing from the accepted performance for the sake of entertainment?  Children would do that, but never adults.    Anything with a strong drumbeat is automatically suspect, amongst my folk,” she explained.

“I like your epics,” I pointed out.  “They’re quite compelling.”

“But imagine how much better they’d be with a decent beat!” she insisted.  “Or a little flamboyance in the musical presentation!  But, no, we see the highest art as performing the exact same way our ancestors did, thousands of years ago, without variation or interpretation,” she said, with disgust.  “Can you imagine the ‘Lay of Iridel and Lysavala’ with a sultry blues theme?  No, you can’t.  But it would be incredible.  Or how about the ‘Epic of Tangoreal’ with a Jazz interpretation exploring his indecision between his two mates?  Throw in a dance number and you have perfect art.  But, alas, my people are musical prudes,” she pronounced with a sigh. “They hear a drum beat or a horn and they’re scandalized.”

I didn’t argue.  I barely knew how to sing a few bawdy army songs.  I knew music was the basis for Alka Alon magic, and influenced a lot of their culture, but Lilastien might as well have been discussing alchemy or dimensional magic or some other art I had little training or interest in.

“I have to trust your judgement,” I conceded.  “I just don’t see why you’re so obsessed.”

“It’s more an acute interest than an obsession,” she confessed, as she began a new song.  “But your people’s music – and your drama, which was quite sophisticated – had a certain basic barbaric simplicity to it that intrigues quite a few of my people.  Well, the pre-Contact portions,” she reminded me.  “Once you got involved in other races, your art went to shit.  But the early recordings?  Pure genius,” she declared.

“Some of it is catchy,” I conceded.  “Even in translation, it’s compelling.  But compared to a grand Alka Alon epic, it’s hard to take seriously.”

“You just lack context and appreciation,” she said, shaking her head.  “Length and complexity don’t necessarily translate into great art.  Give me a good bass riff and a dazzling brass section, and I’m in heaven.”

I tried to appreciate her perspective; I really did.  In between lessons in history and technology that Forseti was able to provide, I indulged in the art she recommended.  It was my legacy, after all.  What little was left as a remnant of Old Terra’s grand culture was important, I recognized.

But that didn’t mean I had to like it all.

Oh, there were some elements I became quite fond of.  Some were inspirational or invoked powerful emotions.  There were songs that made me cry, they were so laden with emotion regarding grief, loss and perseverance in the face of adversity.  There were many, many songs of love and slightly less concerning the loss of love.  My people seemed to be obsessed by the subject.

That seemed to explain a lot, actually.

But there were pieces, entire genres of ancient music, that I took a dislike to.  I don’t know if that meant I was disrespecting my ancestors, somehow, but I know what I like.  And what I don’t.

I don’t know if there was some hidden mystery in my ancestors’ music, but it was an intriguing way to approach their contributions to Callidore, I had to admit.  As we prepared for the next phase of the expedition, Lilastien played it constantly.  She spent time watching their dramas and comedies captured within the tekka of the cave.  That was both a comfort and trial.  I did my best to absorb the wave of ancient culture she threw at me.  But I confess only a tithe of it stuck.  Much of it was just noise, and a smaller part was interesting, but not something I’d pursue on my own.

That didn’t matter.  I was trying to understand my ancestors.  I didn’t need to like their taste in music.

When, at last, we departed the Cave of the Ancients to explore the desolation in search of mystic answers, I felt I had a much better – and admittedly flawed – view of the first humani who had come to Callidore.  I tried to keep in mind that this was a remote outpost, not a central hub of human culture.  That was much-needed perspective.  I hoped that would prove helpful, somehow, as we ventured into the unknown.

My fellow expeditioners did not seem to share my concern for such preparation, though they did enjoy the delights even such a simple place provided.  Hot showers, for instance.  A simple pipe in the wall sprayed a steady stream of water over your head, allowing you to wash, the water heated by the geothermal springs.  I found it more efficient than a bath, and faster.

The mechanical chamber pots near at hand were likewise effective without magic, and the basin provided for washing had perpetual water – clean, clear water, not like your usual well water – available without a pump.  You can do that sort of thing with magic, but our ancestors had systems designed to provide them mechanically, as a matter of course.  That was as impressive to me as their weaponry.  The box that heated food was also intriguing, as was a miniature cooling chamber that kept things cool, or even frozen – all without magic.  It gave me ideas.

But I also studied the guidebook Forseti had given me.  While it was six hundred years out of date, it still contained some interesting – and tantalizing – information about Anghysbel.  It had maps, pictures, and charts that Forseti had translated into Narasi and produced somewhere in the bowels of the tekka he now controlled.  It showed the volcanically active regions, the safe regions, and the regions where the animals, plants, and other things were considered dangerous.  Travid, the Kasari lad, helpfully updated some of the things he had seen and positioned them on the map.  Thankfully, the first expedition was going someplace he’d visited.

“My people call the place Vista Ridge,” he informed me, the night before we left.  “The view from the highest point is stunning.  The entire ridge is filled with caves and holes, so you have to be careful.  There are sometimes . . . things, in those caves.  The hunting is usually good up there, but it’s too far to comfortably bring back to the camp.  And there are dangerous beasts,” he added.  “That makes the hunting more of a challenge.”

“Of course there are,” I sighed.  “This place wants to kill us.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as most places in the north of the valley,” he chuckled.  “We shouldn’t have too much trouble, I think.  As long as we’re careful and prepared.  Why aren’t you sending in Nattia first with her bird?” he asked, suddenly.  “That would make more sense.”

“You would think so,” I agreed.  “She can be there in a few minutes.  But then she would be there alone,” I reminded him.  “I figure we’ll make the trip by horse and have her join us once we arrive.  With the radios, we can summon her if we need her help by air.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he sighed.  “It won’t take long to get there, anyway.  We’ll take boats up to the very north of the Hot Lake, which is also the hottest part of the lake.  There’s a dock there.  And I’ll have the big boat come, one that can ferry horses.  From there, it’s a straight shot north, between the Leshwood and the Plain of Pillars.  Shouldn’t take more than a half day if nothing goes wrong.”

“Like lizard men popping up and trying to eat us?” I asked, cocking my head.

“The luachra?” he asked, skeptically.  “Not this time of year.  It’s summer.  They stay in the coolness of their swamp.  They only seek the Hot Lake during the long winter.  In the fall mating season, sometimes you’ll see the males fighting each other.  Oh, there might be a few hunters this far out, but the luachra don’t bother you, usually, if you leave them alone.”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” I observed.  “Are they sapient?  Or merely sentient?  They seem to have some culture, from what I’ve heard.”

Travid shrugged.  “I’d say they’re sapient.  They’re no worse than the gurvani,” he considered.  “A little more primitive, perhaps, but less warlike.  As long as you don’t venture into their swamps, especially during hatching.  They’re very territorial and protective of their eggs.”

“Why would anyone want to menace their eggs?” I asked, confused.

“Oh, they’re supposed to be quite tasty.  The Kilnusk consider them a delicacy,” he explained.

My jaw dropped.  “What kind of monster would eat some poor frog lady’s eggs?” I asked, appalled.

“They’re lizards, not frogs.  And I’m certain that the chickens ask the same thing about us,” he pointed out.  “Life requires sacrifice in order to survive.  Still, the luachra put up enough of a fight so that the Kilnusk only enjoy that delicacy rarely,” he chuckled.  “They don’t work metals, but they use tundra glass as spearheads and polish it until it’s as sharp as a razor.  And clubs – they like clubs.  But they mostly keep to themselves.”

“And the Leshwood?” I asked.

“We stay out of the Leshwood,” he directed, bluntly.  “It is forbidden.  Protected.”

“Why?” I challenged.

“There are things there that should not be disturbed, so the place is forbidden.  We avoid it.”

“What kind of things?” I asked, intrigued.

“Things that should not be disturbed,” he repeated.  And he wouldn’t discuss it further.

But it was interesting that the ancient map of the place also had the swath of forest we called the Leshwood listed as a restricted zone.  I suppose every strange and wonderous land has to have a forbidden forest.  I think it’s some kind of cosmic rule.

“Aren’t we going to be crossing close to the Plain of Pillars?” I pointed out.  “Are we in danger of running into a stora?” I asked, remembering what I learned of the beasts in Kilnuskum.

“Probably not this time of year,” he predicted, shaking his head.  “They rarely go that far east.  Especially in summer.  They’re more docile, now, too.  We might see a few in the distance, but I think we can avoid them.  We might even see the dragon eat one,” he smiled.

“The dragon eats them?” I asked, surprised.

“About twice a month,” he nodded.  “It’s actually helping to trim the population down to a manageable level.  As bad as an enraged stora can be, it’s no match for a dragon,” he said, clearly impressed.  “I saw that once, out on patrol.  It was brutal.  But there’s a pretty straight path between the Hot Lake and the ridge, so we should be able to avoid them both.  And the Leshwood.”

“How do we find Rolof once we get there?” I asked.  “Just started shouting into caves and making inquiries at the local taverns?”

“There are no taverns up there,” he chuckled.  “So, shouting into caves is probably a better approach.  Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” he assured, confidently.  “The ridge is only so big.  He’s been spotted by our patrols several times.  He’ll only be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found.”

Which brought up another interesting question . . . assuming he was still sane, why would Rolof flee the civilized world for this magic-less wasteland when he had just been given a shard of irionite?  That did sound like a man who didn’t much want to be found.

And that could be a problem.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Into the Wild Desolation

Despite the grand adventure, good booze, and the allure of exotic minerals, I’m really starting to hate this place.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Ormar the Alchemist

“This is where we leave the fertile region and step into wild desolation,” Fondaras informed us, leaning on his staff.

Lilastien and Ormar were leading their horses off the little barge the Kasari used to ferry us to the northern dock of the Hot Lake.  It had taken three trips to get us all here.  We’d spent the time waiting for the rest of the expedition watching the fascinating display of steam and water bubble around us, until the heat and humidity became too much of a bother and we retired to the shore.  There were all sorts of strange and interesting creatures prowling amongst the reeds and grasses of the shoreline.  Travid had given us a brief lecture on which ones to be afraid of as we spotted them.  And which ones we could eat.

“It’s not that desolate – a Kasari patrol returned from here not three days ago,” boasted Travid, hefting his rifle on his shoulder.  “Nothing unusual to report,” he added.

“It’s all unusual,” Ormar objected.  “We saw a frog on our way over – a frog the size of a dog.”

“Those are good to eat,” Travid informed us.  “The legs are tasty.”

“The creature who ate it thought so,” agreed Ormar.  “Something pale, flat, and round.  Like a lily-pad with teeth.”

“Those are not good to eat,” Travid conceded.  “They taste like boot leather soaked in kerosene.  Let’s mount up and start the trail,” he proposed.  “We can make it to the ridge by dark, if we hurry.”

We were wary and cautious as we rode, Travid riding ahead of the rest of us.  To the west the odd-colored green of the Leshwood beckoned enticingly.  To the east, the Plain of Pillars spread out before us, as dry and stark as the forest was green and lush.  Our path led through the middle, which was almost normal.  I tried to consider it a metaphor for the expedition.  I wasn’t certain of the meaning of the metaphor, but I was sure something would occur to me.

“The first time I came to the northern wilds,” Fondaras confided from behind me, as we rode single file, “it was into the Plain of Pillars.  A very stark place.  The part you see before you is the most pleasant area of the vale.  And note how the land to the northeast drops away precipitously?  And then rises again?” he asked, pointing to the features he was listing.  “They call it the Gouge, because it looks like a giant shovel just dashed the land asunder.”

“According to the guidebook, that was created by a giant stone that fell from the sky, eons ago,” I related.  “There is another to the west.  I have a theory that they are responsible for the jevolar effect, not the volcano,” I proposed.

“In any case, the Gouge has its own menagerie of creatures to be wary of,” he reported.  “Many interesting rock formations, as well.  If we have time, you might be interested in seeing them.”

“I don’t think nine weeks is going to be enough to see all the wonders of this valley,” I sighed.

“A lifetime wouldn’t be enough time,” he agreed.  “At the end of the Gouge there are ruins that pre-date the Alon, it is said.  A pylon of stone, set with crystal.  No one knows where it came from.”

“Quit tempting me with marvels, Footwizard!” I said, with mock sternness.  “I am already on a quest!”

“Quiet!” called Ormar from the front of the line.  “That Kasari kid just made a sign.  I’m pretty sure it means he saw something ahead.”

We halted our horses, as Travid dismounted and began studying the trail.  He searched the rising hillside with his eyes, an uncharacteristic frown on his face.  Then he shook his head and got back on his horse.  He did change our course, however, and we began bearing to the right – when I noticed something.

“Look,” I pointed out to Fondaras, “Kirsieth!”  Indeed, there was a stand of the low evergreen shrub just where Travid had changed course.  “I wouldn’t think you would find it here in the realm of the jevolar.”

“You mean the kellesarth?” the footwizard asked, using the Alka Alon term for the bush.  “It grows here and there, in the mountains.  I’ve seen it in Anghysbel before.”

“It’s believed to be the basis of the sap used to make irionite,” I riposted, pleased with myself.  If you can’t use your expensive education to impress a common footwizard, what use is it, after all?

“That’s an interesting theory,” conceded Fondaras, staring at the shrub as we rode by.  “Its’ sap does have some arcane effect, I’ve seen.  A slight increase in power, but at a cost.  Some magi misuse it, and it has a poor effect on one’s health and constitution, with prolonged use.  The Wise avoid it.  The Kellon berries it produces are esteemed for their relief of constipation, however,” he added, informatively.

“Drinking kellesarth sap?” Lilastien asked, from behind us.  “That’s foolish!  That’s like drinking methanol to get drunk!  There are far better herbal methods for increasing a mage’s access to power.  Sometimes I wonder how your people survived here for seven centuries.”

“Some wizards are so desperate for power that they will tempt such dangers,” Fondaras sighed.  “In my years as a Fellow of the Road, I’ve seen many such short-cuts lead a mage to ruin: kellesarth, gulrandian, randen weed, mindwort, cansion shells, certain mushrooms – the hedgemages of the Westlands have frequently indulged in such experiments.  It rarely ends well,” he added, sadly.

“I’ve had my bouleuterions experiment with kirsieth sap for years, now, trying to produce irionite,” I mused.  “Not a single success.  Oh, they can get it to solidify, but the result is almost arcanely inert.”

“The secret of irionite is just that – a secret,” Lilastien said, smugly.  “Closely held, too.  But I’m afraid my people can’t take credit for it.  It was already here.  It was discovered in the early days of our settlement – the kellesarth bush was one of the varieties brought to Callidore by the Moonriders, the Met Sakinsa.  A minor thing, we thought . . . until we discovered what its sap can do.”

“That’s the thing,” I said, crossly.  “I’ve had alchemists and thaumaturges try everything they can with the sap, and all they get is hardened sap.  Not true amber, and certainly not irionite.  I even asked Onranion.  He knows how to shape it and enchant it, but the secret to making it is beyond his ken.”

“Don’t blame the old scoundrel – all of us Avalanti are better at songspells than such obscure technical lore,” she explained, taking a sip out of her flask. “The Versaroti are the ones who have mastered the secret of its creation.  And they are loath to share it with anyone.  I should note that the Enshadowed are mostly Versaroti.  And a few Farastamari.  Very few of my kindred are allured by that pessimistic philosophy.”

“That would explain why their irionite spheres are so large and well-developed,” I reflected.  I’d been on the receiving end of their sorcerous spells very recently.  I was impressed.  And disturbed.

“And so deadly,” Lilastien agreed.  “The Versaroti are nothing if not elegantly efficient.  Even in their madness for destruction and obsession with immortality.  It really puts a damper on collaboration, sometimes,” she said, sadly.

“And the Farastamari?” Fondaras asked.

“They’re terribly good about composing verse about how obsessed and conniving the Versaroti are, and how gullible and rustic and the Avalanti are.  Just because we are not as uptight about adhering to classical forms as the other kindreds . . . it’s a little insulting, actually,” she reflected.

“It’s culture,” I shrugged.  “Every race is going to develop factions and attitudes at odds with other factions and attitudes.  They cling to them as a form of self-validation.  The price of knowledge,” I said, shooting a look at Master Fondaras.  “Hells, even the Tal Alon have them.  It might as well be a law of nature.”

“That was almost a wise observation, Minalan,” Fondaras murmured, as he retrieved his pipe from his bag.  “Well done!”

“I’ve been practicing,” I admitted, half in jest.

“But as intriguing as it was, it also distracts us quite effectively from the question my lady has deftly avoided in answering: what role does kellesarth play in the formation of irionite?” the old footwizard asked, pointedly.

“I told you, I don’t know!” Lilastien protested.  “That’s really not my field.  And if Onranion doesn’t know then that should provide measure of how closely the Versaroti keep their secrets.  If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“I do hope you understand my skepticism, my lady,” Fondaras said, with a nod over his shoulder.  “It isn’t personal.”

“Oh, no offense taken, I assure you,” agreed Lilastien, evenly.  “If I had to contend with my people’s subtleties, I’d be passing suspicious, Master Fondaras.  If you only knew . . .” she said, shaking her head.

“Then why do you not tell us?” the footwizard probed.

“Because you lack context to appreciate the scope of my people’s betrayal of yours,” she said.  “I don’t like to play the ‘you just aren’t sophisticated enough to understand, yet’ card, Fondaras, but trust me: if I thought you could appreciate the truth of the past, I’d tell you.  Alas, it would take three of your lifetimes.”

“We’re really good at summarizing, as a people,” I pointed out.  “We have to be; we are mortal.  Really, Lilastien, we can dispense with the subtleties.”

“Can we?” she challenged, with a chuckle, as she capped her flask.  I wondered what was in that silver flask.  She never went without it, and she took a couple of sips each day.  “No offense meant, my good humani, but as much as I love you, I have seen your race fall, and fall into misery.  And not merely because of my race’s interference – it was largely due to your own flaws and self-delusions.”

“I have no trouble believing that my lady,” considered Fondaras.  “Humanity is deeply flawed.  Not one of us born has pretensions to grace that are not rooted in self-delusion.  Indeed, the mere downfall of our once-great civilization pales in comparison to the depravity of some of our practices,” he conceded, politely.  “Yet . . .”

“Yet?  Somehow, I knew there would be a ‘yet’,” Lilastien chuckled.

“I would hate to disappoint.  ‘Yet’,” he repeated, “even as an amateur student of the lore of the Fair Folk, it is concerning to see the arrogance and pride of your people in their own music,” he pointed out.  “I take your professional perspective to heart: evaluating a culture by its music is particularly revealing.    Especially when it comes to their perspective on ‘lessor’ races.  I must assume that perspective extends to my own ephemeral people.”

“And rather unfairly,” she conceded with a sigh.  “No, you are not wrong, Master Fondaras.  But you must understand our perspective.  Most of the matters concerning to us have no bearing to you, due to your short life-spans.  You live and die so quickly that we’ve just begun telling you the things that matter, and suddenly you’re gone and we have to start all over again.  The longest I’ve had a relationship with a human is seventy years.  I’ve had arguments that lasted longer than that among my own folk.  It’s frustrating.  Your Constructed Intelligences helped, a bit, since they had theoretical immortality, but then you . . .”

“We what?” I prompted, insistently.

“There was a concerted movement within the colony that saw the CIs as a threat to humanity’s survival on Callidore,” she said with a resigned sigh.  “Since certain factions within the Alka Alon agreed . . . well, I believe there was collusion.  Collusion between the races that directly led to humanity’s downfall,” she related.  I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.

“You mean entities like Forseti?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “As much as I appreciate him, Forseti is a mediocre example of the intelligences your people constructed artificially.  They virtually ran the colony – the important, boring parts, at least.  They provided a bit of longevity and vision for the colony, while you people were depressingly living to a ripe old age and dying just as you started to get interesting.  But then there were some decided dangers to entrusting such power into mere mechanical servants.”

“Such as?” I goaded, once again.

“Not now, Minalan,” she said, crossly.  “You must learn much more before you will understand that tale.  But the computers that ran the colony were a weakness, as much as a strength.  Let’s leave it at that, for now.  Once they were gone, well, your civilization just wasn’t that interesting to us – myself and a few others excepted.  It was difficult to create lasting relationships with you.  The New Horizon withdrew, Perwyn sank, and then it was a few decades of desperate nostalgia and declining standards of living before the warrior princes took over.  Not even magic could save you from that.”

“But why are they gone?” the footwizard asked, sharply.  “My lady suggests that, if we fell, we may have received a push,” Fondaras replied, quietly.

“Yes!  Yes, you were pushed,” Lilastien agreed, frustrated.  “Not by me and my kindred, largely, but there were those who saw all of humanity as a threat to the Alon.  Hells, I respect your people, I love your people, and I am at odds with my own.  I am not named ‘rebel’ for naught.

“But the Vundel were already cross with us.  Most of the Alka Alon of this realm didn’t even want you here, but we had little choice.  Then we thought you would distract the Vundel from our failures when you failed to heal the land, as you promised to.  But then you managed to graft a viable biosphere onto what had been a comparative wasteland, and we ended up looking foolish by comparison.  Some of my folk resented that,” she said, crossly.

“And so they took steps against us,” I finished.

“A few misguided or disgruntled individuals,” she conceded.  “They allied with a few misguided and disgruntled individuals of your own civilization.  Between them . . . well, they did some damage.  Nearly fatal damage.  But we preserved the colony, in the end,” she said, with defiant pride.  “You did not go extinct.  Not yet,” she added.

“Apparently, that’s only a matter of time,” I said, dryly.  I had a completely devastating question prepared for the Sorceress of Sartha Wood when our discussion came to an abrupt halt.  For while we were debating philosophy and history and who betrayed who, the universe at large decided to remind us that we were not really in command of it, despite our self-delusions.

For rearing up before Travid was a ferocious one-eyed beast.  It didn’t look particularly friendly.

No one knows whence the strange beast came that attacked our column as we ascended the ridge.  It didn’t really look similar to anything I’d seen in Anghysbel, thus far.  A tall, muscular body covered in stringy white fur surmounted by a ghastly-looking head filled the path in front of Travid, our vanguard.  His horse had the good sense to rear up, terrified, at the sight of the creature.

It stood on two legs, but two pairs of arms flailed from its furry torso, the upper set complete with thick, sharp claws set among powerfully grasping paws.

The second set of arms was smaller, but terminated with a solitary curved claw, like a mariner’s scimitar, somewhat serrated and menacingly sharp.

The head?  A cone-shaped appendage situated high atop a long, sinewy neck swayed back and forth, like a snake prepared to strike, as it confronted the Kasari youth.  There was a small but toothy mouth below an elongated nose, like a proboscis, and a single, multi-faceted eye in the center of its sloping face.  Two feathery-looking “wings” on either side of its face flapped energetically as it began to swing it’s claws at Travid and his rearing horse, while it made a loud, unearthly howl.  I was sympathetic to the horse – the thing was terrifying.

Before it reached Travid, Tyndal was charging the thing, his sword drawn.  I fumbled for my own blade when I realized I had more potent arguments to make – I began to fumble for the plasma rifle, instead, as Tyndal hacked off one of the beast’s lower arms.

I was slow to the game.  Before I could bring the rifle in line, Lilastien had shot three blasts into the creature with her own weapon.  Each one erupted a nasty-looking hole in its back that burnt the stringy white fur black.  As she was taking her second shot, Travid had managed to aim and fire his rifle twice from horseback.  Taren threw his spear and struck it in its large hindquarters, then drew his plasma pistol and fired repeatedly at close range.  An explosion of blood and flesh splashed across the trail with each shot.  The beast screamed one last time in agony and then tumbled to the ground.

“What in nine hells was that thing?” Ormar nearly screamed, his eyes wide, after a moment’s pause.  “What was that?” he demanded.

“It’s . . . it’s a baithsagalan,” Travid explained, after he got his horse under control.  “They live on the tundra, beyond the valley.  Every now and then one will wander down and hunt here, in the summertime.”

“It looks like a furry bug . . . or a pig . . . a really ugly furry pig-bug with six legs and one bloody bug eye!” Ormar said, disgusted, as he stared wide-eyed at the dead predator.

“Well, it does spin webs,” Travid agreed, reluctantly.  “That’s how it hunts.  It was probably looking for a good spot when we surprised it.”

“We surprised it?  I nearly shit my saddle!  And it spins webs?” Ormar repeated, his eyes still wide.  “Yes, of course it does.  This place is mad,” he declared.

“Technically, it’s not from this place,” Fondaras pointed out.  “But it is rare to see such a creature this far south.  I saw one, once, when I was with the Crinroc tribe.  They hunt it, sometimes.”

“I was hoping someone would come along and take care of that,” a new voice said in Narasi, from up the slope.  I whirled around, as did everyone else.  It was a male voice, but it took a moment for us to track it back to its source.

A man in a long blue cloak was standing on a boulder, safely above where the . . .one-eyed bug-pig thing had charged us.  He held a longbow in his hand, a quiver at his belt, and a sword hilt peaking up over his right shoulder.  He hadn’t been to a barber in a while.

“Couldn’t you have posted a sign?” Ormar asked, throwing up his hand, disgusted.

“There aren’t many who could read it, out here,” the man said, taking a step forward.  I peered closely at his face.  I tried to remember what he looked like. But it had to be him.

I cleared my throat.  “Master Rolof.”

“Captain . . . Minalan,” he said, peering back.  “You, I remember.  These others?  I have not met them.”

“Well, you met Tyndal – back in Boval Castle, my apprentice.  But he’s grown up a bit since then, and you might not recognize him.  My friends are Lilastien, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, Ormar the Alchemist, Taren the Thaumaturge, Fondaras the Wise, and Travid of the Kasari,” I said, indicating each in turn.

“Ah.  Tyndal.  I do think I recall you.  A head taller, now.  A beard changes a man – even a little one, like yours.  Captain Minalan and others.  Way out here.  I cannot think that this meeting was happenstance.”

“It would be foolish to think so, Master Rolof,” agreed Fondaras.  “Indeed, we have journeyed far in part to seek you out.”

“And it’s Count Minalan, now, not Captain,” I corrected.  That surprised him.

“Count?  I would have thought you were on the run from the Censors, seeking refuge here, by now.  It appears that there have been some changes in the world since last I was in it.”

“A few,” I agreed.  “There is a king over the three western duchies, now.  The Censorate is expelled and diminished in power.  And I am raised to the Count Palatine of the Magelaw, in the eastern Alshari Wilderlands.  Magelords and High Magi walk the halls of power.  And a dark force has risen in the west.  Our war is not over,” I reported, with a sigh.  “Indeed, it has become far more complicated in your absence.”

“If you are seeking warmagi, I have retired,” Rolof said, flatly.

“I’m not looking for swords, though I’d welcome them,” I admitted.  “I seek knowledge you might have.”

He looked at my companions with suspicion.  “And you bring these fellows to convince me?”

“More to protect me from the strangeness of this land while I look for what I need,” I said, indicating the six-legged predator.

“So, what great need compelled you to cross hundreds of leagues, brave the wastes, and give up your rajira to speak to an obscure wizard in a land without magic?” he asked, a mixture of suspicion and amusement playing about his lips.

“A number of good reasons.  I’d very much like to discuss them with you, if you have the time.”

“I have all the time in the world, as little as that is,” he sighed.  “But I am cautious of my home.  I know you – or did,” he said, thoughtfully.  “I will speak to you there, alone.  The rest of you may rest here,” he directed.  “You should be safe of further danger.  The cyclops has driven away most other predators during his short stay.  And it appears that you can defend yourselves,” he said, examining Lilastien’s plasma rifle.

“We’ll be fine, here,” Fondaras assured me.  “We shall make camp.  That thing wouldn’t be edible, would it?”

“No, more’s the pity,” Rolof sighed.  “They don’t even make a good rug.”

“I can hunt,” Travid shrugged.

“There are some squash vines in the meadow to the east,” Rolof directed, as he turned and walked back up the slope.  “Help yourself.  I hate squash.  This way, Minalan.  I’ll make some tea. But leave the horse.  The trail is narrow.”

“Master, he doesn’t quite seem . . . right,” Tyndal whispered to me, as I prepared to follow him.

“He’s showing classic signs of paranoia,” agreed Lilastien.  “He’s been secluded for a few years,” she argued.

“He’s an old comrade,” I soothed, handing Tyndal my plasma rifle.  “We’re just going to have a chat over some tea.  He’s probably just lonely,” I reasoned.

“He’s not acting lonely, he’s acting paranoid,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.  “Be wary.  You don’t know what he’s been through.  You heard the rumors from the Kilnusk,” she reminded me.

“I can take care of myself,” I said, shaking my head.  “What could go amiss?  But keep your radios on,” I urged them.  “In case something does.  I don’t think he knows what they can do.  If he does go mad and tries to slit my throat and I call for help, I’ll expect a timely rescue,” I said, over my shoulder.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rolof the Obscure

Rolof was not the same man I briefly knew, but neither was I.  He had sought obscurity while I sought power.  That is either a token of his madness or proof of his wisdom.  Only time will tell which is true, or both.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

I hurried to catch Rolof, but the trail did narrow significantly as it rose, so I had to follow behind him.  The brush grew thicker on this portion of the slope, almost a thicket lining both sides of the trail.  It was a dense combination of natavia and importasta, much of which I’d never seen before.  They were bursting into bloom in the summer’s heat, and some of them were quite beautiful.

But it wasn’t the flowers that I was wary of, after having that cyclops spring out on us; I was expecting snarling teeth or slithering tentacles to part the wildflowers at any moment.  Without my magical protections, I was feeling jumpy.  But Rolof strode through it like he was inspecting his garden.  If he was paranoid, he was the most relaxed paranoid I’d ever met.

“I can only guess what really dragged you out here,” he said, conversationally, as he hiked up the trail.  “That is trouble.  Political, Military, or Magical?  Legal?  Personal?”

“A bit of all of them, actually,” I admitted.  “Would you believe that I’m trying to save the world?”

He halted and turned to look at me.  “Why bother?” he asked.  He seemed serious.

“I’ve gotten quite comfortable here,” I replied, unsure of his mood.  “I’m just starting to understand the place.”

“You just think you are,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’m just saying that you should consider the pros and cons, first.”

“You question saving the world?” I asked, shocked.

“I’m questioning whether or not it’s worth the effort,” he sighed.

“I’m not speaking of the war,” I informed him, carefully.  “Did you know that in three thousand years all magic on Callidore fails?  The Vundel will die, horrific monsters will be released from the depths, and eventually all life will die.”

“I know,” he sighed.  “And we will be long dead.”

“You know?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, Minalan, I know about the end of the world,” he said, sadly.  “I’ve learned far more than you might suspect, since I’ve been here.  I know that the world will end.  I also know that there is no way to avoid it.  And I know that none of us will be around to witness it.  So why spend what few years we are allotted in miserably pretending that we can?”

“I like a challenge,” I said, shrugging.  “I’ve had some important successes, thus far.  I’m feeling lucky.”

“I’m shocked that you’re even still alive,” he chuckled.

“You aren’t alone,” I murmured, as we approached what I assumed was his home.

It was a simple croft built into a fold of the ridge.  A small roof built of boughs and well-woven branches was supported by two great logs.  Under it was a crudely carpentered door, attached to the frame with leather hinges.  There were windows high in the roof, to allow light in, but behind them was naked rock.  There was a score or more gourds bearing various herbs scattered around the opening, just off the path.

“My humble hermitage,” he announced, with affected drama.

“It’s charming,” I suggested, diplomatically.

“It’s a literal hole in the rock,” he said, shaking his head.  “Merely an old lava tube I built a roof over.  This place is riddled with them.  The roof keeps it from getting draughty and keeps the creatures out.  The cave extends back a couple of hundred feet inside.  It’s defensible.  It’s comfortable.  But charming?” he asked, skeptically.

“I’ve always admired the rustic look,” I offered, as he unlatched the door.  “I spent the greater part of the last two years literally living under a rock.”

“I suppose we should catch up on news, first,” he decided.  “It will make our conversation easier.  So, what happened after that horrific siege we escaped?” Rolof asked, as he opened the door to his croft.

“Funny story, that,” I said, as he hung his bow and weapons harness on a peg near the door.   “I went to Castal, convinced Duke Rard to pay for three thousand mercenaries, suspend the Bans on Magic, and then stopped the invasion at Timberwatch.  He even came and fought alongside Duke Lenguin.  There was a dragon.  There was a fire elemental.  But we won, so we all got knighted and rewarded.  More or less.”

“Such things are often an axe with two blades,” he nodded, sympathetically.

“But then Duke Rard and his wife had Duke Lenguin and his wife assassinated, seized their heirs, and cobbled together a kingdom because I gave him a legal pretext.  But in exchange he expelled the Censorate and voided the Bans.”

“Well, that’s a piece of good news,” he agreed, after a moment’s consideration.  “I loathe the Censorate.”

“That depends upon your perspective.  You see, he put me in charge of re-organizing the administration of magic in the new kingdom.  And then a couple of magical accidents happened, the Alka Alon got involved, the Vundel got involved, there were some dragons and some undead, we fought a lot more battles, I founded a couple of cities and advanced magic in some interesting ways and . . . well, I’ve kept the forces of darkness at bay, so far, but it’s been a very busy time.”

“So it seems,” he agreed, as he began lighting a fire.  “Married?”

“Yes,” I answered, surprised.  “Two children.  No, four children.  Long story.  I actually brought my wife along.  As I said, it’s been very busy.”

“Nice,” he nodded, as he quickly struck a flint and blew on the tinder.  “I have a girlfriend,” he offered.  “It’s . . . nice.”

As we spoke, I looked around the place.  The southern facing windows allowed enough light to see the forward portion of the cavern.  It was only twenty to twenty-five feet wide, but it extended back into the darkness quite a way.

Most of the front was given over to simple furnishings: a small table, some shelves, a few stools and simple chairs, and shelves filled with stores and supplies.  There was a long peg-laden log along one wall where dozens of bags and coils of rope were hung.  The fireplace was built into the side of the cave and culminated in a chimney that disappeared through the rock, not the roof of the croft.

It wasn’t quite neat and tidy, but it was certainly orderly.

“So, while I’ve been out saving the world and stirring up trouble, no one has seen you at all,” I informed him, as he blew some kindling into a small fire.  “There’s been plenty of speculation, but very few rumors.”

“I’m surprised anyone missed me at all,” he said, as he took a battered tin from the shelf and began making tea.  “But after Boval Castle, I figured the Censorate would be certain to bring their hammer down on us.  Until that question was decided, I figured I would find some place remote and wait out the result.”

I looked around.  “I would say you were successful.”

He followed my glance and shrugged.  “Living in a palace or living in a cave, you’re just living.  It doesn’t matter where, really.  As long as it’s safe and comfortable.”

“I’m partial to castles, myself,” I nodded.  “But then, I have an ego.”

He smiled.  “That, I remember,” he chuckled.  “Did you marry that sex magic devotee?  The pretty imperial mage who hired us?”

“No, no, a local girl.  A Bovali refugee.  She makes cheese.  You’ll like her,” I decided.  Because Alya is just likable, particularly since she came here.  “Pentandra married a Kasari captain of rangers.  She’s the Alshari Court Wizard, now.  Three girls – triplets,” I said.

That made his eyebrows shoot up as he poured the water.  “Triplets?  Impressive.  And our comrades in arms?”

“The High Magi – that’s what we call those magi who have irionite – have flourished in the new order.  Many of them are magelords of great repute.  Azar is a Viscount, as is Tyndal, in the Magelaw – that’s my county – and Wenek and Astyral are both barons.  Weylan runs the magical orders in Wenshar.  Taren is into enchantment.  Delman, Horka, and Hesia were sadly killed in battle.  The rest enjoy work in their specialties, pursue their hobbies or enjoy country life.”

“That sounds interesting,” he admitted.  “Pleasant, even.  Far better than I would imagine, actually.  But when I fled my estates and went into exile, I did so with purpose.”

“I’m shocked anyone even knew about this place,” I admitted, as he put his kettle over the fire.  “How did you find out about it?”

“Funny story, that,” he began with a small smile.  “My great-grandfather was in an expedition to the area,” he said, turning and pulling a book off his shelf – one of a score.  Stick a wizard in the middle of desolation in a hole in the ground, and he will still have his library.  “He was a deputy court wizard, at the time.  The adventurous sort.  He wrote a fairly complete account of the expedition that has been kicking around our family library for sixty, seventy years.  I read it over and over before I went off to school.  I was fascinated by the incredible tales – the description of the creatures, the smoking mountain, the jevolar, the wild tribesmen – it always haunted me.

“So, when I wanted someplace far away where I could hide out from the Censorate, I figured I could fulfill a childhood dream at the same time.  I made my way north, through the aftermath of the invasion, managed to cross the wastes, though it nearly killed me after my magic failed.  The Kasari rescued me.  I spent a few months in Anferny, then wandered off to relive my ancestors’ journey.  I’ve been here ever since.”

“While I’m certain the rent is cheap, one has to wonder why?” I asked, carefully.  “When you have a chunk of irionite the archmagi would envy, why flee to someplace where you can’t use it?” I asked, as he returned the book to its place.

“At first, I figured I would return after a year or so,” he admitted, taking a seat at the table.  “But then things got . . . thorny.  It didn’t suit me to leave, and for a while I couldn’t.

“But I’ve put my time to good use, here, whether I can cast spells or not.  I’ve been studying the plants and animals of this land and cataloging them and their habits.  I’ve got four volumes of notes,” he said, waving at his bookshelf.  “I’ll start a fifth, as soon as I collect the reeds to make parchment.”

“A noble endeavor,” I agreed.  “The secrets those volumes must contain . . .”

“Bah, they are but trivial studies,” he sighed.  “The important book I’m writing catalogs the real mysteries of Anghysbel.  Such as I can.  I’ve learned . . . gods, Minalan I’ve learned far more than any man has a right to.  There are things in this place that have existed a million years.  And were older before they came here.  There are races found nowhere else on Callidore.  There are remnants of extinct civilizations.  The story of this place is part of the story of Callidore, despite its small size.  And it is packed with secrets.”

“I’ve managed one already,” I boasted.  “I opened the Cave of the Ancients, near the Hot Lake.”

“The geophysical station?” he asked, unsurprised.  “Was it still intact?”

“You know of it?” I asked, completely surprised.

“Yes.  And the military station above it,” he said, flatly.  “And the Grotto of Guard the Alka Alon built, the pylons of the serpent people, the crypt of Szal, the wholesome springs of the Leshwood, and the perils of Darkwater Cavern.  And a dozen other sites.  It’s a small place,” he reminded me.  “Eventually, you’ll see it all, if you get restless.”

“Fascinating,” I said, nodding.  “Yes, the station was largely intact.  My colleague, Lilastien, was involved in the original colonization of Perwyn.  She knew how to use a lot of the equipment.”

“The Alka Alon,” he smiled, as if at a secret joke.  “Always so helpful to us ignorant humani.”

“So, I’ve figured out,” I sighed.  “One of the things I pursue in Anghysbel is some word of Ameras.  The daughter of the Aronin of Amadia.  It is rumored that she is this vale.  I’ve been sent as an emissary of the Alka Alon Council.  Sort of,” I equivocated.

He studied me carefully.  “With that, I might be of some use,” he murmured, carefully.  “To what purpose does the council seek the Aronin’s heir?”

“I . . . I would prefer to speak with her about such matters, alone, to fulfill my commission.  Do not be offended, but I am constrained by certain oaths and sensibilities.”

“Of course,” he said, though suspicion did not depart his eyes.  “I can arrange a meeting, I think.”

“You can?” I asked, surprised.  I didn’t think it would be that easy.

“I believe so.  If that is the point of your quest, then I can help satisfy it.  Though I doubt you will enjoy the outcome,” he said, cryptically.

I let it go.  The man lived in a hole in the ground on the edge of madness.  He was entitled to a little obscurity.

“An introduction is all I need.  Lilastien has been sent to speak with her.  But I seek something else rumored to originate in Anghysbel.  A smooth, glass-like substance reputed to be sensitive to the harmonics of quantum thaumaturgy.  It’s supposed to be some sort of organic mineral.”

“I . . . I believe I know the substance you are looking for,” he said, after a long pause.  “It might be difficult to get to, but I have a friend . . . how important is it?”

“Extremely, unfortunately.  We’re looking for a way to detect and quantify divine magical energy,” I explained.  “This stuff is the only thing we’ve ever heard of that could do that.  We heard a rumor it came from here.  You say you know of it?” I asked, surprised.

“I do.  You wish to find Ameras and this . . . does it have a name?”

“Not that I recall.  Just a vague report in some old scroll.”

“It is called striekema by the Alka Alon,” he supplied.  “It’s exceedingly rare.  But I know where to find some.”

“So, one of the most sensitive minerals in the world, and also the rarest, is grown in a place with no magic?”

He frowned.  “I’m not certain that the jevolars have much influence on it, but it’s possible.  In any case striekema is not grown.  It is . . . made.”

“Intriguing.  If I can secure a supply of it, I think I can make a device that will be able to detect divine magic.  And necromancy.  Perhaps other energies.”

“It can sense all of those, and more,” he assured me.  “You will understand, when you see how it is made.”  He sounded foreboding about the subject.  “Why do you need to sense divine magic?”

“It’s part of a spell I’m trying to re-create,” I explained.  “If I can create a sensitive enough device, then I’m hoping to direct a spark of divine magic into a transformative wave that can transform silica into a substance we call snowstone.  It dramatically lowers the etheric density in its proximity.  It’s not supposed to exist in nature.  Not even the Alka Alon have heard of it.  Or the Vundel.  But they have now, and they both want it, and I need to learn how to make it.  Hence, I need this striekema.  It’s the most important magical question since learning how to slay dragons.”

“Why would you want to slay a dragon?” Rolof asked, confused.

“Because they were attacking my kingdom.  Things got bad, after you left, Rolof.  And then they got worse.”

“Have you ever considered things from the dragon’s point of view?” he asked, sharply.

“Only in a tactical sense.  Why?” I asked.

“Some dragons are quite nice, once you get to know them,” he said, as if this should be common knowledge.  I was starting to think Lilastien was correct about Rolof’s mental state.  “You should try talking to one, instead of slaying them.”

“Our previous encounters were usually too hurried to indulge in a chat,” I said, dryly.

“They aren’t what they seem, Minalan,” he said, fixing me with a stare.

“They seem like they’re interested in destroying castles and killing everything in their path,” I said, calmly.

“It seems I have many things to show you, then,” he said, finishing his tea.  “It’s clear you don’t mean me harm.  You don’t want to lure me back to civilization.  And I don’t think you want to linger too long near the jevolars.  I think I can help you.  But I don’t think it will save the world,” he said, sadly.

“You keep saying jevolars,” I observed.  “There are more than one?”

“When the ancient rock that struck this place half a million years ago nearly destroyed the world, it wasn’t just any sky rock,” he explained.  “It was chosen for its anti-magic properties.  Because the Celestial Mothers’ magic found it difficult to affect it.  Only they did – sort of.  They managed to break it into several pieces, which kept it from penetrating the crust of the planet as intended.  Some fell south of here, in and around the Shattered Sea.  Here, there were two large pieces that fell . . . and fell off target.”

“How do you know this?” I asked, curious.

“One crashed just to the east of here, creating a large crater.  There’s a lake there, now.  One crashed a few miles west, a few moments after the first.  It hit at a slightly sharper angle – that’s what created the vale they call the Gouge.  But there were two of them.  There are two of them,” he corrected himself.  “They produce a field that effectively shuts down all thaumaturgic energies here.  Except,” he said, rising, “in a few places.  Come with me.  I have something I want to show you.”

He beckoned me outside and led me up a smaller trail that led to the east and continued up the slope.  It was more a game trail than designed for human feet.  But I pushed up the sharper slope, following Rolof’s blue cloak.

Rolof brought me to a clearing, where the land flattened out just a bit for a few yards.  Stepping off the trail, he led me to a small circle of fist-sized stones about four feet across.  He stepped into the circle without preparation, then turned to face me.

“The thing is about the two jevolars, I’ve learned, is that in a few spots their respective fields seem to cancel each other out a bit.  The etheric density drops – not to normal levels, but enough for a few simple tricks,” he said, producing a small, dim magelight.

It was the first magic I’d seen in weeks.  I beamed.

“I have to use my witchstone to do it, but if I throw enough power into it, I can do some simple cantrips.”

“May I try?” I asked, eagerly.  He obligingly stepped out of the circle, and I went in.

Nearly trembling, I withdrew the Magolith from its pouch.  It pulsated feebly, but slightly brighter than it had since we came to Anghysbel.

“What in three hells is that thing?” Rolof asked, with sudden interest.

“A kind of portable molopor, or part of one, englobed in a sphere of irionite,” I explained.

“That’s impossible,” he said, frowning.

“So is snowstone, but I made that.  Things have changed in our profession since you came here.  We’ve advanced enchantment a hundred years or more, in the last five.  This is the most powerful artefact we’ve managed.”  I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind to connect with the Magolith.

There was . . . something.  A tiny stream of energy.  A whisper of arcane power.

My mind seized upon it like a man dying of thirst. Only, instead of the big quenching swallow I anticipated, I got a few tantalizing drops.

But it was enough.  It was like suddenly being able to move your arm after being in a cast for weeks.  That thin trickle of energy stirred the Magolith, I noted, and that suddenly improved the flow as the irionite as the snowflake crystal added their thaumaturgical augmentations.  It was still a trickle, but it was a more robust trickle.

I absorbed the power eagerly, but not without profound effort.  When I figured I had a sufficiency, I cast a simple spell, the first I’d done in weeks.  A magelight formed, twice as large and thrice as bright as Rolof’s.  I glanced up to see an impressive look on his face.

I let the sphere brighten and enlarge until the small bit of power I’d conjured was consumed.  I sighed, straightening.

“Thanks.  I needed that,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

“I’ve never been able to get that kind of effect, that quickly,” he admitted.  “That’s one powerful toy, you have there.”

“I wonder if it’s powerful enough to do a hoxter, or activate the Ways,” I asked myself, catching my breath.  I felt an exhaustion I’d rarely endured since I’d gotten my first witchstone.

“What’s a hoxter?” Rolof asked, intrigued.  “And you won’t be able to get into the Ways.  There isn’t any waypoint in Anghysbel,” he informed me.  “I have it on the highest authority.”

I chuckled.  “There have been a great number of advancements in our art, since you went into exile, my friend,” I assured him.  “Give me a moment.  I want to test a theory.”

I settled into a seated position in the center of the tiny circle, the Magolith on the ground in front of me.  In theory, it shouldn’t take much power to open a hoxter, and I had a few on me.  But this wasn’t merely a matter of power.  You had to have a certain level of thaumaturgical action to do it, and the jevolars reduced that appreciably along with the etheric density.

But this place was different.  If the ability to draw power was reduced to a trickle, even with irionite, this tiny crack in the jevolars’ field might give me enough potential room to approach that level.  Think of normal magic as wading across a room with ankle deep water.  Doing magic here – even the simplest sorts – was more like wading across a room in chest-high mud.

But I am persistent, and the one tiny taste of magic compelled me.  There were ways I could, theoretically, improve the situation with even a little bit of magic.  There were thaumaturgical spells designed to manipulate those forces, in small ways.  We used them sometimes in enchantment.  Simple ways to buttress our control of the energies we used.  Methods of compounding our efforts with clever exploitations of thaumaturgical laws.

I tried a few small spells, at first, the kind that require very little power.  If I’d been working with just a witchstone, I don’t think I could have done it.  But with the Magolith and a little creative thaumaturgy, the tiny crack in the field became fortified.  The etheric density became – temporarily – a little lighter.  The flow of power from the Magolith improved – still not to the level even an unaugmented mage could manage, back in the real world, but here?  It was as if I was creating a cocoon of possibility in the midst of a vast field of negativity.

I was pleased with myself, until I tried to activate a hoxter.  I wasn’t certain why, but my effort to open the device were inadequate . . . just.  Before I squandered any more of the precious resource, I attempted to open the Ways, using the Magolith’s own Waystone.  That, too, failed.

But here I was with all of this – miniscule – amount of power, and I hesitated to waste it.  The moment I stepped beyond the field, well, it would be gone.  With a sigh, I directed it at the knot coral on the Magolith.  Slowly, the green and gold sphere rose at my mental command.  It got nearly a foot in the air before the spell exhausted the power, and it thumped back to the ground.

“Very impressive!” beamed Rolof.  “I doubt I could raise single leaf that high!”

“I need to get Gareth and Taren up here,” I said, shaking my head.  “They would know how to classify this place.  Have you a name for it?”

He shrugged.  “It’s of so limited use that I hadn’t bothered.  I’m one of the only ones who ever uses it.  As I said, there are others, but this is the most powerful.”

“It’s fascinating,” I nodded, rising and retrieving the Magolith.  “With this, I can almost do real magic,” I said, hefting the sphere.  “Perhaps if I could get the conditions right, it would be of more use.”

“How would you do that?” he asked, curious.

I shrugged.  “A pile of snowstone?  The Magolith already influences local etheric density.  I’ve got some unusual crystals that might have an effect, as well.  I’ll know more when my thaumaturges take a look at it.  But if there was even one small place here that allowed magic,” I said, staring at the tiny circle, “that would be . . . noteworthy.”

“It’s good exercise, if nothing else,” he said, with a tilt of his head.  “The discipline it takes to even conjure a magelight is such that I’ve become better at disciplined magic than I ever was.”

“Like doing swordplay in full armor, with a couple of extra sandbags tied to your belt,” I agreed.  “I’m curious to know how you will perform when we return back to the real world.”

“That’s something I am anxious about,” agreed Rolof, leaning on his staff.  “But if you have defeated the Censorate, and are making devices like that, it might be interesting,” he said, nodding toward the Magolith.

“It’s powerful,” I agreed, stroking the smooth green surface between the gold bands.  “And unique.  I suppose that’s why Davachan wants me to meet his master.  Nothing like this has been created, before,” I said, proudly.

“Davachan took an interest in it, on behalf of the Yith?” Rolof asked sharply, suddenly troubled.

“Yes, he accosted me at the hall of the mountain king and made his request,” I informed him, as we headed back to his croft.  “He promised answers to my questions.”

Rolof was quiet and thoughtful for a few paces, but then could not contain himself.  “I urge you to consider such an offer carefully,” he said, his voice a murmur.

“You know of the creature?” I asked, probingly.

“Aye,” he croaked.  “I was made much the same bargain: a few seconds discussion, in exchange for the answering of my deepest questions.”

“Did Davachan not fulfill his bargain?” I asked, quietly.

“Oh, to the letter, and then far beyond my anticipation,” he said, as if speaking of the memory hurt him, somehow.  “My questions were answered.  But at a terrible cost.  I went mad.  Perhaps I still am, but two years ago I agreed to the Yith’s bargain, and my deepest questions about the cosmos were answered.  The thing is, Minalan, you may not want those answers,” he answered, seriously.  “Or if you do, you may not find the price bearable.”

“You think I should refuse?” I asked.  “With the fate of the world on the line?”

“I think you should consider the matter carefully,” he countered.  “Weigh the price before you make your bargain.  You cannot un-ring a bell, un-shoot an arrow or unknow a bit of lore, once you do it.  Trust me,” he said, stopping, turning, and putting a hand on my shoulder.  “There are things about this universe that you do not want to know.  But to make a bargain with the Yith is to inflict those hideous truths on your soul, and there is no returning from such an exchange.  You may gain the knowledge you seek . . . but only at the price of your sanity.  And that is a bargain any man should consider carefully before he makes it.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I promised, murmuring.  “Shall we join the others?  I think I smell dinner cooking.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rumors of a Dragon

The lake formed by the crater from the sky rock impact is particularly breathtaking.  But the true beauty there is hidden in the mind of a dragon and in the depths of the water.

From the Book of the Anghysbel Expedition

Recorded by Taren the Thaumaturge

By the time we stopped by Rolof’s croft and made our way down the slope, there were four medium-sized . . . somethings roasting over a small fire built a few dozen paces away from the body of the cyclops.  There were two of the little iron pots the Kasari used to cook simmering in the coals next to the roasts.  My people were standing around it as Travid turned the spit and added a few herbs to the rotating . . . somethings.  It didn’t smell like beef or mutton, goat, or fowl.  Indeed, it had more of a fishy aroma.  Not bad, but not what I was expecting.

“We were starting to wonder what happened to you two,” Lilastien called, as she sprawled on a nearby boulder, playing more humani music from her medical scanner.  She was sipping from her silver flask, while Fondaras, Ormar, and Tyndal were sitting in a triangle, passing a wineskin back and forth.

“We were waiting on the hard parts of dinner to be done,” I answered.  “We had tea and discussed world events.  It was nice,” I offered.

“Well, we’re having bugs for dinner,” Ormar grumbled.  “Or something like that.  Enjoy!” he said, sarcastically.

“They aren’t bugs,” chided Travid, as he turned the spit.  “I wouldn’t serve you bugs, without telling you.  Just because they have six legs doesn’t mean they are bugs.”

“They’re called fastereth,” supplied Lilastien.  “They’re rare, this side of the continent, but they’re tasty.  And safely mammalian.  Sort of,” she added, with a troubled expression.  I resolved never to ask a biologist about dinner.

“I added wild garlic, salt and some herbs,” Travid informed us.  “The left pot is beans and a bit of bacon, also with herbs.  The right are tubers, boiled and then roasted.”

“Where did you get salt?” Ormar asked, irritated for some reason.

“Kasari always carry salt,” snorted Travid, as he turned the spit.  “What’s wrong with carrying your own seasonings?  Bi Reid!” he added, in Kasari.

“The Kasari can get thrown in a desert and produce a three-course meal,” Fondaras said, as he took out his pipe.  “A special magic all their own.”

“I, for one, would welcome a meal I didn’t cook,” confessed Rolof.  “That’s not one of my talents.  At least, it wasn’t,” he muttered.

“We were just speculating on where we would go from here, now that we’ve found our long-lost High Mage,” Tyndal said, as he lifted the lid of one of the pots to stir the beans.

“I think we should find Ameras,” I decided.  “The Heir to the Aronin should have some of the answers we seek.”

“Agreed,” Rolof said, leaning on his staff.  “And she will, though they might not be the answers you desire.  My lady has retired to converse with the dragon,” he informed us.  “They have . . . similar personalities.”

“The daughter of the Aronin likes to destroy castles and eat knights like free sausages at the tavern?” asked Tyndal, appalled.

“That is not the only thing dragons do,” assured Rolof.  “Avius is a deep thinker.  Complex,” he suggested.

“Avius?” I asked.

“That’s the name of the dragon who lives on the island,” Rolof explained, patiently.  “Avius.  Ameras finds the conversation . . . stimulating.  More stimulating than mine, these days.  She’s been haunting the lake for months, now, conversing with the dragon.”

“Dragons speak?” Ormar asked, surprised.

“With their minds,” explained Rolof.  “That is their natural inclination.  Alas, the Magosphere retards that ability.  It was only after finding Anghysbel that Avius was able to converse.  Once Ameras and I taught the dragon speech.”

“That . . . is interesting,” Fondaras said, before anyone else could speak.  “One would think that they are mere brutes.  You say they have intelligence?”

“Oh, that is certain,” the hermit wizard confirmed.  “Avius is as bright as an Archmage.  Just ignorant, thanks to the abuse of the Enshadowed.  The dragons are compelled to destroy,” he said, shaking his head.  “Compelled by pain and sorrow, ignorance and resentment.  They are trained like dogs when they have the intelligence of an Alka Alon.  Or so Ameras informs me.”

“He sounds like a capital fellow,” Ormar said, sarcastically.

“She is quite nice, once you gain her trust,” corrected Rolof, sharply.  “Ameras and I spent a year doing so.  She has a much better understanding of the world, now.  Without Shereul’s foul influence, the dragons would not be the menace they’re seen as.  They didn’t choose this life, or these masters,” he pointed out, a bit irritated.  “Nor this world,” he added, sadly.

“I’m willing to speak to a dragon,” Lilastien volunteered.  “Especially if they are intelligent.  They are not from this world, originally, but stolen by my ancestors to wage war on each other.  I’d be interested in her – Avius? – in Avius’ perspective on the matter.”

“Great, now we’re talking to nice dragons,” grumbled Ormar.

“I spoke to Sire Koucey this year,” I reminded him.  “Life gets strange, sometimes.”

“We will head toward the lake and seek Ameras tomorrow,” Rolof pronounced.  “She has an encampment there, from which she rows out to the island.”

“How can we speak mind-to-mind with a dragon if there’s no magic?” demanded Ormar.

“Not all wonders in the universe are magical,” Rolof countered, sharply.  “Indeed, certain kinds of telepathy are obscured by magic.  They work better, in the realm of the jevolar.  It’s one of the attractions to this place, for some,” he said, gesturing to the land in general.  “This forgotten realm is the attic of Callidore.  There are all sorts of long-lost legends lurking in the underbrush.  Avius isn’t the only one who prefers it here.”

“I like it!” Tyndal assured him.  “The lack of magic forces a fellow to rely on his wits and his cunning, no better than any mundane man.”

“It’s a wonder you survived the week,” Taren said, dryly.

“My wits and cunning are just fine, without the challenge,” Ormar grumbled.  “I’ve felt naked since I came here.”

I suppressed an urge to tell him about the little crack in the jevolar’s domain, and how I’d greedily made a magelight.  I told myself it was to keep from tormenting the little alchemist, but I think in truth it was because I wanted to keep that knowledge all to myself.  Nor did I think Rolof wanted everyone to know about it.  He’d entrusted me with the information.  I didn’t want to abuse that trust.

Rolof was an intriguing character.  He seemed as self-possessed as Fondaras, but with a kind of aloofness that the footwizard lacked.  Fondaras was always as genuine and friendly as you could ask.  Rolof had a deep skepticism and suspicion about him that made him sharp, at times.  It could be a little disconcerting, but I’d dealt with more difficult personalities – Caswallon, Wenek, Sarakeem, Azar, even Astyral challenged me with their peculiarities.  I had grown used to ignoring the irritating parts of them and focusing on the positives.  I resolved to do the same with Rolof.

Dinner was excellent, and while we sat around and ate, Rolof began to fill us all in on some of the more curious aspects of Anghysbel he’d observed over the years.

The man had stories to tell.  He’d ranged most of the valley, in the few years he’d been here, poking his nose into caverns and caves, diving into the thickest forests and most desolate places, exploring the details of a land most could only visit a few weeks out of the year.  After a particularly long and entertaining story about the antics of the Kilnusk warriors on a stora hunt and what happened when the Tal Alon tried to join them, I began to get a sense of his perspective.

Some wizards travel the world and try to see it all.  Some wizards invest themselves so much in one small place that they see details a casual traveler – or even a fellow resident -- would never notice.  Rolof was the latter sort.  Obscurity suited him well.

The next morning, we rose before dawn and had a quick breakfast before Rolof led us back down the slope and then northwest, toward the dragon’s lake.

We could see it, from one prominent outcropping, a crescent of shining blue just above the trees in the distance.

“See how it’s nearly circular?” Rolof pointed out.  “And see the island, against the cliff?  That’s the heart of the western jevolar.  A great rock from the sky crashed through the ridge over there, and then came to rest at the northern wall.  On the other side of the ridge, you can see the other’s path.  The explosion was so ferocious that the dust blotted out the sun for nearly a decade.  I hesitate to think what would have happened had they landed at the same time, together.”

We stared at the seemingly tranquil lake in silence for a moment, as we all imagined the kind of shockwave such a large rock moving at speed would produce.  I doubt our imaginations did it justice.

We continued our journey as the path wound its way through the overgrowth, the trail just adequate for riding.  Travid and Rolof continued to point out plants and animals of particular interest.  We tried to take notes, of course, but that’s difficult on horseback.  But it wasn’t a long journey.  We found our way to one of Ameras’ encampments by midmorning.  She was not there.

It was an idyllic little glade growing around a massive boulder, with a tiny spring at its base.  Signs of authentic Alka Alon presence were everywhere, from the tiny stool and kitchen tools to the artful arrangement of edible plants that the Scion of the Aronin had cultivated nearby.  A large evergreen – a rhododendron species – was blooming huge, fragrant flowers overhead, as we investigated the camp.  It was an intoxicating aroma.

“The lady of the house – tree – doesn’t seem to be in,” Tyndal noted, as he looked around.

“This is her main camp,” Rolof explained.  “She’s been gone from here for two days,” he added, as he inspected her small fire pit.  “That means she’s at the lakeside camp,” he reasoned.  “It’s not far.”

“And if she isn’t there?” demanded Ormar.

“Then she’s on the island with Avius,” he supplied.  “It’s not far, either.”

“Certain death chatting with a dragon isn’t far,” Ormar nodded.  “Somehow, I don’t find that reassuring.”

“It isn’t meant to be reassuring,” Rolof said, shrugging as he prepared to leave.  “She can kill you with a casual thought.  But death isn’t certain.  It really relies on your behavior.  And self-restraint.  Avius isn’t a beast,” the wizard admonished.  “She’s been abused by those who would use her power for their own ends.  You fought in Farise; surely you can understand that.”

Ormar paused and looked thoughtful.  “All right, when you put it like that . . .”

“There really isn’t much difference,” Rolof continued, as he marched out of the encampment.  “Both of you were mere assets to be used against a foe that other people decided needed to be fought.”

“The glaring difference being the fact that she outweighs me by a couple of tons, breathes fire, and can open up a castle like a crock of fermented cabbage,” the alchemist pointed out.

“Some assets are worth more than others,” Rolof said, serenely, as he headed back down the trail.  “Try not to be insecure about it.  There’s always someone bigger and stronger than you in the cosmos.  Whine about it, and she might take exception,” he warned.

“Oh, this is going to be lovely,” Ormar sighed to himself.

“Why is Ameras so drawn to this dragon?” I asked, cautiously.

“The same reason she’s drawn to me,” sniffed Rolof.  “She’s lonely, and she seeks intelligent company.  With the dragon, she comes close to that.”

“My people don’t fare well with solitude, apart from certain circumstances,” agreed Lilastien, in a murmur.  “In a place without magic, without that connection we usually feel, it can be maddening.”

“Which is why you drink your nut juice,” I pointed out, following Rolof out of the clearing.

“Every day,” she nodded.  “It helps, a little, even in the realm of the jevolar.  There’s no telling how long Ameras has been without it.  Gossiping with dragons may be the least of her eccentricities, by now,” she warned.

“She’s shagging Rolof,” Tyndal pointed out, from behind me.  “That’s proof she’s a couple of shafts shy of a quiver.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked, intrigued.

Tyndal shrugged.  “Look at him.  No one is that loyal and that willing to make excuses for a maiden he’s not shagging.  Not if he’s sane,” he added.

I stopped myself from commenting.  There wasn’t much I took away from my conversation with Rolof in his croft that convinced me of his sanity.  Scrumping a half-crazed Alka Alon maiden in the hinterlands would be almost reasonable, in his circumstance.

“It wouldn’t be the first time one of my people indulged in some clandestine cross-species . . . comfort,” Lilastien suggested.  “Some of us can grow quite fond of select members of your species.  It’s like having a dog, sort of.  Don’t hold it against her.”

“I was going to hold it against him,” Tyndal replied.  “I remember her.  She can’t be more than four feet tall.  How does that kind of thing work?” he demanded.  He seemed to be earnest in his inquiry.

“You get bored enough, you find a way,” shrugged Lilastien.  “How are things going with Lady Tandine?” she asked, cagily changing the subject.  “I saw how cozy you were getting, back at the Cave of the Ancients.”

Tyndal blushed, something I wasn’t sure he was capable of.  “I . . . we’re . . . it’s complex,” he admitted, with a sigh.  “I confess, I admire the lady.  She’s quite comely, and not a little intelligent.”

“She fights well enough,” Ormar offered.

“Yes, she does,” Tyndal agreed with a sigh.  “Like a Wilderlord.  Her spirit is . . . is . . . admirable,” he said, struggling with the word.  Or, perhaps, the feeling behind the word.  “I’ve never met her like.”

“But there is a problem,” Lilastien offered.  “Otherwise, you’d be discussing her hips and her breasts and —”

“I said she was comely,” Tyndal said, defensively.  “I’ve known many comely girls.  But she’s . . . she’s different.”

“Oh, shit!” I said, involuntarily, realizing what was occurring.  Tyndal looked at me sharply.

“Oh, that’s not a good sign,” Fondaras called, from behind us.  “When a lad describes a girl as different, he’s already made up his mind, in my experience.”

“What of it?” Tyndal asked, uncomfortably.  “But she’s my vassal,” he complained.  “My interest smacks of exploiting that relationship.”

“What of it?” Fondaras asked, amused.  “Half of the Wilderlords end up marrying into the families of either their vassals or their lieges.  The heart knows no rank,” he said, quoting from Ishi’s liturgy.

“I know,” sighed Tyndal, tiredly.  “So does she.  But she doesn’t think I’m serious.  She thinks I’m looking for a pleasant tumble, not . . . not something more substantial.  She sees it as no more than a summer romance and is reluctant to reveal her heart.”

“Perhaps because you haven’t revealed your own?” I suggested, casually.  “A maid is unlikely to risk her heart unless she knows with some certainty the outcome.  You make a practice of being playfully aloof,” I pointed out.  “Expecting you to depart some poor maiden’s chamber before dawn isn’t an unreasonable assumption.  Indeed, I believe it has happened before, in your experience,” I said, pointedly, as we strode down the path after Rolof.

“Well, certainly, I’ve had a busy life,” Tyndal said, shaking his shaggy head.  “It’s been difficult to consider tying myself down to one girl.  But she’s . . . she’s different.  Only she thinks that I’m going to leave, and leave her behind, and it’s frustrating!”

“No doubt,” I agreed.  “I would be frustrated, too . . . if I were her,” I observed.  “What’s a girl to do, when she loves a fickle man with power over her patrimony?”

“I’m not like that!” Tyndal protested.  “Not with her, at any rate.  How can I convince her that I’m not going to leave her, if she pledges me her heart?”

“I don’t think it’s your heart that you’re interested in,” Lilastien said, dryly.  “I’m not judging – I’ve made plenty of important decisions based on what my hormones have demanded of me.  But I tend to be honest about it, and not clothe it in noble bullshit.”

“It’s not noble bullshit!” Tyndal shot back, hotly.  “I really like her!  I just don’t know how to tell her that.  How to tell her how I feel about her.”

“She’s right to be skeptical,” Fondaras agreed.  “Your reputation for commitment to a lass is suspect.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think the news had made it all the way up here!” protested my former apprentice.  “I’ve grown quite fond of her.  She . . . she makes me laugh.  She makes me aroused.  She makes me think.  But every time I try to tell her that, she makes some joke about me leaving her for the next bint with an enticing set of twins under her surcoat.  I’ve considered poetry and song – aren’t the minstrels supposed to have the perfect answers to this?”

“I’m certain Jannik could come up with something under the circumstances,” I offered.

“But he’s not here, is he?” demanded Tyndal crossly.  “I’ve considered his songs – the ones I know – but they are shockingly spare on the subject.”

“You’re trying to convince her you won’t leave her?” asked Lilastien, as she sipped from her silver flask.  “Your ancestors knew how to do that.  Indeed, they had plenty of songs and poems where a lad pleads his case to a lass.”

“And yet Perwyn sank,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.

“But they kept reproducing,” Lilastien argued.  “Like rabbits.  Going from a population of two hundred thousand to one of over thirty million in just a few scant centuries?” she scoffed.  “Believe me, your ancestors knew the secrets to breeding.  Even the subtle bits,” she declared.  “Indeed, sex might be humanity’s strongest magic.”

“Well, what would one of my vaunted ancestors say to her, in my situation?” demanded Tyndal.

“You almost sound as if you’re serious about this,” I observed.

“Of course I am serious!” Tyndal nearly snarled.  “I like the girl.  She likes me, I think.  She just thinks that I’m insincere.”

Lilastien regarded Tyndal thoughtfully.  “You’re serious about this?” she asked, skeptically.

“I want her to have babies with me,” my former apprentice assured her, reluctantly and embarrassed.  “It sounds crazy, but . . . “

“It might be the sanest thing you’ve ever said,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood acknowledged.  “You’re serious about this girl?” she prompted again.  “I don’t want to give you the answers unless you’re certain.”

“She makes me laugh,” Tyndal said, his shoulders sagging.  “What more can I ask for?”

“Indeed,” Lilastien nodded sagely.  “Then listen to the ancient wisdom,” she smirked.  “From one of your people’s greatest poets.  Tell her . . . tell her that you’re no stranger to love, and that you know the rules.  So does she, theoretically.  Let her know that she won’t hear this from some other suitor.”

“This wisdom of the ancients?  I’m listening,” Tyndal nodded enthusiastically.

“Tell her that you’re committed to her,” Lilastien urged.  “Tell her you’re never going to give her up,” she suggested.  “Tell her you’re never going to let her down.  Tell her you’re never going to run around and desert her.  Tell her you’re never going to make her cry, that you’ll never say goodbye, never tell her a lie and hurt her,” she declared.

“That’s . . . that’s surprisingly helpful,” Tyndal admitted.  “She might believe that.”

“Mayhap,” conceded Fondaras.  “I’ve heard worse advice in matters of the heart.  No maiden wants to love a man whose eyes might be drawn elsewhere.”

“It’s not really his eyes I think she’s concerned with,” Lilastien shrugged.  “But if he pledges his troth thusly, I’m hopeful that he will get the response that he desires.  If he is sincere.”

“I am nothing if not sincere,” boasted Tyndal.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Fondaras agreed.  I could only guess at what he had left unspoken.

“Tyndal?” I asked.  “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more certain,” he agreed, resolutely.  “I think.  Those words are the sort that resonate across the ages.  She has to believe them!”

“No, she doesn’t,” sighed Lilastien, in a quieter tone.  “But she might.  Many have.  Your women are willing to believe just about anything, if properly delivered.  Perhaps not to their credit or their benefit, but they do.”

“I’m just shocked that he’s considering any girl a permanent match,” I confided in her.  “And to an un-Talented Wilderlord girl, at that.  He built a temple to Ishi in Callierd, just to improve his courting opportunities.  Yet he falls for the Wilderlord girl.”

“I’m just shocked that I may have just released a curse on the world that was thought safely buried for six centuries,” Lilastien frowned.

“Those words have that much effect?” I asked, surprised.

“Minalan, you have no idea,” she assured. “I can’t believe I just did that.  I feel so ashamed.”

The path seemed to go on for quite some time until, suddenly, we passed yet one more stand of trees . . . and we were suddenly standing on the shores of a lake.

It was a beautiful lake.  It lacked the steaming mists of the Hot Lake, or the well-cultivated shores and beautiful black beaches of Baelor Lake, but its water was the deepest blue of the three.  The shore around it was lush with growth and dotted with beaches.  And in the distance, against the horizon of the valley wall, stood an island comprised of a giant slab of rock, surmounted by a patch of forest on its summit.  There were other patches wherever soil had been able to gather.  It rose at least five hundred feet above the lake’s surface and cast a beautiful reflection into the waters below.

“Dragon Island,” Rolof pronounced.  “Also known as the Western Jevolar to the magi, or Kalmicathal to the Alka Alon, and Ingus Burir by the Kilnusk Alon, and cashishesscala to the Lizard Men.  They’ve built a little shrine on the beach closest to their territory, devoted to Avius.  They think she’s a god.  She finds that amusing,” he added with a chuckle.  “But out of respect she’s decided not to eat them.”

“Any way we could arrange a deal like that?” Ormar asked, frowning.  “I’m not usually religious, but . . .”

“Avius would not attack any of our settlements if she wasn’t provoked,” Rolof assured.  “Besides, she would have to eat the lot of us just for one meal.  Usually one stora is enough for her.  And she only feeds ever ten days or so,” he informed us.

“But the reptoids consider her a god?” Lilastien asked, intrigued.

“Since she came here, yes,” Rolof agreed, leading us along the lakeshore, northeast.  “She’ll even communicate with them, sometimes.  But she says they’re stupid.  She prefers our conversation to our flesh.”

“How does she feel about the gurvani?” Tyndal asked, curious.  “because there are a couple of score of them wandering around Anghysbel right now.”

Rolof stopped.  “She loathes them.  They put her in chains and helped coerce her into battle.  She felt the same way about the Alka Alon, too, until she met Ameras.  She explained the difference between the Enshadowed and the other Alka Alon to her.  Avius was quite understanding once she knew about it.  There are apparently bad dragons, too,” he added, and then continued walking.  “It’s not far, now.  I smell a cookfire.  I think Ameras is at home.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Lost Scion of the Aronin

I recall beautiful Ameras from our one brief meeting in Boval Vale, so very long ago.  As a boy I had never seen a woman so gorgeous and serene.  The lady I met today seems nothing like her, alas.  She has fallen in her estate and the jevolar has taken its toll.  She resembles more the ‘crazy pixie girl’ my good friend Lord Kanset described meeting a few years ago than the tranquil forest princess I once met.  It saddens me to see her so.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Tyndal of Callierd

The lake encampment was even more primitive than the first camp we encountered, but it made up for that in the beautiful scenery.  It was set between two massive rocks that – I assumed – had been blasted away from the jevolar during that ancient impact and had come to rest just above the waterline.  Or the waterline eventually decided to position itself below the rocks – I was a bit unclear on the details.  They were both tilted at an angle to each other, and the space betwixt them was wide enough to permit a small camp.

It was rather basic, merely a lean-to shelter, a cookfire with a few pots and baskets of supplies, and a privy.  It certainly lent credence to the (altogether untrue) notion amongst humanity that the Alka Alon could persist on air, water, and thinking good thoughts.  Most peasants would consider it a demonstration of abject poverty.

But I recognized it for what it was: a camp, not a home.  The Alka Alon consider places that they inhabit for a few centuries as “temporary,” so passing judgement on Ameras’ lodging didn’t seem appropriate.  Especially since the lady was present.

Indeed, I spotted a diminutive figure squatting next to the fire, bringing it to life with gentle blowing as we rounded a bend in the lakeshore.  She peered at us curiously, with a hint of alarm, until she spotted a familiar face.  As soon as she saw Rolof, she beamed.  Then she came running to greet us.

I’d forgotten how striking she was, even for an Alka Alon.  When I’d first met her in the tree-city of Amadia, she had enchanted me with her exotic beauty.  I’d encountered a lot more Alka Alon since then, and almost all of them were impressive.  But Ameras maintained a unique bearing that made her distinctive amongst her attractive kinfolk.  She portrayed equal portions of femininity and innocence in a way that not even Lady Varen – the most aloof and enigmatic of the three Emissaries – could manage.

But behind that beauty, I recalled, was a sense of wisdom and understanding that only Lilastien had matched, in my experience.  Sure, you can portray that sort of thing just by being reserved and aloof, but that falls apart under scrutiny.  There were plenty of goofy Alka Alon in Vanador masquerading as sages just by being quiet and smirking a lot.  Three minutes speaking to Ameras, however, and you recognized what wisdom was.

Or I could have just been under a powerful glamour designed to make me think that, back in Boval Vale.  My chat with the Aronin, before he died, certainly suggested that.  Apparently the mystical Alka Alon are just as much willing to cheat as the human magi.

Still, there was something genuine and authentic with the way Ameras greeted Rolof.  Their embrace, while a bit awkward due to differences in height, was unmistakably sincere.  As was her clear delight in his unexpected presence in her camp.  Whatever else was accurate about the relationship betwixt wizard and elf, there was clear affection between them.  I found that intriguing for a variety of reasons.

“I present Ameras, of the Avalanti Kindred,” Rolof said, when they broke their embrace.  “Visitors, seeking your counsel.”

I was concerned by how the Scion of the Aronin appeared.  I have more experience around the Alka Alon than most, of course, and I’d become somewhat familiar with their subtleties.  To my eye, Ameras looked like some kind of depraved pixie, too long sundered from those forces that would steady her resolve and contribute to her health.  There was desperation in her eyes, deep longing, and a sense of despair.  Her hair was a mess.  Her thoughts were fleeting and troubled.  She attempted to conceal it behind a layer of unpracticed formality, but she lacked the Alka Alon’s usual subtlety, I noted.

Ameras’ pretty eyes darted around haphazardly, and she quivered and jerked in her movements – a far cry from the typical physical grace her people displayed.  She was agitated and hopelessly trying to suppress that agitation, if I was to judge.

But she was trying.  As surprised as she was by our unexpected appearance, the poor thing was trying.

“A few, at least, I know,” the Alkan said, as she turned to regard us.  The suspicion in her wildly darting eyes was replaced by recognition.  “Elre!” she said, at once as soon as she spotted Lilastien.  “You are free?”

“On parole for a mere decade,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood nodded, sourly.  “Just to fight the Abomination.  And worse: Korbal the Necromancer has been released from his tomb, along with more than two score Nemovorti.  And I bear a request from the Council,” she added.

The news shocked Ameras, clearly.  Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth gaped.

“Korbal?  And the Abomination?” she asked, shaking her tiny head.

“An unfortunate and lamentable circumstance,” I agreed.  “My lady, we met once on the eve of your flight from Amadia.  I am Minalan—

“The spellmonger,” she nodded, recalling our brief encounter.  “That wizard.  Zagor’s friend.  And your apprentice, too – I do remember,” she agreed, as she recognized Tyndal.  “In truth, I did not expect you to survive.”

“In truth, neither did we,” I confessed with a shrug.  “Many did not.  Yet, thanks to your sire, we were able to escape the Abomination at the last moment.  Alas, he was taken by Sheruel and then imprisoned by Korbal.  Betwixt the two of them they conspired to strike at fair Anthatiel and conquered it.  Then your father was taken there and held in the dungeons of the ruined land.  It is called Olum Seheri, now,” I added, sadly.  I paused.  “Much has happened since you fled Amadia.”

She seemed genuinely shaken by the news – her long ears drooped, and her chin quivered as she heard it.  “This is dire news, wizard,” she said, simply, as her eyes dropped.

“I was with the Aronin in his final moments,” I continued, cautiously.  “He had words for you, should I find you to relay them.  Now is not the time, but I wish to speak of his wishes.”

“Of course,” Ameras nodded.  “His thought was always toward those he held dear.  What a strange turn of events,” she added.

“My lady?” Tyndal interrupted, suddenly.  “You recall me?”

“I do, my boy,” she assured.  “You were a lad of eager enthusiasm, as scared by me and my kin as you were the gurvani.  You have matured, in the manner of your folk.”

“My comrades are Taren, Ormar, and Fondaras,” as I indicated each.  “Fellow wizards sworn to my service.  And this is Travid, of the Kasari.  Our guide.”

“Come enjoy what little hospitality I have to offer,” she said, indicating her camp.  “It will be good to speak to others, for a change.  I have been here long with naught for company but Avius and dear Rolof.  It has been a lonely time.”

“Then may I offer a draft of herkulinen?” Lilastien offered.

“You have some?” Ameras asked, surprised.  “I exhausted my supply years ago!”

“I anticipated the need, my lady,” Lilastien assured, pulling her silver flask from her pack.  “I know all too well the burdens of solitude.”

Herkulinen was, I knew, the special spirit the Alka Alon required to preserve their long, long lives.  It’s made from a special nut and is often present in small quantities in their food.  It augments the entrainment effect we’d observed in the Alka Alon, facilitating the gestalt that helped make them so powerful.

When mortals consume it, I’d discovered, it can produce a kind of madness of its own, over time, though the immediate blissful feeling it commanded in them and (amongst the magi) the increase in their command of their powers made such notions laughable.

If deprived of it, it can cause a kind of low-level madness in them.  To the Alka Alon, social interaction is a vital element of their lives.  Herkulinen eases that madness and provides the reagent their bodies and minds needed to indulge in the gestalt.  I’d witnessed myself the results of herkulinen deprivation in the Aronin.  Korbal knew what seclusion and lack of their special nut juice would do to an Alkan.  It created an exquisite torture that punished his enemies in a particularly insidious way.  He’d looked a lot like his daughter appeared, come to think of it.

With a hint of ceremony, Lilastien presented the flask to her, and Ameras bowed gratefully.  She took three grand sips from the flask before she replaced the cap and returned it to Lilastien.

In moments, there was a visible change in her.  Ameras became more focused, more relaxed, and less desperate than she appeared when we first arrived.  Not a lot – she was still jumpy and awkward in her movements and speech.  But she seemed a little calmer and less threatened by our presence.

“Thank you, Lilastien,” she said, her voice a near whisper.

“Ithalia came with us, as well,” Lilastien said, carefully.  I realized that she was using her “physician voice” with her – an entirely unmagical ability that she used when treating someone.  “You recall my granddaughter?”

“I do!” Ameras said, enthusiastically.  “She was always so much fun – spying on the humani lads, tricking the Hulka Alon in their lairs. Wild adventures, we had in our youth.  She’s here?  That is marvelous!”  She led us back to the encampment between the boulders, where she built up the fire while we spoke.  “And then all the tragedy happened,” she sighed, as she stirred the coals with a stick.

“We do have much to speak of,” I reminded her.  “News from the last few years.  Indeed, we have been seeking you since the fall of Amadia—”

“Oh, Amadia never fell,” she assured us.  “It lies dormant and sleeping, evacuated of my folk, but it never fell to the Abomination.  It would have taken the molopor, itself, to assail the songspells that protect it.  My sire and his sires before him strengthened it beyond reckoning.  When I left, the last of us to go, I set the wards and consigned the place to stasis.”

“That is good news,” Lilastien agreed.  “If they are, indeed, that strong.  The enemy is resorting to dark sorcery and darker alliances,” she reported, as she squatted in the brush, her plasma rifle slung over her shoulder.  “That’s one reason the Council enlisted me and Ithalia to find you.”

“Why does the Council need me?” Ameras asked, guardedly.  Rolof took over the housekeeping duties, casting occasional glances at his friend as he rummaged around in her supplies and removed an Alkan style clay pot that wasn’t particularly big – but then, neither was she.  I was gratified that Fondaras and Travid both took out the Kasari iron pots they carried and began pitching in.

“Because there are dark tides rising, Ameras,” Lilastien said, thoughtfully.  “And the world is at risk.  The Vundel are restless,” she said, which was news to me.  “The Council is at odds, after Anthatiel fell.  Lord Aeratas died and then rose again under Olum Seheri, where he protects the legacy there.  The Nemovorti have risen, and Korbal is leading them to our destruction.  The Enshadowed go forth boldly to lead their legions of gurvani and do the bidding of the Nemovorti.  The distant realms aren’t interested in our problems, since our most recent transgressions, and now the humani are the only ones who stand and fight against the twilight with any regularity.  And they, only reluctantly.”

“We’re trying,” I protested.  “But the lack of candor by the Alka Alon Council has made things . . . difficult,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“When haven’t they?” Lilastien snorted.  “But they are becoming desperate.  They have sent me to ask you to grant them access to Kova Salainen.  Things are dire enough that they wish to open the vault.”  Her words were simple, but they produced a dread silence, and a look of horror on Ameras’ face.

“I . . . I cannot,” she said, shaking her head, firmly, but frantically.

“My lady, the situation is bad, and the outlook is poor,” Fondaras said, gently.  “I only understand a tithe of what Count Minalan and Lady Lilastien do, but from discussing it with them, I know that great destruction and torment will happen sooner or later, without strong action.  I know not what secrets lie within this vault, but if there was ever a time for them to be released and revealed, it is now.”

“You must understand, Fondaras,” Rolof said, after clearing his throat, “Ameras is from a long line of Aronin.  Guardians.  A family of deep commitment to their ideal.  They are the conscience of their people over the most dangerous of secrets.  They were established because their dedication to that conscience is absolute.  Their judgement in such matters is informed by the strictest ethical and moral considerations.  They were established to be beyond the authority of the Council, itself.  They cannot be ordered, only persuaded.  They are accountable to nothing but their own conscience.  They will not betray it, if they think the request unworthy and unethical.  She would rather die than do otherwise.”

“Some things are just too awful to see the light of day,” Taren agreed, thoughtfully.  “Some secrets should stay secret.”

“You are essentially correct, young man,” Lilastien nodded.  “But they are guardians of our most powerful secrets.  They are not implacable.  It has been known for ten thousand years that the secrets they guard would be of need, someday.  The Aronin were established to keep our baser instincts from abusing the great power we have accumulated.”

“Like the molopor,” Tyndal offered.

“Aye, like the molopor . . . the molopor my line lost control over,” Ameras said, sadly, looking over the lake.  “Three great treasuries were given to my line.  One has fallen, despite our best efforts.  And is now in the hands of an insane foe.  When my father and his fellowship departed to defend it, I was hopeful.  He has guarded it since my grandsire gave him the charge on his deathbed.  For millennia, we have kept it secure against the Enshadowed and all others who might misuse its properties . . . until now,” she said, mournfully.

“Aw, don’t worry, Ameras,” Tyndal shrugged, with bravado.  “It’s a temporary circumstance.  With your help we can knock Korbal back to his crypt and turn Sheruel into the centerpiece of a truly fine chandelier . . .”

Despite her obvious despair, Ameras giggled.  I caught a brief glance of gratitude from Rolof.  Interesting.

“Without the weapons in that vault, that’s going to be difficult,” Taren assured.  “We’re good wizards, my lady – Minalan is the best of us – but we are barely holding our positions against the enemy, in the Magelaw.  If it wasn’t for humani cunning and the stupidity of our foe, we would have been overrun, already.  The Alka Alon Council has helped sustain us, it is true, but they woefully underestimated the complexity and subtlety of our foes and suffered for it.”

“You do not have to convince me of the vile nature of the Enshadowed,” Ameras said, with a shudder.  “We have striven against their dark ideology since before we came to this world.  They have continuously assaulted us, tried to trick us, to know our secrets and take them for their own foul purpose.  I know my duty to my line.  While others demurred and proclaimed their ideology was dead on this world, still we kept watch.  We knew the danger.  Those who have no greater creed than power should always be stood against.”

“Then, I do not understand your recalcitrance, my lady,” I sighed.  It was time to be convincing.  “I am young, compared to the least of your kin.  Yet even I understand that the Enshadowed have made a play against the Council that hasn’t been seen since Korbal and his minions were entombed.

“Our foes make cause with the darkest of the enemies of this world: the Formless and their vassals.  Their goal is no less than domination of the world in its last throes.  How can that not be sufficient cause to open the vault you have been given care of?  I appreciate a good ethical argument as much as the next wizard, but if there is a more appropriate situation to consider the merits of you charge, I have not the wit to recognize it.”

“It is more complicated than that, Master Wizard,” Ameras said, a little sarcastically, under the circumstances.  “Have you wit to understand what manner of arsenal lies within the vault?  Our former homeworld was wracked near to ruin, thanks to their power.  Our new home was imperiled from the moment of our arrival thanks to the weakness of my folk.  The Council is asking me to release terrors on the world that we have invested mightily to bury.  Whatever foe we face, the tools we use to contend against them must not be more vile than what that enemy promises.  Of that, I am certain,” she declared, resolutely.

“The world flies toward ruin, and you take issue with we who fight against those who would cheer on its demise?” I asked, skeptically.  Sure, it was a potent and somewhat insulting question.

“Would you see worse suffering due to the ruin my folk have carefully stowed away?  I know little of your folk, from our rustic enclaves, but it is well known that they eschewed great destructive power to cheat those who would have attempted no less than what the Enshadowed desire.  Would you foreswear their sacrifice because of this situation?”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Minalan, the reason the New Horizon was sent away was because it was commanded by those who planned to . . . to . . . to eradicate magic on Callidore,” Lilastien revealed, reluctantly.

That was news to me.  “My people?  How did we have the capability of . . .”  I trailed off.  “We’re farmers and mariners, not . . . not . . .”

“And yet you managed to cross the Void without magic,” she reminded me.  “It was a radical faction, akin to the Enshadowed amongst my people.  They had some sort of plan to do so.  I don’t know how – it was covered up before the details came out.  It was not a popular opinion.  They figured that the planet would survive the plan, but that the Vundel and many of the Alon would be exterminated, leaving humanity in charge of Callidore.  It was foolish.  But they considered it an option.  There was a crisis.  And the New Horizon was exiled as a consequence.”

“How could they possibly have planned to take magic away?” Fondaras asked, confused.

“I don’t know,” Lilastien sighed.  “I had already left Perwyn at the time, and things happened very quickly.  A plot was discovered.  It was a very small faction,” Lilastien repeated.  “Not well-respected.  It was not a popular opinion.  But there were those humani who thought that the world would be better if the Sea Folk were extinct, the Alka Alon driven off, and the other Alon subjected to humani oversight.  They had a means of enacting that dark policy.  Thankfully, it was challenged, and the New Horizon was sent into the abyss.”

“Why would my people try to kill magic?” I asked, aghast.  “Especially knowing what the consequences were?”

“Because colonial doctrine allowed for such measures,” Lilastien insisted.  “If it was a choice between the rest of Callidore and the humani colony, they were instructed to preserve your people at all costs.  Even genocide.  Things were nowhere near that bad, of course, but every race has its psychotic hotheads.  Yours just seem to find their way into the military.

“But Ameras is correct: Humanity gave up the great advantage the New Horizon gave you in order to preserve all life on Callidore.  It was a sacrifice, and one that cost your race dearly over the next six hundred years, but you paid it.  And that preserved your colony, for had you even attempted to do it, the Vundel would have expelled you all.  Or slain you out of hand.  It was that serious of a threat.”

“Both of our races placed our most dangerous weapons out of easy reach,” Ameras agreed, “for the sake of the entire world.  That was commendable wisdom.  As dire as things might look right now, that is not necessarily enough justification to open the vault.  Or bring back your great ship,” she added.  “That, too, is wisdom.”

“If not now, my lady, when?” asked Tyndal, with a snort.  “Half a million humani have died since the invasion.  Thousands of Alka Alon.  Tens of thousands of Tal Alon.  Hundreds of thousands of gurvani,” he argued.  “All because the Enshadowed lust for power.  They have proven they have no compunctions about the allies that they will seek in that quest.  We are willing to stand against them if you do not.  But if we are to have a chance to prevail, we need your assistance!”

Tyndal spoke passionately, and with the perspective of a man who has seen his home ravaged, ruined, and occupied.  I forget, sometimes, that my jovial former apprentice was a native to Boval Vale.  I’d been there six months, when Sheruel’s hordes came pouring into the valley.  He’d lived there his entire life.

“I’ve not been on the front lines, much,” Ormar chimed in, “but while I appreciate the staunch defense our magi have made, from any objective perspective we are getting our asses kicked around the village commons,” he affirmed.  “Things would be worse without us.  But they aren’t that great with our best efforts,” he reported.

“The terrors of the gurvani have been awful, my lady,” Travid agreed, quietly.  “My people have fought them on our frontiers since the invasion.  I’ve faced them, myself,” he admitted, troubled.  “The suffering of the Wilderfolk and the Avalanti is appalling.  The Enshadowed take especial delight in contriving cruel trials to torture their captives while alive, terrorize them to the point of madness, and then feed on their energies in sacrifice.  I appreciate a firm adherence to an ethical principal, my lady – every good Kasari follows their Oath.  But ethics applies first to a civil society.  The enemy has no pretense to that.”

“As dire as the suffering has been,” Fondaras said, slowly, as he lit his pipe, “the more serious concern is the future.  Korbal and the Enshadowed have tried every stratagem to undermine the Alka Alon Council and subvert the human domains.  It is clear that they will not be content ruling a strip in the shadow of the Mindens.  They desire to conquer the entire realm.  Are we to allow that?” he asked, pointedly.

“They will not stop at mere conquest,” murmured Taren, shaking his head.  “The Enshadowed seek allies who could challenge the Vundel.  They aim higher than mere rule over the dry lands.  They want the entire world.”

“What allies?” asked Ameras, sharply.

“Vassals of the Formless, my lady,” Lilastien explained, gently.  “The Enshadowed are clearly communicating with those who would consume this world before it is destroyed.  If they have their way, they will free their ancient masters from their prisons in the Deeps.  They have been imprisoned for over half a million years.  I cannot imagine that they would be charitable upon their release.”

Ameras looked increasingly stricken as the news got worse and worse.  I watched the face of a near child crumble, as the weight of the world literally weighed on her.  As much as I wanted her to do our bidding, I felt sorrowful that we were putting the young pretty maid in such a difficult position.

But there was something more to her expression, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“My . . . my friends,” she sighed, with a shudder.  Her ears went flat against her head.  “I don’t think you understand the complex considerations an Aronin must take before relinquishing something in our charge.  The powers that we protect are potent,” she explained, pleadingly.  “They can prove daunting.  The office of Aronin was established long before the Alon came to Callidore.  Its purpose is to spare the Alon from making rash decisions about using that power that oft led to unspeakable tragedy. Decisions that challenge our ethics.  We exist to provide a counterpoint to the argument of noble intentions.

“Without the Aronin,” Rolof added, as he poured tea into each of our glasses, “the great powers of this world would go untended and undefended.  They serve not just the molopor and the vaults, but scores of such potent situations across our world.  Without them, much would be in chaos, and tyrants would contend to rule the lands.”

“That looks pretty likely, anyway,” Tyndal shot back.  “Without more help, we’re going to lose this war.  And if we lose this war, the rest of the Alka Alon citadels will eventually fall.  And then what?  What happens when you do need to escape through the molopor in three millennia?  It will be in enemy hands.  What price will the Enshadowed charge to permit its use?  Does your philosophy permit the extinction of your own race, out of ethical concerns?” he asked, sharply.  “If so, it is a poorly planned doctrine.  The universe is a harsh place, my lady.  If we are not prepared to answer that harshness with resolve, then perhaps we do not deserve to live,” he finished, darkly.

“Despite those considerations, when it comes to the vault, I cannot,” Ameras said, shaking visibly.

“Ishi’s tits, what would it take to convince you?” asked Ormar, angrily.  “There are literal pyramids of human skulls – aye, and Alka Alon skulls! – heaped at Korbal’s gate!   How many will it take to purchase your cooperation?”

“Keep your tongue, civil, wizard!” Rolof commanded, gruffly.  Ormar is a scrappy fellow, to be certain, but there was a quiet menace in Rolof’s voice that was hard to challenge.  “My lady is doing the best that she can, to hear your entreaties.  Disrespect is not apt to turn her opinion!”

Thankfully, Ormar understood the importance of this meeting and did not press his challenge.  Instead, Lilastien spoke, de-escalating the situation with calm, reasonable tones.

“Though crudely put,” she began, evenly, “Lord Ormar has a valid perspective: at what point would you permit the vault to open, Ameras?” she asked.  “There must be some criteria involved.  It was not designed to dispose of those artefacts; merely store them against future need.  I can assure you that the Council will ask the same question.”

“And they will get the same answer!” Ameras said, defiantly, her ears sticking straight out behind her, her mane flowing in the lakeshore breeze.  “I cannot open the vault on the Council’s whim!  Korbal and Sheruel and a thousand Enshadowed are not sufficient reason to unseal that which I have been charged with!  Do you have any idea what lies in that vault?” she demanded.

“No, and that’s why we’re here,” snorted Ormar.  I motioned to him to be quiet.  The situation was tense enough, without him sowing resentment.

“You have heard that the ancient weapons from the Warring States period are in that arsenal?  True,” she admitted.  “But there are more powerful forces than that in the vault.  Not mere weapons, but artefacts using dark energies from our homeworld.  Insidious powers we’d all but left behind when we came to Callidore.  Tools and weapons responsible for carnage you cannot even consider, it is so horrific.  We buried them here for a reason!” she insisted, adamantly.

“Of course you did,” I soothed.  “That is your charge.  We don’t really want those, but we are desperate, my lady.  Your sire understood that,” I pointed out, feeling guilty about it even as I did so.  “He bid me seek you out and persuade you to cooperate.  I know not what standing he has in your deliberations, but if simply honoring the dying wishes of your father is not sufficient cause, then I beg you appreciate the Aronin’s wisdom.”

I delivered the plea as passionately as Tyndal’s and as reasonable as Lilastien’s – but I felt dirty in doing so.  I wasn’t exactly lying – the Aronin had, indeed, charged me with seeking out his daughter.  But I was also still angry at him manipulating me, years ago in Boval Vale.  I had been his unwitting puppet for half a decade and invoking his title and relaying his deathbed wishes to his distraught and grieving daughter only seemed to inflame my resentment of the Alkan.  How dare he put me in this uncomfortable position?

“I . . . I cannot,” Ameras whispered, looking down sadly.

“If you will not open the vault, my lady, I beg leave to try myself!” Tyndal declared, boldly.  And stupidly, but there was a certain heroic determination in his demand.

“You will not betray any charge my lady bears, lest you answer to me,” Rolof said, darkly.

There was a pause in the conversation, while Tyndal tried to formulate an appropriate response.  It was clear our old comrade would be choosing to side with his paramour over his old war buddies.  I couldn’t really blame him, on a personal level, but I also didn’t want to invoke violence over this discussion.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to.  After a significant pause, Fondaras began to laugh.  Not his usual jovial chortle, but a deep and somewhat cynical laugh.

“Well, that’s the key, then, isn’t it?” he asked, a grim smile on his face.  “I think you have hit upon the answer, my young and impetuous friend!”

“What answer?” demanded Tyndal.  “What did I say?”

“You asked leave to open the vault if Lady Ameras would not,” the old footwizard said, puffing his pipe serenely.  “And that is the answer: if you were a careful listener, like a good Fellow of the Road, you would have realized it yourself.”

“Speak plainly, old man!” grumbled Ormar.

“And civilly,” added Rolof, warningly.

“The answer lies in my lady’s response: thrice, now, she has declared that she cannot open the vault,” he explained.

“And that is an answer?” Tyndal asked, confused.

“Indeed,” assured Fondaras.  “My lady has not declared her unwillingness to do so . . . she has communicated her inability to do so.  My friends, I propose that Ameras cannot, as opposed to will not, open the vault.”

We all stared at Fondaras, for a moment, and then turned our attention to Ameras, who was slumped next to the fire.  Rolof put his arm protectively about her shoulders.  She looked up, her ears drooping and her big eyes tearful, as she stared at the old man.

“It’s true,” she said, hoarsely.  “Alas, you have guessed correctly.  My sire never instructed me in how to open the vault,” Ameras confessed, sadly.  “Merely its location, and provision for its protection.  I would have gained the knowledge in time, but the Abomination intervened before he could instruct me.  The key to saving Callidore may well lie within the vault . . . but I haven’t the faintest idea about how to open it!” she said in despair.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Pledge of the Aronin

Discussions with Ameras are proving difficult.  I must resort to charm and reason.  I’m that desperate.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

Ameras’ admission stunned us all.

I’d gotten used to being disappointed by the vaunted Alka Alon, whose reputation for intelligence and legendary wisdom were often overcome by the reality.  Oh, their culture was breathtaking, their mastery of magic inspired awe, and their longevity bred a deep intelligence and acute appreciation for many, many things we ephemeral humans just could not understand.  But I’d also gotten to know them both as people and as a civilization, and both contained the same flaws, mistakes, and petty emotions as humanity enjoyed.

But for a civilization that prided itself in doing everything better than humanity, it was both amusing and frightening to see such a basic failure in such an important, fundamental institution as the Aronin.  They had a singular vocation.  And they blew it.

Ameras was clearly distraught by the matter.  She came the closest to a nervous breakdown I’d ever witnessed in one of the Fair Folk, while Rolof tried to comfort her.  She felt the weight of her line’s failure and took it rather personally.  And to have one of us short-lived, foolish mortals figure it out so swiftly had to be galling.  I don’t know how Fondaras figured it out, but I was as impressed with his wisdom as I was sympathetic to Ameras’ sorrow.

No one wanted to address the awful truth . . . in public.  But all of the insightful magi I’d brought with me had a keen desire to discuss the matter in private.  With me.  And I had little idea of how to proceed.

I realized, of course, that the secret vault of Alka Alon secrets had been holding an overlarge place in my mind.  With Sheruel and Korbal on the loose, toppling regimes and instigating terror across human and Alka Alon settlements, my mind had quietly placed a great hope in the Alka Alon’s clandestine arsenal.  They had been here for ten thousand years and had brought mighty magics with them when they came.  Surely, they had some potent response to the insurrection in the west.

But when you find out your greatest hope against the darkness was a tepid taper of half-remembered glories, you start to lose hope.  The Alka Alon had been revered as the ultimate defenders against the darkness the Enshadowed promised us all.  Certain elements – the Emissaries, Onranion, Lilastien, Master Heruthel, even dour Lord Aeratas of Anthatiel – had given the magi hope that there was some all-powerful cavalry that would appear over the horizon at the last moment and rescue all the free lands from the darkness.

But that was clearly not to be.  I’m not one to be over-awed by legends and mythologies.  I’ve brought the very gods to bay with a terse retort.  But I’d had faith in the Alka Alon that I didn’t want to betray.  The Aronin had seemed overwhelmingly astute, when Tyndal and I had first met him. Ameras had seemed like a serene, youthful constant in a chaotically changing world.

But here I was, addressing an Alkan who was near madness, doubled over with grief with the assurance that her sire – who’d died in my arms – had failed his charge because he’d failed to pass along to his only daughter the one bloody thing we needed to access the legendary power of the Alka Alon.

Disappointment?  Why is there no word greater than that, to describe how a man can feel when his faintest, greatest hopes are dashed?  I’d have to take that up with the Rysh, I resolved.  Words and emotions were his domain.

But sorrow was a thoughtful substitute.  As I sat and watched Ameras fall apart at confronting the reality of the situation, I could not help but to feel a profound sorrow overwhelm me.  For someone so young – no more than four centuries, according to Lilastien – a profound responsibility had been thrust upon Ameras that she was clearly not equipped to contend with.  If the Aronins were guardians, then her line had failed their charge spectacularly.  And it was apparent enough for even us dumb humani to recognize it.

I studiously avoided discussing anything of consequence with Ameras, as we prepared the evening meal.  I had a thousand questions plaguing me about the vault, but I knew that even one would invite a cascade of troubling answers from the Scion of the Aronin.  She bore a burden that I couldn’t even imagine.  Perhaps my role was an advocate for humanity, but I could not feel anything but sorrow as the weepy little pixie nearly collapsed under the truth of the matter.

Accountability is a bitch, I reflected.

Fondaras and Travid wandered off to fish the lake, and Tyndal and Ormar followed, to try to catch our supper.  That left a small knot of very responsible, highly idealistic folk on the lake shore to consider the future.  And it wasn’t a happy company.

“This is dark news,” Taren grumbled, as he stared into the small fire.

“This is . . . a complication,” Lilastien agreed, reluctantly.  Ameras and Rolof were safely out of earshot, digging tubers in the meadow beyond the rocks.

“Complication?” I asked, before I could stop myself.  “We were counting on Ameras opening the vault and bringing the most potent weapons to bear on our foe.  And providing a means of escape from the world, for the Council,” I reminded her.

“She just said that she didn’t know how to open the vault,” Lilastien argued.  “That doesn’t mean the vault can’t be opened.”

“What a lovely distinction,” snorted Taren, as he gazed out over the lake.  It truly was beautiful.  “Here I’ve been assuming that the Alka Alon would get off their collective ass, once Anthatiel fell.  Now I find they’ve lost the key to their arsenal.”

“It isn’t a very good look,” I murmured in agreement.

“Yet it isn’t hopeless,” Lilastien reminded us, though I doubted she believed the very words she was saying.  “The Aronin are notoriously subtle.  It’s possible that her sire did give his daughter the information she needs to open the vault.  She just doesn’t realize it, yet.”

“And the world burns while we wait,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “My lady, I appreciate your optimism, but some of us were counting on the Alka Alon having a solution – any solution – to the problem of the Enshadowed.  And the Nemovorti.  And Korbal and Sheruel and their entourage . . .”

“Yet here we sit, disappointed,” I agreed.  It was just friends, talking, after all.  About the end of the world.  There was no need to equivocate.

“It’s not her fault!” Lilastien insisted.  “Her sire did not—”

“The issue is not with her or her sire,” I nodded.  “It is with the Alka Alon.  We counted on you.”  I felt bad, calling Lilastien to account for the actions of the Council.  I knew of any Alka Alon in the world who might take issue with the Council’s rulings, Lilastien had more cause than most to challenge their wisdom.

Yet, I still felt some resentment.  Throughout recorded history, the Alka Alon had “guided” humanity away from our baser nature and encouraged us to take a longer – more immortal – perspective.  Despite our short lives.  The Epics were filled with admonishments against rash action and foolish decisions.  Yet the Fair Folk seemed no better at preserving and protecting the essential elements of their cultural institutions than we were.  Hells, a third-rate humani temple to some long-forgotten god seemed better tended than this “vault of secrets.”  It made one doubt the efficacy of the “immortals” who lauded their wisdom over us.

“You?” Lilastien asked, crossly.  “You, counted on us?  Why?” she demanded.  “Why in the name of holy Trygg would you place any amount of trust in my people?  Why would you mistake our pursuit of our own interests for anything but that?  My people are no more wise than yours,” she offered.  “Perhaps less so.  We felt we had the prescriptions for the problems that faced the realm.  After what you’ve learned of us, why would you consider our perspective valid?” she challenged.

“Because my race foolishly considered those who professed our best interests actually entertain our best interests!” I fired back.  “You entrust a child with the world’s greatest secrets . . . and then give her every excuse for not producing them, at need.  You assure us that the Fair Folk will support our war against the enemy . . . and then you send us trinkets we barely understand and hope we will have some success against the shadow.  I will feel no shame in challenging Ameras,” I added, proudly.  “Her sire conspired to set us against his foes like a trained dog with scant understanding of the enemy or even the true nature of the contest.”

“In his position, would you have acted differently?” she challenged.  “Imagine it: your one little refuge surrounded by a hundred thousand gurvani, scores of irionite-armed shamans, with the knowledge of what would happen if you failed.”

“I don’t have to imagine it!  That’s precisely what I experienced at Boval Castle!” I reminded her.

“Distracting Sheruel with a bunch of well-meaning humani wizards while you prepare a surprise attack isn’t the worst strategy,” she pointed out.

“It doesn’t build up a lot of trust with the well-meaning wizards,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “Especially when you fail to tell them the context of the war that was suddenly sprung on them.”

“I’m not excusing his behavior, I’m explaining it,” Lilastien said, patiently.  “The Aronin was sworn to protect the molopor.  He used everything he had available to do so, and still he lost.  Had the Enshadowed attacked directly, he might have held them off until reinforcements could arrive.  Unfortunately,” she continued, “they had found another means.  Ameras is the heir to that charge, but she has neither her father’s wisdom nor his power . . . just his responsibility.”

“I feel for the lass, I do,” Taren said, slowly.  “She lost her father over this.  And you’re right, it probably was his best strategy.  But to leave her alone, half-trained in the wilderness, that seems like poor planning.”

“The secrets the Aronin are entrusted with are potent,” Lilastien sighed.  “Not to mention hopelessly complex.  Ameras is just coming out of adolescence, a time of exploration and education for the Alka Alon.  Only she’s been condemned with this legacy and forced to stay . . . here,” she said, gesturing to the lake.  “Away from her own kind, deprived of their vital society, and forced to take up with one of you lot for companionship.  Her father was too rushed contending with Sheruel and the molopor to pass along the details of opening the vault.  Don’t blame her.  It’s just a bad situation.”

“I agree.  But it must be remedied,” I insisted.  “How many of your own folk will be troubled by this news?”

“Many,” she nodded.  “The Council will be livid.  And terrified.  If the molopor can’t be recovered, then one of their means of escape from this world will be gone.  And if the vault can’t be open, the means of using it will be lost.”

“Which means that they will take action, eventually,” I reasoned.

“Undoubtedly,” Lilastien agreed.  “But the secret of opening it was the Aronin’s alone.  As was the inventory and the knowledge to use many of the artefacts within.”

“Maybe we can figure it out,” Taren said, pursing his lips in thought.  “I mean, we could just ask the Aronin,” he proposed.

“The Aronin is dead,” Lilastien reminded him, as she punched something up on her tray.

“That doesn’t necessarily preclude discussion,” Taren shrugged.  “I’ve had some very intriguing discussions with dead people at Castle Salaisus.  Only humans, but I don’t doubt we could conjure up the Aronin’s spirit.”

“Necromancy?” I asked, surprised.  I hadn’t thought about that.

“Technically,” he nodded.  “But if the shade of the Aronin could be persuaded to give us that information, I—”

“They are precluded from doing so to anyone outside of their line,” Lilastien said, shaking her head as music began to play.  It was a duet between two men, one with a deep baritone and the other with a mellow tenor, a slow but hypnotic melody in some dialect of Old High Perwyneese.  I could understand only a couple of words.  “Ameras would have to come to Salaisus.  And I don’t think the Council would approve.”

“I’m not inclined to include the Council in this discussion,” I decided.  “At least not theirs.  This is a matter for the Beryen Council, not the Alka Alon Council.  It’s the very reason why it was formed.”

“It was formed so that the Alka Alon Council wouldn’t have to contend with the humani directly,” Lilastien countered.  “But you may be right about this.  In this case, it’s wiser to ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

“Forgiveness?” Taren asked.  “How about ‘acceptance?’  I, for one, have grown weary of this uneven alliance.  If we have an opportunity to recover this information and open the damn vault, we’re taking it.”  He spoke with surprising commitment.  Ordinarily, Taren tends to be rather reserved.  Maybe the lack of magic was making him cranky.

“I’m already considered a rebel,” shrugged Lilastien.  “If you can convince Ameras, I’m game.”

“Say, what is that song?” I asked, suddenly.  If Lilastien would help, we could probably pull it off.

“This?” she asked, amused.  “It’s Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby.  It’s called ‘Gone Fishin’.  Which sounds like excellent advice on a beautiful day like today,” she said, as she rose and grabbed her fusion rifle.

“I’ll join you,” Taren grinned.  “It is a beautiful day, and I haven’t indulged in fishing in years.”

I held back, because I could hear Ameras and Rolof returning, and I wanted a private word.

The two each had a large leaf they were using as impromptu baskets heaped with fresh tubers.  Ameras seemed much more composed, now, and Rolof looked a little less guarded.  I was hoping that was a good sign.

“Count Minalan, would you like to help us trim these up?” Ameras asked, politely.

“You can call me Minalan,” I suggested.  “And I’d be happy to.”

“They need to be washed,” Rolof directed.  “The green shoots need to be entirely removed.  It’s a natavia variety – wholesome, but the greens will give you a bad case of the trots.”

I fell into their preparation and enjoyed a few domestic moments with a knife and a lap full of tubers.  As goodwives and old maidens all know, that’s an excellent time to talk.

“Lilastien explained some of the context of your position,” I began.  “I am sorry if I upset you.  The Aronin was a . . . a formative person in my life,” I said, diplomatically.

“My father was widely respected for his wisdom,” she agreed, cautiously.  “He was known for his subtle advice in a culture that prides itself on its subtlety.”

“He died well,” I decided, wondering if it was a mistake to offer my opinion.  “He endured years of torture, first at Sheruel’s nonexistent hands, and then at Korbal’s all-too-real hands.  He did not submit,” I informed her.  “He did not relent.  He kept his secrets throughout it all.”

“What did he tell you?” Ameras asked, her eyes sorrowful as she cleaned tubers.  “I thought him dead.  Years ago.  At your little castle.”

“I did, too,” I confessed.  “He and his court fought valiantly.  I’d like to think they could have won if the situation had been different.  As it was, I did not think Sheruel and his minions would have the foresight to capture him and some of his companions.  I thought them bent on their destruction.”

“They were guided by the Enshadowed,” she agreed, solemnly.  “Of that I am certain.”

“Your father confirmed that in the dungeons of Olem Seheri, before he died,” I agreed as I drew my knife and started trimming tubers.  “He also suggested that I seek you out and convince you to open the vault for us.  Before the Enshadowed got a chance to raid it.  He was quite concerned that we protect it from that.  You see,” I said, conversationally, “if we don’t, then when the Enshadowed do find it and open it, they don’t plan on using them on just us humani and the Alka Alon; they plan to attack the Vundel.”

The revelation made both their eyes grow wide, and Ameras gasped.

“The Vundel?  Are they suicidal fools?” she demanded.

“Perhaps,” I shrugged.  “I would say power-mad and desperate for immortality, but their motivation isn’t as important as their means: they are attempting to make an alliance with the vassals of the Formless.  You’re familiar with them?”

“This news grows darker and darker,” Rolof said, shaking his head slowly.  “Aye, we know of the Formless,” he said, glancing at Ameras.  “And their vassals.”

“Then you understand why he was so adamant I find you.  Even now the Enshadowed search the valley seeking the vault,” I explained.

“That is not all they seek here, then,” Rolof murmured.

I sighed.  “I know.  They also seek to trap me while I’m here, and when I have no recourse to magic.  Likely to slay me and take the Magolith,” I said, tapping the sphere on my hip.  “Korbal covets it.  After your father perished,” I explained, “I captured Mycin Amana, Korbal’s consort, in the dungeons, and then fought against Korbal.  And Sheruel.  After the one betrayed the other, I used the Magolith to imprison Korbal into his current form . . . which is deteriorating.  Without it, he will likely die a horrible death.”

“You stood against the Abomination?” Rolof asked, surprised.  “And survived?”

“I had help,” I dismissed.  “And he was distracted.  I’ll tell you about that, sometime.  It’s six hells of a story.”

“I have no doubt,” nodded Rolof, looking at me with new respect.  He might be a half-crazed hermit, but he had been an accomplished warmage for years.  “But that was not the other errand I predict the Enshadowed were undertaking in Anghysbel.”

“They seek the Kurja,” Ameras nodded, looking at her tiny little feet.  If she was distraught before, now she seemed nearly inconsolable.

“The . . . Kurja,” I sighed.  “The lizard people?  Or is this some fresh new nightmare?  I’m thinking of starting a list so that I can keep track.”

“The latter,” Rolof said, missing my sarcasm entirely.

“It is the third great charge of my line,” Ameras revealed, “after the molopor and the vault: keeping watch over the Kurja.  The vassals of the Formless,” she explained.  “Or one of them.  Perhaps he was speaking of one of the others, but if they are in Anghysbel, it is likely that they wish to contact the Kurja.”

“And what in Trygg’s blessed name are the Kurja?  Besides vassals of the Formless?” I demanded, as I sliced up tubers.

“It would be better to show you,” Ameras decided.  “Minalan, I appreciate how well you have fared against the foe.  Clearly, my father was prescient when he entrusted you with your charge.”

“Yes, I feel so honored,” I said, drolly.  “I just wish he had been more truthful with me, instead of feeding me bullshit to go fight a war I was destined to lose.  It makes one lose a bit of faith in nearly immortal, profoundly wise woodland beings.”

“Did you not fulfill his words?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.  “Was he not truthful to you?”

“I . . .” I began, and then stopped.  The conversation I had with the Aronin in Amadia came back to me with stunning clarity.

. . . but the gurvani, they have waited and prepared for generations for this day.  They will drive your people from the valley, for they have grievances with you for past wrongs.  They will remake the valley into a mighty fortress from which they will war on all humankind.  So I have foreseen.  And when they do so, they will war on my people, for they forget our ancient kinship, and they will drive my people from this place of refuge and force us to once again be part of the outer world . . .

That, at least, had come true . . . The Dark Vale was the epicenter of evil in the Mindens.  My old home had turned into a cesspit of sinister destruction, a place of sacrifice, and blood.  Armies had assailed us from it ever since.

. . . this node of evil is well protected, now.  It lies buried in the heart of the mountains, within a maze of warrens.  To strike at it now would be futile.  If it can be drawn out, however, then perhaps it can be destroyed.  But to do so you must be cunning and stubborn in your defense, so that only the node could break you.  It may well cost you your life, and destroy the Valley, but it may save your people from enslavement and death.

Well, I had, indeed, sacrificed Boval Vale and escaped, and then nearly lost my life confronting Sheruel before escaping – thanks to the Aronin.  But I had lived to save a portion of my people from enslavement and death.  Vanador was testament to that.

. . . we knew he would seek to engage you personally.  Sheruel had a thirst for vengeance too strong to do otherwise.  You kept his army at bay for weeks longer than he had planned.  And we knew you would mount a defense.  We had to wait for the encounter . . .

That, too, had come to pass, I had to admit.  No one could have predicted that I would be able to hold out that long.  The siege should have been over quickly, as so many had been, during the invasion.

. . . someone who understands what is involved must organize the defense of Men, Spellmonger.  Else the human world will be destroyed, as the Dead God gains power.  You must go to the Councils of Men and tell them what you know.  While your magics are crude and elementary, they must be strengthened and organized against the gurvani tide, else Man will be washed away . . .

I had certainly fulfilled that prediction.  If it wasn’t for me bullshitting a couple of dukes and bribing a bunch of wizards, the gurvani would be nearly to Merwyn, by now.  Man would have been washed away.

. . . they will offer no quarter, and will slaughter every Man they encounter.  They will bring forth flame and steel, and magics most terrible.  They will brandish weapons not seen in ages of Men.   They will seek to turn the weak-willed to their bidding, and use Man’s own power against him.  If you value your race, a great line of defense must be erected against their assault.  It is your charge to see to that . . .

Well, his magical compulsion had certainly helped my motivation, but if you wanted to get technical, yes, he had predicted how the gurvani – and their secret Enshadowed masters – had waged war upon humanity and the Alka Alon.

. . . you will not be unaided.  Your friends here will follow you unquestionably.  As you work, the lore of the ancients will prove helpful.  My own folk will do what we can to aid you, but you should be sufficient to rally the human lands for this crisis . . .

It was hard to argue with that, I realized, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  If I hadn’t been so damn persuasive, Lenguin and Enora would still be alive.  There would be no Kingdom.  No King Rard.  The Bans on Magic would still be in place.  I hated thinking that he’d been right, to predict that, but I consoled myself that perhaps I had just been particularly charming that day.

. . . you must leave.  You and your people here are to be the core of a great new army, an army that can beat back this tide.  An army that you will lead.  It must persist, and persevere, until there is no more danger.  You must lead them, Minalan.  No one else.  You and your children shall become the base of a great line, should you succeed . . .

And that was the rub.  Me and my people had, indeed, become the core of a great new army, one that had managed to throw the gurvani back repeatedly.  Not just the gurvani, but the Enshadowed and the Nemovorti.

And I had created it.  And the City of Wizards, Vanador.

But what had it gotten me?  I was keeping the tides of darkness at bay, but at an enormous cost in blood and treasure.  Every battle I won demonstrated to me that the war would, most likely, be lost.  The Alka Alon’s tepid assistance had done just enough to strengthen us to stand . . . but not to be victorious.  They had held back meaningful assistance unless the situation was dire . . . and even then, they had sent us scant assistance.

But implicit with the Aronin’s prediction was a promise, I realized.

. . . when the time is ripe, in its fullness, you will seek out my daughter, who even now seeks a place of refuge for the rest of my folk here in the valley.  I have given to her certain . . . things that may assist you.  Arcane secrets, you would call them.  She has agreed to act as my messenger in this.  Seek her when you can find no other way . . .

Which was why I was here . . . talking to a frenetic pixie who was hopelessly in need of nut juice.  Or something.

But her father had committed her.  I was certain of that.

“He did not . . . he did not provide the proper context,” I finally said.  “But he did tell me the truth.  Including that you would give me aid when I can find no other way.”

“You have fought the Abomination and the Necromancer, combined,” sniffed Ameras.  “It sounds as if you have cultivated plenty of resources since you left our refuge.”

“Sheruel and Korbal aren’t the real threat,” I reminded her.  “Callidore losing magic is. What if we do manage to defeat them?  The Formless still persist in the Deeps.  A few generations of peace and then an apocalyptic, horrific end of the world?” I challenged her.  “While your folk slip quietly away?”

“Your charge was against the immediate threat, Minalan,” she said, wrinkling her brow.

“It might amuse you to know that I have increased my charge,” I said.  “Your father thought that the threat of the Abomination was sufficient.  I find myself unwilling to face Korbal and Sheruel when a far more serious threat exists.”

“One which no one can change,” she said, shaking her head, sadly.  “Are you not content with the glory available for defeating the gurvani?”

“The gurvani are as much victims in this as we are!” I countered, sharply.  “They’re being manipulated by the Enshadowed, we’re being manipulated by the Alka Alon Council.  To fight over scraps at the table while the entire world is preparing to burn.  Both sides want to control the vault and the molopor, because that will allow them to escape before the Formless are released.  Hells, you can be at this squabble for millennia, yet, before things get urgent.”

“What would you have us do, Minalan?” Ameras asked, her voice thick with emotion.  “The search began for a refuge from the inevitable before your people even arrived.  This world is doomed.  Not even the Vundel can save it,” she said, gloomily.  “Let us protect what little we can.  Perhaps we can arrange to carry a portion of your people with us,” she proposed.

“No,” I said, flatly.  “No!  Just because the Alka Alon and the Vundel feel powerless about this threat doesn’t mean it cannot be avoided.  I may have one short mortal life to devote to that purpose, but it seems a nobler struggle than merely winning a throw against the Enshadowed.  Why save Callidore from Korbal, then?  To put off a horrific conflict for a few centuries, so that your folk have time to slip away before they get involved?

“No, Ameras, your father promised me that you would help, when I found you and had no other options.  I have no other options,” I declared.  “I cannot save the world without your help.  Nor will I strive against the gurvani and Sheruel and Korbal knowing that your folk have already abandoned the greater fight.  If there is a means to save Callidore, I will find it.”

“You do not understand what you are saying, Minalan,” Rolof said, frowning.  “I appreciate your boldness, and your commitment . . . but only the Celestial Mothers had the power to preserve Callidore from the doom it faces.  The last one perished half a million years ago.  All worlds are finite,” he said, shaking his head, sadly.  “All magical places come to their end.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I insisted, as I finished slicing the last tuber.  “I’ve decided this wonderful world is worthy of saving.  The Aronin assured me of your help.  I intend to hold you accountable for that.  Perhaps you have given up on this world, but I never will.  That’s probably why your dad chose to screw with my head back in Amadia.  So, I’m asking you to start coughing up the arcane secrets I’ll need to do so.  I’d even say you were obligated by your father’s pledge.  It’s as much a part of your legacy as the vault and the molopor.  Do you have salt?” I asked.  “I think these tubers might go better with a little salt.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Avius

Of the unexpected pleasures I’ve encountered on this expedition, spending the afternoon at the beach with a dragon was among the finest.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

Ameras didn’t protest when I insisted on her help.  Indeed, she seemed to accept my forthright decision once I made myself clear.  Of course, if she couldn’t actually open the vault, once she led me to it; there wasn’t much else I could do about it.  She settled back into the role of polite hostess while we prepared supper.

Once again, Travid took over the cooking, quickly cleaning and gutting the five large fish they’d caught at the lakeshore.  I’d never seen their like before – they were clearly natavia species – but he proved adept at seasoning and then grilling them over the coals while the tubers bubbled away in his cauldron.  Fondaras foraged for a few berries and greens to add to the meal, and there was enough for everyone.  Indeed, it was quite delicious.

It wasn’t quite sunset when we were finishing up supper, and we felt a tremor in the ground.  At first, I thought it was another earthquake – little ones did happen frequently in Anghysbel, often several small ones throughout the course of the day.  But there was direction to this tremor, and as I looked up toward the lake, I saw a gigantic splash.

“It’s Avius,” Rolof explained.

“She likes a bit of a swim at sunset,” agreed Ameras, with a small smile.

“Dragons can swim?” Fondaras asked, interested.

“Dear gods, yes!” Tyndal declared, a tinge of disgust in his voice.  “As we learned at Olum Seheri.  They swim quite well.”

“She enjoys it,” nodded Ameras.  “The gurvani kept her in chains and in filth.  They wouldn’t let her or her mates swim, lest they escape.  Which she did,” she reminded us.   “This is a nice deep lake, too.  Occasionally she’ll visit the Hot Lake, for a change, but we’ve kept her away from the human-inhabited areas at Baelor Lake.  She splashes around quite a bit, and she’d wreck dozens of those little boats the Tal Alon use.”

We all watched in amazement as the waters parted and the gigantic head of the dragon thrust itself to the surface, once again.

“She’s quite elegant,” Fondaras remarked, as the great beast rose on her wings and then dived back into the water.  Waves from her first splash were already hitting the shore.  “I didn’t think dragons would be that beautiful.”

“I’ve rarely tried to appreciate their beauty, seeing as how I was usually trying to kill them,” Tyndal said, shaking his head as he watched her.  “Even now I have to force myself not to draw my sword.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Ormar agreed.  “Dragon hide is ridiculously strong.  And magic resistant.”

“It would still make me feel better,” Tyndal murmured, as Avius rose and fell back into the lake, purposefully slapping her gigantic body against the surface with a smack that echoed across the shore.  She was clearly having fun.  “I’ve never seen a dragon act playful, before,” my former apprentice admitted.

“She’s quite playful,” Rolof agreed.  “Don’t forget, she’s still very young.”  At that point the waves hitting shore were over a foot tall.  “You should see what she does to a stora, before she eats one.  It’s like a ten-ton cat playing with a two-ton mouse.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?” Fondaras asked, as he stared at the frolicking dragon in wonder.  I, myself, shuddered a bit.  A killing machine that large shouldn’t frolic.  It just didn’t seem right.

“I’m more concerned what that cat would do to my tiny little body,” Ormar scowled.

“She just fed a few days ago,” Ameras said.  “It’ll be a week or more before she’s hungry again.  But perhaps you’ll get a chance before you leave,” she suggested.  “Oh!  It looks like she’s headed this way!”

I watched Ormar’s eyes, in particular, as they got wider and wider as the dragon got closer and closer.  As she approached the bank, her neck rising higher and higher above the surface, she finally turned her eyes toward us, I instinctively called on arcane power . . . and got nothing, of course.  I felt naked, more naked than I’d ever been.  It took a major act of willpower not to grab the plasma rifle at my feet.  Not that it would do much better than magic against that thing, I reasoned, but it made me feel better.

“She isn’t going to do anything,” Rolof assured us, in a low voice.  “She’s quite peaceful.  Just relax,” he encouraged, soothingly.

“That’s highly unlikely,” I murmured, as I rose to my feet.  “My favorite horse was killed by one of those things while I was riding it,” I explained.  “I’ve faced four or five – maybe six?  Maybe six of those things in battle.  It’s a little hard to let my guard down.”

“Or unclench your sphincter,” Ormar agreed, grimly.  He hadn’t taken his eyes off  the dragon.  Taren, likewise, was frowning at the beast.

“She’s quite lovely, really,” Ameras insisted.  “Just be polite.  She only learned our speech last year.  She’s still getting used to it.   And she’s never spoken to this many people before, so let’s try not to confuse her too much.  It might get awkward.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that,” Fondaras nodded.  Suddenly, he raised his hand and waved.  “Hail, Avius!” he called, in a friendly tone of voice, when she stopped about fifty feet offshore.

The dragon’s great head lowered a bit as she took a closer, more discerning look at us.

Ameras, a voice rang in my head.  It was feminine, and somewhat louder than using mind-to-mind communication.  But it was clear Narasi.  Rolof.  I do not know the others.

“They’re friends, Avius,” Ameras explained.  “Friends of Rolof and I.  They’ve come from the south,” she explained, simply.

For the hunting? The dragon asked.  There is fine hunting here.

“Of a sort,” Rolof agreed.  “This is my friend Minalan,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.  “He and his friends came here seeking Ameras and I for counsel.  Much as you do.”

“Hail, Avius,” I said, raising my own arm.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”  It occurred to me we probably had met – in battle.  “My friends are Lilastien of the Alka Alon, and then Fondaras, Tyndal, Ormar, Taren, and Travid.  We’re humani, like Rolof.”

New people to talk to, the dragon said.  I’ve learned much from Ameras and Rolof.  They have explained many things to me.

“They are good and trustworthy friends,” I agreed.  Rolof was right – Avius spoke in my mind with the simplicity of a young child.  I had to be careful, I realized.  Making a child mad could lead to a tantrum, and I shuddered to think what that would be like.  “That was a beautiful dive you did,” I added, because everyone likes flattery.

The water is cool and delicious, she agreed.  Do you swim?  Rolof does, sometimes.  Ameras is afraid to, she said, her tone a little mocking.

“I do,” I nodded.  “I’d be afraid to, with you in the water, however.”

I usually just wade, while he swims, so as not to splash him, she agreed.  What kind of humani are you? she asked, curiously.

“I am a wizard,” I said, deciding to keep things simple.  “Like Rolof.  Your home is beautiful,” I added.

It is nice, Avius agreed, her head slowly approaching the shore.  I appreciated the care she was taking.  She barely made a ripple in the water.  My knees didn’t appreciate it; they were shaking like a leaf at being so close to the beast.    Wizards do magic? she asked.  Rolof explained it to me.  There is no magic here, she said, proudly.  I cannot speak around magic.

“So I’ve learned,” I nodded.  “In truth, I never knew dragons could speak.”

I couldn’t until I came here and Ameras taught me.  She is a good friend, she reported.  The other dragons don’t yet speak like this.  Do you know any other dragons, Minalan?

I sighed.  “Lamentably, yes.  Your kind was used against us in battle,” I said, deciding to keep the difficult subject high-level, for the moment.

I am sorry about that, she said, sounding genuinely sorrowful in my mind.  It was not our choice.

“I understand,” I agreed.  “I’m sorry about your enslavement.  How did you escape the gurvani?”

I ate my handler, she replied, a little smugly.  I pretended to be docile, and when they prodded me into the sky I rebelled.  Then I found this place.  Isn’t it pretty?

“It is,” I agreed.  “I’ve heard how beautiful this land is.  I wanted to see it for myself.  It is a difficult journey to get here.”

Not by wing, she said, even more smugly.

“Speaking of which, Avius,” Lilastien said, standing forward, “If you see a couple of very large birds in the sky, I would appreciate you not eating them.  One of them is ridden by my granddaughter, Ithalia.”

“My sister rides the other,” Travid said, suddenly alarmed.  “They mean no harm.”

Other flyers? Avius asked, interested.

“Very fast flyers,” Lilastien agreed.  “Though they might be intimidated by your size.  They probably aren’t as smart as you, either,” she added.

I will not eat them, Avius pledged.  They permit themselves to be ridden? she asked, skeptically.  I was ridden.  It was not a pleasant experience.

“They are friends with their riders and bear them voluntarily,” Lilastien assured.

“Birds?” Ameras asked.  “Those were giant birds I saw in the sky?  I thought I was dreaming when I saw them in the air!”

“No, they’re quite real – and quite large.  Oh, only a tithe as large as Avius, but they have a forty-foot wingspan.  My granddaughter and I transformed them for the war effort.”

Specifically to fight dragons, I thought to myself, ironically.

What? snapped Avius, suddenly.  Fight dragons?

“Uh . . . that’s a complicated matter, Avius,” I said, gently, realizing that I had to be careful with my thoughts.  “We did not know how intelligent you were.  Nor how your folk were enslaved and used in battle against us.  We were only trying to protect ourselves.”

I half-expected dragon fire.  The great beast stared at us intently for a moment.

I hated battle, Avius said, after a long pause.  I never wanted to fight.  But they made me, she said, defensively.

“If it’s any consolation, we didn’t really want to fight either,” Taren called to her.  “The gurvani and their masters didn’t leave us much choice.”

I hate them, she said, matter-of-factly.  They hurt us.  They were cruel.  They made us fight, she said, her tail breaking the water’s surface and lashing like an irritated cat.

“Our enemies have no concern for inflicting misery,” Fondaras agreed, sympathetically.  “I can only imagine how you suffered.”

“You are safe, now, Avius,” Ameras soothed.  “No one can hurt you, here.”

No one will ever hurt me again! she assured.  I had no reason to doubt her.  But then her tail sank back beneath the surface of the water, and she calmed down a bit.  I think I like you wizards, she decided.  It’s almost dark.  Are you going to watch the lake? she asked, eagerly.  It’s very pretty!

“We will,” I agreed, a little puzzled about the question.  “We will probably camp here for the night before we move along.  But it was a pleasure meeting you,” I said, sincerely.  Meeting a dragon who didn’t want to eat me out of hand seemed like an accomplishment.  I attributed it to my charming nature.  I might have been mistaken, but I wanted to cling to that, for some reason.  It seemed important.

That’s good.  I want to talk to you again, she offered.

“We would really like that, Avius,” Lilastien agreed.  “Perhaps tomorrow?”

I will come here, she agreed.  Enjoy the lake!

With that, she slowly began to withdraw, careful not to make too many waves.  When she was fifty or sixty feet out, she turned, twisted, and launched herself into the air.  In moments she was soaring over the lake, her dark reflection shimmering in the wake of her launch.

“They really are beautiful in the air, when they aren’t trying to kill you,” Taren murmured, appreciatively.

“She loves flying over the lake at twilight,” Ameras smiled dreamily as she watched the dragon.  “She gets a better view of it, then.”

“The sunset?” Taren asked, interested.

“No, not just the sunset,” Rolof said, adding a rare smile to the conversation.  “Just watch.”

So, we watched.  And as the light from the west grew dimmer, as the sun descended over the western ridges, the shadows lengthened, and the colors transformed to that oddly beautiful pallet only sunset can produce.  Purples and pinks and oranges colored the clouds above and were reflected in the lake.

But soon I noted something else – something in the water.  A faint, dim light, at first, that seemed to move closer and closer to the surface.  And then another, and another, and then a dozen, a score, a hundred, a thousand . . . in moments, the entire lake was dancing with pinpoints of lights, just under the surface.

“Kintilla!” Lilastien gasped, clapping her hands gleefully.  “There are kintilla here!”

“What are kintilla?” Ormar asked, confused.

“Fish – well, sort of,” Lilastien explained.  “Tiny little water creatures who are bioluminescent.  They come out at twilight to feed on the insects over the water.  Their lights attract them.  They’re common, in other parts of the world.  They usually live in subtropical estuaries.  But these . . . these are far too far north.  They must be a remnant of a different age, sustained by the geothermic activity,” she suggested.

“They’re amazing!” Fondaras said, with childlike delight.  The entire lake seemed to shimmer with the pinpoints of light, now, and they increased in intensity as the sun faded.  Nor were they one color, I noted.  They started to change from a dull white to pinks and greens and yellows, like an underwater fireworks display.  When they broke the surface to catch a bug, their brightness flashed for a brief instant before fading away as the kintilla fell back into the water.  The ripples from each tiny impact refracted the scene further.  The entire lake was sparkling hypnotically.

“That may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Ormar said, solemnly.

“I had no idea,” whispered Taren, enrapt in the scene.

“Just wait,” Rolof said, with a smug smile.  “You haven’t seen the best part, yet.”

I was tempted to ask for an explanation, but I decided to be surprised.  And surprised I was.  In just a few more moments, when the last rays of the sun had left the sky and darkness set in, the surface of the lake was as dark as the sky above.  The thousands and thousands of kintilla below continued to flash and change color . . . but gradually, at first, and then with more regularity the colors they displayed began to synchronize.  Entire swaths of the lake began to sparkle in green, or patches of pink, or yellow, until there were swirling paths of color pulsating across the water.

It was simply amazing.  The glow from one particular part of the lake would throb bright enough to project above and it was answered by a burst of unified color from another section, then another.  This went on for nearly ten minutes, as Avius flew circles overhead.  Indeed, the dragon seemed to delight in skimming the lake as slowly as she could so that she could get a better view of the show, then climbed far above so that she could see the entire lake as one.  I envied her that.  We were seeing it from the shore, at an angle.  From her vantage, the lake would have been one ever-changing tapestry of light and water.

Finally, the kintilla’s performance drew to a close, as the massive schools began to fade and break up.  That’s when Avius offered her applause with a burst of air-borne dragon fire that briefly lit up the sky and reflected brilliantly off the water, below.

“She so loves that,” Ameras sighed.  “She really does have an acute appreciation of beauty.”

“That . . . that was a wonder,” Fondaras sighed.  “I’d never made it this far into the interior on my previous trips.  I’d heard about the glittering lake, but never had a chance to see it.  Particularly not in the company of a dragon.”

“They are likely only active in the summer,” Lilastien offered.  “A few brief weeks of spectacle, and then they probably go quiescent for the cooler months.”

“Aye, they don’t appear much past late summer,” agreed Rolof.  “Can you see now why I might have preferred Anghysbel, Minalan?  There are wonders here.  Without magic.”

I nodded.  The display had been captivating, like the light shows and effects that were becoming popular with the magi in Sevendor and Vanador.  Only it had been completely natural.  The addition to the dragon had added to the sense of wonder.  I knew I had to bring Alya here to watch it with me.

Everyone was in a very good mood, after our chat with Avius and witnessing the glittering lake.  We built the fire up and sipped on beet rum and talked far into the night about the state of the world and the path ahead.  We explained about the coming devastation of the valley, the Cave of the Ancients, and the sorry state of politics in both the Five Duchies and among the Alka Alon.

It was decided that we would make the brief trek to the east to survey the vault Ameras was guarding the next day – it wasn’t far, apparently.  Even if she could not open it, I wanted to see it.  So did Lilastien.  After that, Rolof promised to take us to where we could acquire a sample of the glassy substance that could – theoretically – aid in the snowstone spell.  That lay somewhere within the forbidden Leshwood, apparently.

“We will have to be careful,” Rolof explained, quietly, as the night grew late and our friends began to curl up and fall asleep around the fire.  “I have friends there, but the Leshwood is wild and dangerous country.  We will have to be on our guard.”

“You have friends there?” Lilastien asked, surprised.  “People live there?”

“No, not human nor Alon,” he said, shaking his head.  “The lizard folk fear it and give it a wide berth.  A few hardy fellows know it well enough to traverse it, but no one would want to live there if there was a better alternative.  The Kasari have been known to, and Davachan walks there with impunity.”

“Davachan,” I nodded.  “I’ve met him twice, now.  Odd fellow.  I heard a bit about his history from the Kilnusk.  He even invited me to meet his master,” I chuckled.  I’d told Rolof about it, but I was interested in Ameras’ perspective on the odd invitation.

That produced an anxious glance between Ameras and Rolof.  “And how did you answer?” Ameras asked, slowly.

“I said I would think about it,” I shrugged.  “I have a pretty full itinerary.  Working that in might be difficult.”

“I urge you to consider carefully before making your decision,” Rolof said, quietly.

“Davachan said that his master could give me the answers to my questions.  I’m dubious, of course, but it was an intriguing offer.”

“Szal the Yith is not to be trifled with,” Ameras said, shaking her tiny head.  “Do you know the lore of the Yith?”

“I’ve barely heard the name, and I’m a scholar of lore,” admitted Lilastien.  “What is the Yith?”

“My father first told me about them when I was a young girl,” Ameras said.  “It was one of his lectures on the mysteries of this world and the great powers herein.  The Great Race of Yith is not from Callidore.  Indeed, their race is eons and eons older than this world, spawned at the very beginnings of the universe.  They were old when the Vundel were young,” she reported, her voice taking on a dreamy quality.

“That’s a difficult thing to conceive of,” Fondaras said, thoughtfully.

“It is true,” insisted Ameras.  “They are truly immortal.  Only a few other beings are known to be able to slay them.  Yet they conceal themselves from them, and have, for eons, as if they were vulnerable.  Few have ever gazed upon the true form of the Yith, for they embed themselves in deep places where they . . . where they do their work,” she said, faltering.

“What kind of work?” I asked, intrigued.

“The Yith do not travel through the stars often,” Rolof explained.  “But they do explore.  They are intensely telepathic, and like the Celestial Mothers and other powerful species they can cast their perceptions out into the universe.  Perhaps even into other dimensions.  Then they join their minds to those they chose and experience their perceptions.”

“Like a beastmaster,” I nodded.  “I can see how that might be useful.”

Rolof shook his head.  “It is no mere passive touch, Minalan.  The Yith possess their . . . subjects,” he said, distastefully.  “They take control of them, if only for an instant.  In that instant, the Yith learns everything you ever knew.  And they will remember it for all time.  They are the ultimate observers in the universe.  It is the goal of the Yith to learn everything they can about the entire universe, throughout time.  To what purpose, I cannot say – Nature, or their creators, perhaps, compels them.”

“So why did one of these creatures come here?” Taren asked.

“Because it was being pursued by some other force and asked the Celestial Mothers for refuge, in ages past.  The Mothers agreed, and Szal built deep mansions within the earth and guarded them against attack.  One of his mansions lies here, in Anghysbel, within a deep crypt.  The jevolar allows Szal to conduct his work with more clarity, here.  Like Avius, his telepathic abilities are hampered by the Magosphere.

“Szal finds Callidore . . . interesting,” Rolof continued, his voice laced with bitterness.  “There are few worlds where magic exists, and this one has long persisted.  While he casts his mind out into the void, he frequently takes an interest in this world.  He has possessed millions of beings’ minds on Callidore, over the millennia.  He never interferes, merely observes and remembers.  He will observe the destruction of most life on Callidore, but he will not intervene.  Even if the Formless are released from their imprisonment.”

“I can’t imagine the Formless would just let him sit by and watch,” Taren snorted.  “Not if what we’ve come to know about them is true.”

“Even they would be hard-pressed to overcome the power of the Yith, if they were foolish enough to attack Szal,” Ameras assured.  “He knows . . . everything.  Every science, every magic, every technology that his mind has reached.  But the Yith are not belligerent.  Szal would retreat to one of his other mansions and defy them, until some day he would witness their extinction.  In a few million years, or so.  If not longer,” she said, shuddering.

“We would only be a memory in Szal’s mind, by then,” Rolof nodded.  “As have passed many mighty civilizations before.  There was a Yith on humanity’s homeworld, once, it is said.  Not that it matters.  We are just fleeting entertainments, to Szal.”

“That all sounds fairly harmless,” Taren pointed out.

“It is not for Szal’s subjects,” Rolof continued, darkly.  “For every second spent under the influence of the Yith, the subject of his interest spends the time within the mind of Szal.  Enduring the memories of some other creature’s life, pulled from Szal’s vast memory.

“They experience every moment of that life,” he continued, his voice quiet and low, the emotion suppressed with effort.  “Not just the knowledge that they possess.  But every hope, every dream, every joy, and every horrific tragedy.  Everything.  And in the next second, you experience another.  And then another.  Nor are the minds you touch human, necessarily.  Some may have existed in eons past, on worlds you cannot possibly imagine. They have senses you cannot guess, perceiving things you never suspected were there, feeling emotions you didn’t know were possible.  Doing things you would consider horrific.  And you must live with that.”

“The entire thing sounds horrific,” Lilastien agreed.  “That would cause madness!”

“It frequently does,” agreed Rolof.  “It fades, over time, if the subject has a strong will and a stronger mind.  If he is sufficiently powerful, he can at least guide his way through the chaos and direct the course of experiences to learn what he desires to learn.  But he will ever be changed.  Haunted by the ghosts of memories of others whose stars are long-dead ashes.  So consider carefully before entertaining the offer of Szal the Yith,” he warned.

“The price of knowledge,” Fondaras said, shaking his head.  “You sound like you speak from personal experience, lad,” he said, probingly.

“I was tempted by Davachan’s offer,” he said, his voice hoarse and his face shadowed by the flickering firelight.  “He said that Szal the Yith could answer my questions.  I considered hastily.  But then I agreed.  For seven seconds the Yith was in my mind.  And I will forever bear the memories of seven other entities.”

“What did you learn?” Taren asked, somberly.  “Did he answer your questions?”

“Yes, he did,” the broken wizard answered in a kind of despairing sob.  “And I learned that my questions were not worth asking.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Arsenal of Kova Salainen

In the middle of a wasteland is a small mountain with a cave in it, wherein lies a great big door we can’t possibly open.  So much for our quest.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Ormar the Alchemist

I started the next morning by calling my wife on the radio.

It was time to check in, and I didn’t want her to worry.  It took a few moments to make contact with Gareth, who was also wearing one of the devices, and he was able to bring it to her fairly quickly.

“How are things going?” she asked, her voice anxious.

“Mostly uneventful,” I answered.  “Just one little sudden cyclops attack.  We found Rolof.  And Ameras.  We’re working on our next move.”

“A cyclops attack?” she asked, her voice sounding surprised and upset.

“It was just the one.  We contended with it,” I said, defensively.  “How are things at the cave?”

“I’m learning a lot,” she admitted, though I could tell she didn’t want to change the subject.  “Forseti is teaching me things about our ancestors.  It’s pretty interesting,” she said, cautiously.  “There’s still a lot I don’t understand, and I have to pause and ask him questions . . . which leads to more questions.”

“Our ancestors were a sophisticated people,” I agreed.

“More than you suspect.  Forseti has been teaching me about colonial government and our early history.  Did you know that there were over a hundred thousand people involved in the initial phase of colonization?” she asked.  “Terraformers, surveyors, scientists, engineers . . . the machines they had!” she said.

“You’re talking through one of them,” I agreed.  “When I get back, I want to bring you up to this lake for a day.  I don’t want to explain why, and ruin the surprise, but I think you’ll be gratified.”

“You said you found Rolof?  And Ameras?” she asked.  “Are they going to help?”

“I think we’ve persuaded them,” I answered.  “They are at least open to the idea.  We’re headed to the vault, today.  Just to take a look.  We’ll see what happens afterwards.”

“But you’re sure you’re all right?” she asked.  “No trouble from the gurvani?”

“Not so far,” I sighed.  “But we’re well-defended.  These weapons are effective, as we found with the cyclops.  I’m not concerned.”

“I am!” she insisted.  “Nattia reported that she saw signs of them near that forbidden forest and crossing the Plain of Pillars.  They’re on both sides of you!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I soothed, as I glanced toward the island in the middle of the lake.  Avius had awakened, and after stretching her legs and wings, she took flight.  “We’ve made some good friends, while we’ve been out here.”

“Who?” she demanded.  “The lizard people?  Forseti explained to me about the lizard people.  They’re supposed to be intelligent!”  She sounded scandalized by the idea.

“They’re supposedly the descendants of scientists and researchers, so I’d imagine they have that capacity,” I agreed.  “But we haven’t seen any, yet.  We aren’t planning on heading anywhere close to their territory, to my knowledge.  But I’ll let you know if that changes,” I promised, as Avius made a single lazy circle around the lake and then started to glide in toward the little cove where we were encamped.  “Uh, I think I have to go,” I warned Alya, over the radio.  “I have to talk to a dragon.  Love you!”

“Minalan!  What?  Are you joking?” she demanded, anxiously.

“I’ll explain later,” I promised.  “I have to go, now!  Farewell!” I said, shutting off the device before she could protest further.  Avius landed gracefully in the water just as I set it down.  “Hail, Avius!” I called to her, waving.

Hail, Minalan, the dragon replied.  Did you enjoy the show, last night?

“It was magnificent!” I agreed.  “Your own part, included.”

My part?  What did I do? she asked, confused.  I just watched.

“I think you underestimate just how majestic you look in flight,” I flattered.  “With the shadows and the graceful flying and the gout of dragon fire?  That was spectacular to see,” I assured her.

Well, you are nice to say so, Avius said, clearly pleased.  Do you really think so?

“I do.  It is sad that your folk were used so horrendously by the Enshadowed, else I think my people would be tempted to admire you to the point of adoration.  Or even worship you, like the lizard people.”

They are foolish, she said, chuckling in my head.  But they mean well.  And they are not even remotely as interesting as you are.  They’re worried about hunting and protecting their eggs, and that’s about it.

“Most species’ concerns are similar,” I said, coming down to the edge of the water as the dragon pushed her head closer.  I was still tempted to suddenly run away screaming, but I mastered my baser emotions.  “Eating and reproduction are constant concerns for all living things.  Your own kind must have some similar anxieties over them,” I suggested.

I suppose we do, she agreed.  But once those are satisfied, we can converse on other topics.  At least I can, she amended.  But the lizard folk seem obsessive about it.

“I’m curious,” I said, taking a seat on a rock near the water.  “What would you do with a nest of eggs?  I’m informed that is how your folk reproduce.”

Oh, I escaped before I could be bred, she assured.  They were planning on it, too.  But if I had been, I suppose I would have protected them until they hatched.

“The reason that I ask is that, sadly, the Enshadowed forced one of you to attack one of our castles.  She was killed in the attack,” I said, carefully not thinking about just who was involved in that particular dragon slaying.  “It was discovered, afterwards, that the poor thing was near to laying her eggs.  Two were recovered,” I reported.

You have . . . two eggs? Avius asked, her head jerking up at the news.  I tried not to piss myself.  It may have been impolite.  Two dragon eggs?

“Apparently,” I nodded, digging out my pipe with sweaty palms.  I realized that one casual bit of dragon fire at this range and I would be cooked like a joint of mutton.  “We have them in safe keeping.”

If they are not with a dragon, then they are not truly safe! she insisted.  You must bring them to me!

“Would you hatch them, if I did?” I asked, curious.  “The Alka Alon are attempting to hatch them, now.”

And then enslave them, she insisted, with a snort.  They will not be free.  Bring them to me, she urged.  I will tend them.  They will not hatch unless they are kept warm.  Warm with dragon fire, she added.

“I will . . . I will discuss it with the Council,” I agreed.  “If I can, I will send them to you.  Just to keep them out of the hands of the Enshadowed.  If you can promise to keep them safely up here, in the north, and away from the temptation of eating a couple of castles.”

They will not want to leave this place, she agreed.  They cannot speak, elsewhere.  If you cannot speak, then you cannot think.

“It’s a little more complicated than that, I think, but I understand what you are saying.  I will look into the matter and see what I can accomplish.”

I will not allow any more of us to be enslaved, she insisted, as she growled low in her throat.  By anyone.  I would be vexed at that.

I suppose you couldn’t put it more simply than that – or mistake the threat she implied.

We chatted for another thirty minutes or so, and I was intrigued by how intelligent Avius was.  She was still learning sophistication, in some ways, so it was similar to speaking to a very intelligent child who had a very different upbringing than most, and far different perspective; but once you overcame that, Avius was actually quite pleasant to talk to.

She excused herself for an extended flight around the valley, once I told her that we were going to head away from the lake.  The rest of camp had already been broken by the others, and Travid and Tyndal had the horses saddled.  We’d had to picket them away from the lake, thanks to the smell of dragon.  Horses were generally skittish around the scent, I’d noticed.

Ameras rode double with Rolof, who had taken Travid’s mount.  The Kasari ranger walked, carrying his rifle, alert for any danger.  I kept my own weapons ready.  The forests around the lake may have been relatively peaceful, according to Rolof, but I was getting used to the surprises Anghysbel seemed to hold around every turn.  Indeed, we enjoyed another mild earthquake, midmorning, as we crossed from the forested highlands of the ridge into the deep vale below – the Gouge, Rolof called it.

From there, the country turned to desert.  That is, the plants grew smaller and more sparsely across the land, and the bare earth beneath became more prominent.  It had a savage beauty all its own, as the rock formations and mineral deposits of the Plain of Pillars gave way to drifts of sandy soil and stony outcroppings.  We tarried at the edge of the desolation, proper, for luncheon by a spring before we watered the horses and entered the last phase of the journey.

Soon we came to another rise, one that continued up to a large, barren hill.  It wasn’t nearly as large as the Kilnusk’s mountain, but it was impressive in its own way.  Ameras led us up a tiny path, past a trickle of river that ran through the desolation from the hill through a channel far larger than the stream seemed to warrant.

“This is the site of the vault’s entrance,” Ameras reported, as we came to a gently sloping expanse of nearly barren rock.  “It sits only a few hundred yards away from the eastern jevolar.  It was very difficult to construct without magic,” she added.  “It was a great challenge for the skill of the Karshak.”

There was a kind of longish grotto that stretched across the northern slope, an overhanging cliff under which we rode.  To my surprise, there was a hole under the cliff, concealed by the shadow.

“It’s a lava tube,” Ormar observed.  “These things are all over the place, up here.”

“It’s an expedient way to reach the deep places in the earth,” Rolof answered.

We tied up the horses and descended the lava tube, which opened into a cavern, and a small, steaming underground lake, I saw.  When we got closer, Lilastien used her tekka tray to provide some light.  Enough to see where the torches were.   Travid had them lit in a jiffy, and soon we were able to see the entrance of the vault, behind the pond.

“Behold, the Arsenal of Kova Salainen,” Ameras said, with a wistful sigh.  “It has not been opened in my lifetime.”

Along the wall were several deeply carved scenes of Alka Alon historical figures, I was assuming, as well as abstract patterns and hieroglyphs of some sort.  Toward the center of the wall, opposite the pond, was a large round stele with a particular design.  I paused and studied it, before I recognized it from memory: the night sky of the Alon homeworld, and the constellation of stars.  A symbol of Alka Alon sovereignty.

“The entrance is ahead,” Ameras called to us, as she walked up the wide stairs that had been cut into the rock to lead to that level.  “It’s big,” she warned us.

And it was.  At least thirty feet across and twenty high, a massive slab of stone within a gracefully pointed arch of Alka Alon design and Karshak workmanship.  There was an elaborate design carved into the face of the door, nearly four feet wide.  There were no other markings.  Or locks.  Or any hardware or other design on it.  It could have been part of the wall, for all I knew.

“That is one big door,” Taren said, as Ormar whistled, appreciatively.

“It would have to be, to allow some of the artefacts it contains to pass,” Lilastien agreed.

“So, how thick is it?” Taren asked, eyeing the great doorway.

“That is unknown, but it is likely very thick,” Ameras supplied.  “It was designed to withstand any assault on it, by nature or beast.  Even a dragon,” she added.

“I don’t know, if a dragon hosed that thing with dragon fire long enough, it might weaken it,” Ormar conjectured.

“They would run out of fire long before that door was harmed,” Ameras said, shaking her head.

“What is that decoration in the center?” I asked, curious.

“The Seal of the Aronin,” Lilastien explained.  “It places this entire place under their dominion.  None are allowed to open the vault without their permission.”

“I’m having a hard time thinking that permission is going to be enough to open that thing,” Tyndal said, tapping on the great expanse of stone.  “I can’t even tell if it opens in, up, down, out, or what.  There’s not so much as a knocker on it.”

“Do we have your permission to attempt to open it, Ameras?” I asked.  “Upon the request of the Alka Alon Council?”

“You may try,” she conceded, after a long pause.  “I have tried, myself, to no avail.”

“Then it won’t hurt for us to try,” Tyndal nodded.  “And, just to warn you, I’m feeling particularly clever, today.  And I had a big breakfast, this morning.”  To demonstrate, he pushed mightily at the door, then tried to slide it with the pressure of his palms.  Of course, it did not move a bit.

“I’m thinking maybe thirty, forty pounds of Dragon Cotton might get through it, if it’s less than eight feet thick,” Ormar predicted.  “Of course, it might just take the top off this bloody hill, too.”

“What about these things?” I asked, unslinging my plasma rifle.  Ameras looked startled.  Lilastien shrugged.

“You can try, but I wouldn’t expect much,” she suggested.  “But let’s move away a bit.  It’s rare for plasma to ricochet, but I don’t feel up for a surprise today.”

I nodded, and everyone cleared the door while I charged up the weapon and took aim at the great seal at the center.  When I pulled the trigger – not once, but five times – each bright red bolt of energy from the gun splashed harmlessly over the sigil.  There was barely a scorch mark left on it, though the stone was hot to the touch.

“That’s twelve hundred degrees of plasma accelerated to a quarter of the speed of light,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.  “Enough power to punch through six inches of solid steel like parchment.”

“They made a very good door,” Ormar nodded, impressed.

We tried everything we could think of.  Wedges in the crack at the bottom, pressing various parts of the seal to see if they might activate any hidden switches, catches, counterweights, or latches . . . but nothing.  Ameras and Lilastien tried various incantations in Alka Alon.  Taren used his spear to test the edges of the door.  Travid looked for hidden catches.  Even Fondaras took a crack at it, as if staring thoughtfully would open it.

Eventually, we all stood around the thing and just stared at it.  We’d been at it for two hours.  We were no closer to opening the thing than we were when we walked in.

“Magic would be a handy thing to have, about now,” Tyndal remarked.

“It would certainly simplify things,” I agreed.  I’d tried to invoke some slip of power with the Magolith, but it was as dead and cold as the stone door we faced.  “There has to be a nonmagical method of opening it.  Just as there was with the Cave of the Ancients,” I reminded them.

“But we had a key to that mysterious ancient cavern,” Tyndal pointed out.  “Are you sure your dad didn’t give you some sort of key?” he asked Ameras.

“I think I would have remembered,” Ameras said, dryly.

“It looks like we’re going to have to speak with the dead to learn how to open it,” Taren fumed.  “That’s awfully inconvenient.”

“Hopeless quests often are,” Ormar pointed out.  “How about acid?  We could use an acid, I think.”

“I don’t think so,” Lilastien disagreed.  “That door is made of some sort of basalt.  It would take centuries even to mar it with acid, much less weaken it.”

“I’m fresh out of ideas,” admitted Taren, regretfully.  “Really, who makes a door you can’t open?”

“My people excel at that sort of thing,” Lilastien answered.  “Well, we wanted to see it.  We’ve seen it.  Unless anyone has better ideas, we should probably go if we want to make it back to the ridge before dark.”  She turned and walked back down toward the constellation mural.

“That was disappointing,” Taren fumed, as we rode back down the trail.  “I really hoped we could figure it out.  Without help from beyond the grave.”

“The price of knowledge.  We weren’t meant to, else we would have,” Fondaras suggested.

“I’m less fatalistic about that sort of thing,” Tyndal said.  “Just because I haven’t figured it out yet doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“That door was designed to withstand just about anything,” Lilastien agreed, “even Tyndal.”

“They can’t possibly have factored me into their equations,” Tyndal boasted.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your pecker is gigantic,” Ormar grumbled.  “You should have slapped it against the door a couple of times.  I bet you could have knocked it down in no time.”

“I have studied the matter for years, now,” admitted Rolof with a small smile.  “Ameras and I both have.  No craft in our experience suggests how it may be done.  If you’d like to try rubbing your privates against it, you may do so.  But I don’t think it will work.”

“There has to be some sort of counterweight mechanism,” Taren offered.  “Something to contend with the great weight of the thing.  It’s the only way it could be done, without magic.”

“My people are subtle, and the lines of the Aronins the most subtle of them all,” Ameras offered.  “I’ve tried to remember everything my father ever told me about Kova Salainen.  Everything.  And I’ve tried every possible approach I even suspected might work.  There is a lot of obscure lore about the place, but nothing that I’ve found that gives me the slightest idea of how to open it.  I’ve tried singing, chanting, words of power, I even invited some Kilnusk up here to take a crack at it.  They tried every means of their craft, to no avail.  Even throwing themselves at it.  The door will not budge.”

“The only thing that’s encouraging about that is that if we’re having this much difficulty figuring it out, it is unlikely the Enshadowed will have any better luck,” I pointed out.  “That should keep them from invading the arsenal.  That is what your father feared the most.”

“That would be disastrous,” Ameras agreed.  “The devastation that they could wreak on the world would be appalling.  That is the reason the vault was built in the first place.”

“I know,” I sighed.  “Perhaps the dead will have a solution.  But it will require us to rethink our strategies on a number of fronts.  And it will have the Alka Alon Council in a fit, when they realize they cannot access their means of escape from this world.”

“If our people are trapped here, it will be good to have their company,” Taren said, a little bitterness in his voice.

“There has to be a solution,” I murmured to myself.  “There has to be.  To the door, to the war, and to the greater crisis that looms over Callidore.”

“Wiser minds than ours have determined otherwise,” Lilastien said, diplomatically.  “Truly, the high councils of all the Alka Alon realms have considered it for thousands of years.  The Vundel have all but given up.  Without the Celestial Mothers, there is no hope.”

“I refuse to accept that premise,” I said, shaking my head.  “Not when so much is possible.  It would help if we understood the problem better.”

“It appears the unopenable door is an apt metaphor for our greater predicament,” Fondaras remarked.  “Perhaps an answer lies behind it.  Perhaps our destruction.  What price for knowledge?”

“Well, if we cannot complete that portion of our quest, we should get on with the other bits,” Tyndal suggested.

“It is what we can do,” I agreed.  “Rolof?  Are you willing to lead us to the striekema tomorrow?”

“I can,” he agreed.  “We can stop at my croft for the night and start afresh on the morrow.  The Leshwood is not someplace you want to be at night,” he added, forebodingly.  “It is dangerous enough during the day.”

“Why is it so dangerous?” Ormar asked, anxiously.

“It is the abode of the Leshi,” he explained.  “They are unlike humans or Alon.  They oversee their brethren and tend the forest.”

“And they are dangerous?” Ormar repeated.

“Yes.  But not usually to humans or Alon.  But there are other things within the wood that are.  The Leshi are a branch of the Met Sakinsa,” he explained.

“Ah!” Lilastien said, with a look of appreciation.  “The Moonriders have a colony here?  I would think that the jevolar would keep them away.”

“The Leshi have evolved to exist in its shadow,” Ameras informed us.  “They are not as advanced or as sophisticated as many of the Met Sakinsa, but they persist.  They, like me, hold guardianship of this land, though for different reasons.  Their grove was implanted here tens of thousands of years ago and persists to uphold that guardianship.”

“What do they guard?” Taren asked.

“They ward the lands from the Kurja,” she explained.  “When they emerge from their caverns, the Leshi and their servants keep them from leaving Anghysbel.  That would be disastrous,” she added.  “They were planted here for that purpose, despite the lack of magic.  The Leshi are so sensitive to the world that they have managed to survive here without it, when most Met Sakinsa require it, in one form or another.”

“I’ve always been fascinated by the Met Sakinsa,” admitted Lilastien.  “In other realms there are great swaths of their forests.  Here, only a few linger.  I had no idea there was one here in the realm of the jevolar.  Fascinating!”

“So, what’s the big deal about that?” Ormar asked.  “They’re just another nonhuman race.  Like Alon or the lizard people or the Vundel.”

Lilastien smiled indulgently.  “No, my friend, the Met Sakinsa are nothing like us – or the lizard people.  And certainly not like the Vundel.  The Moonriders are a special gift to Callidore, one that has protected and defended the Dry since they came here on that pretty little green moon, eons ago.

“Once they roamed everywhere, and their forests covered large portions of the world.  That was long before the Alon came here.  Now they mostly inhabit one continent on the other side of the world, the one on which the Grandfather Tree grows.  Oh, there are still groves of them, but they are content with where they are and rarely seek any interaction with other races.  But they do have a very protective streak in them.  And they understand commitment to a cause.  That’s likely why the Leshi were selected to guard something dangerous.”

“What makes them so special?” the alchemist demanded.  “Do they swing through the trees like Farisian monkeys?”

“No, Ormar,” Rolof said, shaking his head.  “They are the trees.”

Chapter Thirty

The Leshwood

I’ve been intrigued by the Moonriders since I was a girl and languished that there wasn’t a proper grove around to study.  If the Leshi are any indication of the complexity of the species, there are lifetimes of research that could be done on this amazing race.  Alka Alon lifetimes, not the passing interest of ephemeral men.  Their basic biology is understood by both men and Alka Alon, but our knowledge extends only so far.  The Met Sakinsa are one of the great races of Callidore, and yet we know very little about them.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

The Met Sakinsa, as Lilastien has often told me, were brought to Callidore by the Vundel during a time of great need.  The Celestial Mothers and the Formless were at war – a conflict that lasted over ten thousand years – and the Vundel were losing.

Part of the reason, she explained, was because while Callidore’s vast oceans were teeming with life (over five times more genetic variety than Terra’s oceans, according to Forseti) the lifeforms that had colonized the land were underdeveloped and anemic.  The Celestial Mothers’ reach just did not extend to the Dry, and the Formless took great advantage of that.  They had no trouble moving from the oceans to the land, though they were more potent in the former.  They had entire races of servitor species to do their bidding against the undersea powers.

When things got desperate, one of the Celestial Mothers made contact across the Void with another species, which was also desperate.

The Met Sakinsa’s world was dying, though Lilastien could not tell me why, and they would be extinct if they could not move to another world where magic worked efficiently, like Callidore.  The Met Sakinsa vowed to fight the Formless in exchange for refuge on the magically potent world.

So, with a little assistance from the Celestial Mothers, a colony of the Met Sakinsa arranged to have an entire moon transported from their star system to Callidore.  It can be seen to this day, a small green disk that travels through the southern sky, making a circuit around our world every seven days.

What made the colony unique in Callidore’s experience was the nature of the colonists.  For while the Celestial Mothers had often invited aquatic and amphibious species to settle here, the Met Sakinsa were far more comfortable on land.  On dirt, specifically.  For they were a sapient species made up entirely of plants.

It took a few centuries for the Moonriders (as the Alka Alon colorfully named them) to transfer their seed stocks from the moonlet to the surface of the planet, but the Met Sakinsa are hardy and thorough.  Once their more active colonists grew to maturity, they began to hunt the Formless and their allies across the Dry.

The Met Sakinsa were both sophisticated and relentless; with little to compete against in the local ecosystem, their fecund colony soon began to grow forests across the lands of Callidore.  Not all of them were mobile, of course; according to Lilastien, only about a tithe of them could actually move, and then only during a portion of their life cycle.  But they had plenty of subsidiary species that grew rapidly, and that provided the active members of the colony to pursue the enemies of the Celestial Mothers for centuries.

Eventually, they won.  The Met Sakinsa had natural magical abilities that allowed them to contend with the Formless on land, and the battles were heated.  But the Formless had a difficult time replenishing their forces while the Met Sakinsa were able to produce a great force in just a few centuries.  And everywhere they went, they left sprouts of their client species behind them.  When the Alon came here, they were mesmerized by some of the remaining forests, though they brought a goodly number of trees from their homeworld with them.  A good deal of the natavia flora that still existed on Callidore was from the simpler forms of the Met Sakinsa.  A good deal of the insect life, too – they domesticated a vast range of insects for specialized tasks.

The last of the Formless was eventually driven from land, and the last of the Celestial Mothers imprisoned them in the Deeps.  Their vow fulfilled, the Met Sakinsa largely withdrew from most of Callidore and retreated to one large island (or small continent), which they proceeded to cover with their descendants.  Supposedly there were thousands and thousands of hectares of moving forest there surrounding the Grandfather Tree, which I assumed was either a leader, or an object of cultic worship, or both.

It all seemed fantastic, from my perspective.  The idea of plants that could move, that could walk, was more fable than fact, to my experience.

But now I was staring at a wall of forest that promised to contain several varieties.  Many of them quite deadly even without magic.

“You have to be especially wary of the vines,” Rolof instructed us, as we approached the edge of the Leshwood.  It was very clearly defined, as a particular kind of tree seemed to act as a border between the wood and the rest of the world.  These were long, straight, smooth-barked evergreens, but with the tell-tale traces of the Met Sakinsa.  “What looks like a mere vine to you may well be some organ of some creature a dozen yards away.”

“I still don’t understand how trees can move,” Ormar grumbled.  “It defies science!”

“The Met Sakinsa differ from either Alon or Terran flora in their sophistication,” Lilastien agreed.  “I’ve studied the basics of their biology both as an Avalanti sage and as a humani biologist.

“Our plants tend to be fairly simple,” she began to lecture.  “Water, minerals, and sunshine; root, stem, and leaf.  The focus is on photosynthesis and propagation.

“The Met Sakinsa have evolved far more sophisticated and specialized biology.  In addition to the xylem and floem of our plant life – the Alka Alon call those the cartha and the zotha – the Met Sakinsa have three other systems to accommodate their biological needs.  The first is a sensing system the Alka Alon call the bolatha; it’s remarkably adept at optical sensing, as well as atmospheric sensing and detecting sound.”  To demonstrate, she stopped by one of the border trees and clapped.

Immediately, a few of what I first thought were nuts opened.

“This is a primitive eye, believe it or not,” she said, grabbing one of the things behind the stalk.  “Very simple and designed to detect movement more than shape or color or brightness.  This one,” she said, grasping another limb and revealing a kind of cone at the end of it, “detects sounds in a certain range.  These are met threna, sentry trees.  They aren’t sapient, but if they’re planted in a perimeter around something, they can be trained to send up an alert if something approaches.”

“What kind of alert?” Taren asked, curious.

“A high-pitched sound, and they release a pheromone that can be detected very quickly,” Ameras answered.  “The sound can be difficult for humans to hear, but we Alon have sharper ears,” she said, managing to wiggle hers for emphasis.  “It’s making it now.”

She was correct, I didn’t hear a thing.

“Bolatha is the mechanism for feedback that allows the Met Sakinsa to react to more than rain and sunshine,” Lilastien continued, releasing the bough.  “It is highly sensitive, both to mundane and magical forces.  The Met Sakinsa don’t merely passively sit there and photosynthesize, like our plants.  They will look around and see where it’s sunny, where it’s wet, or what kind of delicious nutrients and minerals in the soil . . . and then go there.”

“It’s the going there part that I’m still hazy on,” Ormar admitted.

“That’s the relatha system.  The second system concerns the use of specialized organelles,” Lilastien continued, “many of which use magic in some capacity as part of the XATP transfer chain.  It can become a filtration system, a defense system, an energy production system, reproductive system, or, to answer your question, a kind of woody muscle tissue responsive to stimuli.  One strong enough to leverage a Met Sakinsa tree out of its rooting and propel it across the land.

“The Met Sakinsa have an astonishing variety of such specialized organelles.  Roots that can be moved into a stream for a drink, or branches that can extend leaves high into the air or back down.  Tissues that can produce toxic chemicals, or pheromones, or specialized saps for specialized purposes.  Branches and roots that can communicate through alchemical means.  Organelles that can produce sound, or even light.”

“That would seem to require conscious thought,” Fondaras remarked, studying the sentry tree.

“And that brings us to the third system,” Lilastien nodded.  “What the Alon call the dremaratha.  A very specific type of tissue that acts as a kind of nervous system for them.  Only it’s very diffuse, compared to an animal’s nervous system.  The only large nodes of it tend to be at the deep core of an individual, where it interacts with the other systems.  In the more primitive species, it allows basic reaction to stimuli and response.  In the more complex, it allows a much wider range of self-awareness and more nuanced reaction.  In the most complex, it allows for conscious, sapient thought, memory and communication.”

“That’s fascinating,” I admitted.  “So, they come in a lot of varieties.”

“Hundreds,” agreed Rolof, as he strode through a part in the sentry trees and began searching for something in the boughs behind them.  “Among the most advanced are the Leshi.  During their life cycle, for a few hundred years they enter a phase of dramatically increased activity.  It’s their reproductive phase.  During it, they can move as easily as a man and sometimes faster.  They can make great journeys in search of a more beneficial environment.  But it takes a lot of energy, and after a certain level of growth they will often take root permanently, somewhere.”

“That’s when their bolatha, dremaratha, and their relatha kind of fuse into one special organelle that allows a strange kind of connection to the distant Grandfather Tree,” Lilastien explained, as Rolof plucked a few fruits from a tree.  “That’s when the Leshi get really interesting.  They can see through each other’s eyes and know each other’s thoughts, all through that connection.  Usually, the adults rooted in a community will share that information and communication to the younger, more mobile Leshi.”

“Here, smear this on your faces,” Rolof advised, cutting the fruits he’d harvested in half.  They produced a clear fluid from the spongey yellow interior.  “This will keep some of the plants from attacking us.  It has a pheromone in it.”

“Keep the plants from attacking us?” Ormar asked, skeptically, as he took a handful of the goop.

“Most of them are not particularly dangerous,” dismissed Travid, as he smeared the substance across his face.  “Usually you’ll just get a bad rash, or be pricked by thorns.  But there are some more aggressive.”

“And more insidious,” Rolof affirmed.  “There are some very toxic species, if you mess with them.  Don’t eat or taste anything unless I instruct you to.”

“Don’t forget about the insects,” reminded Ameras, as she painted her face.  “Those can be as bad as the plants.”

“As if my day couldn’t improve,” Ormar griped, sarcastically.

“It’s just a relaxing walk in the woods,” Fondaras shrugged, and rubbed the substance on his forehead.

It was not a relaxing walk in the woods.

We went on foot, as the horses would not come near the sentry trees.  We picketed them within sight of the forest before we plunged into the Leshwood.  Within twenty paces it was clear that we were not in a normal forest.  Normal forests don’t have bushes swinging actively through the trees.

Everything I had seen in thus far in Anghysbel seemed mundane once I went into the Leshwood.  As remarkable as the other exotic creatures I’d witnessed were, the darkened confines of the Leshwood contained some astonishing sights.  While most of the trees persisted in being stationary, there were plenty that moved in some form or fashion.  And not slowly, like a well-brought-up fir or pine tree might.  They weren’t dancing in the wind.  They were moving their boughs and branches quite actively . . . and I found it unnerving.

I saw one specimen use what looked like a twiggy, specialized branch to swipe away a cloud of insects that seemed to be attacking one of its . . . well, I don’t really know what it was.  But it was clustered along one branch and the bugs were apparently annoying it.  A swift pass of the swatting branch sent the bugs fleeing.

A few moments later I saw a similar branch on a very different tree sweep a large insect the size of my hand into a cavity behind a ridge of its trunk.  A quiet rumbling resulted.  I realized that the thing was chewing.

“Many of the plants in the Leshwood actively seek nitrogen, calcium, and other minerals,” explained Ameras, as she noted my shock.  “It’s often easier to harvest it from animal species than seek it out in the soil.”

“They consume other animal proteins, too,” Lilastien agreed.  “Mostly insects, but they don’t eschew mammals or even fish.  It depends on the variety.  Some are large enough to consume an entire Alon.”

“Fascinating,” Ormar said, sounding less than fascinated.  A prickly looking bush about the size of a dog seemed to be sniffing at his heel.

“Olmeg would love this place,” I remarked, as he kicked at the bush.  It seemed to shake, and then wandered off on a hundred little moving roots.

“The grove of the Leshi is a half mile or so ahead, up a hill,” Rolof said, peering through the forest.  “I have a few friends there.”

“You would consider it a village,” Ameras explained.  “There are a few score Leshi there, usually.  It’s where the Father Trees root.  There is a spring there that they like, and the drainage is good.”

“Others have . . . homes, of a sort, off in the greater wood,” Rolof related to us as he gently pushed a vine aside.  It slithered away.  I wasn’t certain if it was some far-flung organelle of a tree or an independent entity.  Either way made my skin crawl.  “The Leshi come in many shapes and sizes,” he continued.  “They have the ability to influence the way they grow.  If they decide they need another eye, or another leg, they grow one.  As well as many other limbs.  They don’t have faces, as such, but you can usually tell which way they’re facing.”

“That must be handy,” Taren said.

“It can be,” agreed Rolof.  “They have a lot of specialized limbs, so to speak.”  He paused and smacked away a little fluffy bush out of the path as if it were a skunk.  “Ishi’s tits, I hate those things,” he said, with a sneer.  “It’s not uncommon to see a Lesh with five arms, for instance, or five legs.  Though the females tend to have more.  There are around three females to every male,” he added.

“How do you tell males from females?” Ormar asked, with a smirk.  “Do you have to lift them up?”

“By the fruit and flowers,” Ameras answered.  “The Leshi maids blossom – literally.  And they fruit up after the pollination, in the Spring.  Also, by their longer eyelashes,” she added, helpfully.

“Leshi pollen is a potent aphrodisiac,” Rolof said, glancing at Ameras for a meaningful moment.  “For human and Alon.  But the Leshi maidens get the most of it.  They come to fruit over the summer and then plant the seedlings in the autumn.  There are entire groves of saplings, waiting to come to maturity around the Father Trees.”

“It’s an odd existence for us mammals to consider,” Ameras said, with a hint of a guilty blush.  “But the Leshi have wisdom and power, even without magic.”

“Can they speak?” asked Taren, curious.

“Quite well,” agreed Rolof.  “They can grow an organ that mimics human speech.  And their hearing is quite keen.  They know many languages,” he said, thoughtfully.  “Both humani and Alon.  Once they learn one, they all know it,” he confided.

That, I decided, was even more handy an ability than being able to grow a couple of extra arms.

“Checkpoint, ahead,” Rolof said, suddenly.  “Whatever you do, don’t do anything rash or threatening.”

We were approaching another stand of sentry trees, only these all had some bright golden flowers on them that seemed to watch us, even if they barely moved.  Rolof halted at the spot before an obvious gap in the line of sentry trees, where our path naturally led.  I halted dutifully behind the half-crazed wizard and watched, as he leaned on his staff and patiently waited.  There didn’t seem to be any real reason for his hesitation.

That is, until a few moments later, when a strangely familiar bunch of leaves began to sprout on either side of the path.

“Hisstoroli,” Lilastien hissed into my ear.  “The Council uses them to guard the Tower of Refuge!”

I wasn’t exactly certain what I was watching, but the two plants began to grow in a preternaturally fast pace.  From sprouting to forming four or five feet high, the process only took moments.  Soon, two leafy bushes seemed to regard us in a threatening manner.

“I am Rolof the Wizard,” my friend informed them.  “I come to see my friend Bomoadua.”

“Entrance is forbidden!” one of the vegetables insisted, bristling alarmingly.

“No one may pass!” the other demanded.

“I will wait,” Rolof said, patiently.

“Entrance is forbidden!” the first one repeated.

“No one may pass!” the other parroted.

“What if they don’t tell your friends that you’re here?” asked Ormar.

“They have known since the sentry trees on the frontier began keening,” Ameras whispered.  “Just be patient!”

“Just how intelligent are these things?” Taren asked, intrigued.

“About as smart as a head of Romain,” Lilastien answered.  “They have to be trained to their tasks, like tomatoes.”

“But, I’m guessing, they are formidable, if challenged,” I predicted.

“From what I understand, you faced some of the hisstoroli back at my place,” Lilastien murmured.  “They’re like guard dogs: strong, loud, but not smart.  The Council has adopted their use, in cases like mine.  As if I posed some danger . . .” she added, disgusted.

“A few of these in your Forbidden Forest wouldn’t be amiss,” Taren pointed out, quietly.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking notes,” I promised, in a low voice.

“Entrance is forbidden!” the plant yelled at us.

“No one may pass!” the other answered.  Their voices were a kind of hollow timbre, and they accompanied their shouting with a belligerent shaking.

They were about to repeat their warning once again when a looming shape pushed its way through the hedge, branches first.  Thick, woody branches, covered with a fine-grained bark . . . but they moved like arms.  They parted the hisstoroli without consideration, and another branch extended between them.  At the end of it was a more complex version of the nut-like eye Lilastien showed us before, surrounded by needle-like leaves.  The eye did, indeed, have big fluffy eyelashes around the perimeter.

“Hail, Bomoadua!” Rolof called, waving his arm at the branch.  “I come with Ameras and other friends.  We would have counsel with you and ask you a boon,” he explained, reasonably enough.

It took a moment, as the eye branch swiveled back and forth to stare at us.  Another branch with an odd spiral-shaped organ also appeared a moment later.  Then a third, this one with a dark brown gourd-like fruit covered with small pits or holes.

“Animals!  Ro-lofff,” the gourd sounded.  It was as if someone was using a bellows to force air into it.  “Ameras.  And friends.”

“May we come in, Bomoadua?” Ameras asked, politely.

“Welcome,” the gourd said, after a pause, and gestured with its eyestalk.  A moment later the two hisstoroli shuffled aside and revealed the rest of the Lesh.

It was large, more than fourteen-feet tall at its leafy crown, which was supported by four branches protruding from a stumpy-looking trunk.  The roots – or at least the branches on the ground, I had no idea if they were true roots – curled around the base of the trunk and seemed to be split into three main sections before they joined at the trunk.  Smaller branches bearing all sorts of different growths protruded from the thick center in every direction.  Across her canopy were dozens of strange flowers and a few fruit-like growths in various stages of development.  Surprisingly, she smelled really nice. The flowers, of course.

It was like talking with an apple tree, somehow.

“Follow me to the moot meadow,” the Lesh instructed us, and then began to move through the grove on what was clearly a kind of path.  “We can talk there.”

“Bomoadua was who first found me, when I emerged from the cave of Szal the Yith,” Rolof confided, as we each passed through the hedge.  “She kept some unpleasantness from happening to me in my confused state.  Then she got me help.  Her name is Alka Alon for Bountiful Friendship.  She’s really just that nice.  That was an awful night,” he said, shaking his head at the memory.

“That’s a she?” Tyndal asked, surprised, as he passed by the Lesh.

“Obviously,” Taren snorted, as he gave the Lesh a quick bow.  “Didn’t you see the eyelashes?”

“I suppose I’d have to meet a male to really tell the difference,” Tyndal decided, as we emerged into the grove.

“It’s going to be more than eyelashes, I think,” Ormar said, as another Lesh ambled by on four stubby legs.  “Just check out the melons on that one!”  The Lesh, indeed, had a cluster of melon-like growths on the rear – I think it was her rear – of her canopy.

“That must be a male,” Fondaras observed, pointing, as we were led deeper into the grove.  The trees – the permanently growing trees – thinned out more on the other side of the hedge, creating spaces and avenues for the Leshi to traverse.  There was a score or more shambling through the paths.  The one the footwizard indicated was significantly taller than Bomoadua, and of a visually different composition.

The male Lesh rose to nearly twenty feet, at the top of its pointy crown, and seemed to be more evergreen than deciduous, with dark green needles growing along its trunk and canopy in uneven clumps.  The bark-like skin was different, too, rougher and thicker than Bomoadua’s.  It had only two great legs, and they split far higher than the female Lesh’s.  And there were fewer limbs, though they seemed thicker and stronger than the females.

It did not bother to turn to regard us, when it passed, but one of its eye stalks gave us a long stare.  I felt like it was determining if we were a threat.  Apparently not, as it continued on its way with long strides of its legs.

“This is another wonder I never imagined I’d see,” Fondaras said, staring at everything as intently as he could.

“Few humans have,” Rolof agreed.  “The Leshi value their privacy and do not suffer lesser beings lightly.  But they are not heartless.  Indeed, they are a people of great feeling once you gain their trust.  It was Bomoadua’s compassion that compelled her to fight off the raggi that were attacking me, that night.”

“Raggi?” Ormar asked.

“Think of it as a particularly vicious blackberry bush,” Ameras said, after a moment’s thought.  “Only with four-inch poisonous thorns.”  The image made the alchemist wince.

“The raggi are vermin,” Bomoadua said, with a shudder of her leaves.  “They let their foul berries fall just anywhere, with no respect for the rest of the world.  No intelligent being should fall to such filth.  I took pity on Rolof.”

“And I made a friend,” the wizard nodded, as we strode through the grove.  I was starting to identify a certain wild pattern to the way the trees and plants were situated, though it was difficult to understand.  “Several, in fact.”

“Rolof enjoys coming here and speaking to the Leshi as much as I like talking to Avius,” Ameras agreed.  “They tolerate us, for the news we sometimes bring.”

“It’s not toleration, I genuinely enjoy your company,” Bomoadua assured, slowly, as we came to a grassy break in the grove.  It seemed to be a kind of common area, filled with strange grasses in a dozen shades of green and bright dashes of every other color under the sun, as thousands of strange wildflowers swayed in the summer breeze.

At one edge of the gently sloping meadow was a wide pond, surrounded by rocks and dominated by one particularly large outcropping at one end.  There were scores of shrubs and other small trees scattered around the wide meadow, and here and there stood clusters of Leshi.  I didn’t know if they were talking, trading or just taking in the afternoon sun, but they barely noticed us, to my eye.

“Would you like a drink?” Bomoadua asked, as one of her eyes gestured toward the pond.  “Or something to eat?”  Another great limb stretched over and grabbed a great cluster of berries off a nearby tree by casually snapping the branch.

“Thank you, that’s lovely,” Ameras said, sitting on the long soft grass.  “How have you been?  It’s been a beautiful summer,” she added.

“We need more rain,” complained the Lesh.  “At least a few more inches, before the equinox.  The saplings are stirring,” she added, meaningfully.  “If they get dry, they get creaky.”

“That’s the Leshi term for irritated,” Rolof chuckled.  “No one likes a creaky Leshling.”

“Of course not,” agreed Lilastien.  “This is incredibly beautiful,” she continued, addressing Bomoadua.  “I’ve lived on this world for more than a thousand years and I’ve never seen the like,” she said, as another Leshi female glided by.  Her canopy seemed infested with insects the size of my fist that seemed to be . . . pruning her.  “I am Lilastien, a representative of the Alka Alon Council of this realm.  We came on several errands, but among them is seeking a particular substance.  A substance with powerful properties that may indeed, help defend our world.  Rolof says that you have knowledge of this substance.”

“They speak of striekema, Bomoadua,” Rolof said, with a grave sigh.  “I sorrow to bring it up with you, but the need is grave, or I would not have brought them here.”

“What need is so great that you ask for this?” the Lesh asked us.  It was difficult to gauge her emotions by her voice – her speech had different inflections than ours.  But I saw several of her branches clench up.  That had to be a sign of her disturbance.

“My lady Bomoadua, my name is Minalan.  Minalan the Spellmonger.  I am a wizard,” I said, trying to keep the explanation simple.  “That is a human who practices magic, where magic works.  One of my charges is to assist the Vundel in creating something that they covet, a magical mineral called snowstone.”

“The snowstone increases the Golden Reefs,” Rolof explained to her.  “Therefore our hosts are extremely anxious to acquire it.  Only humans have produced it.  Minalan did by accident.  He needs the knowledge the striekema can show him in order to do it again.”

“Do you realize what you ask?” Bomoadua said, after a long pause.

“I do,” Rolof assured.  “And I ask with all due respect.  And only because the need is great.”

“We can only ask,” Ameras agreed.  “I think I understand why Minalan wants it.  I do think it will be helpful,” she added.  “He seems awfully clever.”

“You say the Vundel want this?” the Lesh asked, after another long pause.

“They do, my lady,” I assured.  “It is said this substance allows the detection of every sort of arcane energy.  Indeed, it is the only substance we have heard about that might.  I need that capability if I am to determine how the snowstone spell works.  Without it . . . well, I am a lot less likely to appease the Vundel.”

“The Vundel are far from here,” Bomoadua pointed out.  “But they are our allies.  They gave you permission to live here, too,” she decided.  “What you ask is profound.  But if you need it, I will have to ask the Father Trees.  Minalan, Lilastien,” she ordered, “follow me.  They will have questions.  The rest of you enjoy the moot meadow until we return.”

So, I followed the tree.  And came to stand before the strangest court I’d ever witnessed.  The Court of the Leshi Fathers.

Chapter Thirty-One

The Court of Leshi Fathers

While our journey into the Leshwood was fascinating, the effect it had on Lilastien and Minalan was more profound.  There was a change in both of them, when they returned from the Court of the Leshi Fathers.  I know not what they learned there, but from that point on in the expedition both seemed changed, perhaps more distant and distracted.  It was of concern to several of us, but we did not feel inclined to mention it to them.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Tyndal of Callierd

The grove that Bomoadua led us to was on the opposite side of the moot meadow on a hill that was thickly forested . . . with the ancestors of the Leshi.  Lilastien walked next to me as we followed the giant tree-being, both of us quietly pensive.

“This isn’t someplace I’d ever thought I’d be,” I remarked, as we strode across the meadow toward the foreboding forest.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to study the Met Sakinsa,” she reflected.  “I was planning a sabbatical to begin that when the New Horizon showed up in the sky.  It was more pressing to study your people, at the time.  Then I was in prison and could only give it a cursory study.  I’ve always regretted it.  They’re one of the most important races in Callidore’s history, yet we know very little about them.”

“We have excellent hearing, for one thing,” Bomoadua’s gourd answered.  “Many of your people have come to dwell among our groves for a time.  Rarely here,” she said, gesturing around with an eyestalk.  “They prefer the groves bathed in magic.  Our people are less affected by the jevolar than most of our kind, but your people do not like it here.  You are Avalanti, yes?  We’ve always had very cordial relations with the Avalanti, among your kindreds.”

“You seem very well informed about the Alka Alon, nonetheless,” I observed.

“We have known them since they came to this world.  They are not difficult to understand, for animals,” Bomoadua demurred.  “Humans are even simpler.  Human researchers have also come to us seeking knowledge.  Like Rolof.  Usually, they have been very polite about it.”

“What can you tell us about the Court of the Leshi Fathers?” Lilastien asked.  “Just to prepare us for what is to come.”

“They are the rooted fathers of the grove,” the Leshi said with a shrug of her branches.  “They are the oldest among us.  They will ask you questions and listen.  They will consult the Grandfather Tree.  Then they will issue guidance on the matter.  What you ask is no small thing,” she reminded us.  “They will make their decision with all due deliberation.”

“So, they are your leaders?” I suggested.

“In great matters, yes,” she agreed, as we approached the looming forest.  “They give us little direction in the every-year life of the grove.  They trust us to run it appropriately, as long as we see to our duties.”

“Duties?” Lilastien asked, suddenly.

“We must raise the young and propagate,” Bomoadua explained.  I glanced up and realized just how much farther we had to go.  The trees ahead were massive, I realized.  “We must order the grove and tend the forest beyond.  We must protect the grove.  And we must ward against the pestilence, for that is why we are here.  All simple matters, easily managed among the Leshi.  The Father Trees only dictate when there is a greater issue at hand.”

“And they are rooted?” I asked.  “They can’t move, anymore?”

“They can, but rarely do they do so.  Their roots are interconnected.  It would take great need for them to walk again.  The court is just ahead,” she continued, as she ambled to the edge of the meadow.  “We will meet with three of the Fathers.  They speak for the rest of the grove.  They are gentle spirits but concerned with propriety.  Please do not defecate in their presence.  It is considered disrespectful,” she added.

“I will keep that in mind,” I agreed.  Lilastien stifled a giggle.

As we came to the edge of the grove, I saw just how much bigger the rooted Father Trees were than Bomoadua.  The trees closest to the edge of the meadow were the smallest, and they stood fifty or sixty feet.  The ones behind soared up to a hundred or more.  And they were thick, I noted.  The ones at the edge of the court were at least nine or ten feet thick, while the ones I could see deeper in the grove seemed to be even thicker.

Most of the trunks were covered in a thick layer of lichens or moss, or something similar.  It was quieter here than the outer forest, too, I noted.  While there were smaller plants making up a kind of underbrush, they seemed to be very well behaved.  There were insects flitting about as well, some as large as a foot wide, but they seemed to understand their errands and left us alone.

It was a serene place, more like a temple than a grove.  The air moved with the slightest breeze through the stately trunks.  An exotic, loamy scent filled the air, with the occasional aroma of spice in its composition.  There was a dignity about these trees, I decided, something akin to the great redwoods in the Kasari lands.

The Court of the Leshi Fathers was a little clearing set just within the outer trees, and while most of the grove was heavily shaded, there was a bit of grass among the rocks that ringed the clearing.  There were several Father Trees that were clearly facing the clearing, and within moments great branches with peering eyestalks descended from their canopies, followed by three long gourds from the first three trees in the circle.

“Fathers, I address you by voice as a courtesy to our guests: Lilastien the Avalanti, and Minalan of the humani.  They come here to request a boon of us.  They profess great need.  They seek striekema,” she said, her voice falling a bit at the end of the sentence.

“This is a disturbing request,” one of the gourds declared, bobbing at the end of the left-hand bough.  “But Bomoadua, you forget your manners.  We should be introduced.  You may call me Strongbranch, in your tongue.  I am the newest of the Rooted Fathers, and therefore by custom I am the herald of the court.”

“You may call me Deeproot,” the middle gourd said.  It was hung with a long cascade of moss, and the eyestalk of the Lesh hovered above it, almost giving it a face.  “I am known as wise, among my kind, and am often called upon to make these sorts of considerations.”

“And I am Wideleaf,” the third gourd said, descending a little lower to address us more directly.  “I ensure that the security and sanctity of the grove is maintained.  Our true names are longer,” he explained.  “They grow with every passing year.  But these names are easy for you to say,” he said, with a hint of condescension.  Or maybe I was reading into it; he was, after all, speaking through a gourd.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Fathers,” Lilastien began, formally.  “The Alka Alon Council of this realm has dispatched me here to see if I could help Minalan procure some striekema for his research, in an effort to assist the Vundel.  He finds its abilities necessary to produce a substance that they desire that only humanity has been able to produce.”

“Snowstone,” offered Strongbranch, as more limbs descended to our level.  “The Grandfather Tree has heard of it.  It has excited the leviathans tremendously.”

“It has caused the Golden Reefs to begin growing robustly, again,” Lilastien explained.  “It reduces the etheric density of the Magosphere, which apparently has triggered the reefs to grow again.”

“They have not done that since before we descended from the moon,” Wideleaf reflected.  “I understand why they would be excited by that.  And you say it was this animal human who discovered it?”

“By accident,” I admitted.  “But the Vundel are insistent that I re-create the spell.  Which I am willing to do.  But I need the striekema to determine which specific energies are at play.  We’ve heard of no other substance that has its properties.”  I paused a moment.  “You all speak incredibly good Narasi, if I may say so.”

“One human language is much like another,” Wideleaf informed me.  “It’s novel enough to use language to speak to you creatures in the first place.  It matters little which one we use.  We could speak in one of the Alka Alon dialects if you prefer.”

“I’ve always been partial to what you call Old High Perwyneese,” Deeproot volunteered.  “I learned it when I was still mobile, from one of your ancestors.  A Xenobiologist named Greta Mendholson.  She was very nice.  I liked her music, too.  Better than that droning the Alka Alon do,” he muttered.

“Narasi is fine,” I assured them.  “You speak it well.”

“So, you think you can use striekema to help with this . . . this spell?” Wideleaf asked.  I detected an element of skepticism in his wheezy voice.

“I feel I must try, if it is possible,” I agreed.  “I am a wizard.  Among my people, we try to solve such problems.  The large ones and the small.  This one is one of the larger ones.  I think we can agree that keeping the Vundel happy is a high priority for both of our peoples.”

“Well, they’re terribly far away from us, and have little influence here,” Strongbranch considered.  “But it is the proper sort of thing to do, I suppose.  In theory.”

“I’m wondering if you can be trusted with such a thing as striekema,” Wideleaf asked.  “Your people seem to be prone to foolishness, since you came here.”

“I cannot argue that,” I agreed.  “I blame it on our short lifespans and how easily we’re distracted.  We try to make up for it with good intentions and occasional flashes of insight.  My intention is to use this substance for the benefit of all the world.  My flashes of insight tell me that this is the best thing I can do.”

“I think a sporing is in order,” suggested Deeproot.  “It will cut through all of this tedious and inefficient speaking.”

“A sporing?” Lilastien asked, curious.

“It is harmless,” assured Strongbranch.  “Merely a fungus that will assist our understanding of you.  It will give us a clearer idea of who you are and where your place is in the universe.  You object?”

“How can such a thing work without magic?” Lilastien asked, frowning.

“There are more subtle cycles in the universe than mere magic,” Deeproot rasped through his gourd.  “We live in the shadow of the jevolar, yet we still maintain our link with the Grandfather Tree through other means than magic.  It can be a struggle, sometimes, but the connection is always there, as long as there is life,” he said, philosophically.

“It will not hurt you,” Bomoadua soothed.  “It is a gentle infection.”  That wasn’t the most confidence-building choice of terms, but I didn’t see that we had much choice.

“We consent to the . . . sporing,” I said, with false confidence.

Without another word, Wideleaf reached out with a long bough from his lower canopy, one that seemed overcome with some lumpy growth.  In a moment he had sprinkled it over both my and Lilastien’s heads.  A fine rain of dust came down on my face and hair and drifted down my neck and shoulders.

I didn’t feel anything, at first.  But then there was a faint tingling, and in a moment, I could feel my perceptions shift, subtly.  I might not even have realized it, if I wasn’t a mage and used to considering my own perceptions, but it was undeniably there.

“Interesting,” Deeproot murmured through his long gourd, as three eyestalks peered at us.  Another branch with a honeycomb-like structure on it waved over us.  “Very interesting.”

“I suddenly feel like one of my own patients,” Lilastien whispered.

“I suddenly know what a cabbage feels like at market,” I answered.  I felt a drop hit me.  Rain, I realized.  It had been overcast all morning, and I’d figured rain was likely.

“Yes, very interesting,” Strongbranch agreed.  “I never would have suspected.”

“This will have to be taken to Grandfather,” Wideleaf said.  “If this is true, that is.”

“How could it not be?” countered Strongbranch, as I felt another drop, and then another.  “It is a sporing.  It cannot be deceived.”

“I will attend to it,” Deeproot agreed, withdrawing all his branches.  It began to sprinkle.

“Well, that was very interesting,” Strongbranch finally said to us.

“That’s what we surmised,” Lilastien smirked.  “What did you find?”

“Oh, it’s raining,” dismissed Strongbranch.  “It wouldn’t be polite to discuss such matters while it’s raining.”

“It isn’t?” I asked, confused.

“No, no, no,” Wideleaf assured.  “Not at all.  Never talk business while it’s raining.  Rain should be enjoyed,” he said, spreading his branches.  “It’s a gift of the world – and these summer showers are particularly delicious.  In rain, the Leshi speak of casual things, pleasantries that do not trouble the deeper mind.”

“Like a cocktail party,” Strongbranch said, using an old Perwyneese idiom for a drinking party.  “Remember when the humani researchers held those cocktail parties, at their encampment?”

“Oh, that was back when I had legs,” agreed Wideleaf.  “But they were interesting.  Your people do enjoy their ethanol.  You make it the hard way, too.”

“The Leshi can ferment ethanol with a great sophistication,” Lilastien agreed.  “I know that from the lore.  They brew it in pods and use it as a kind of antiseptic and pest control.”

“It’s rather fun, actually,” Wideleaf admitted.  “We were quite surprised at the effect it had on the Alon when they first got here.  We made them wine, after they taught us to speak in their language.”

“The legendary metlarmarin!” gasped Lilastien.  “Our ancestors praised it beyond all other brews for its wholesomeness and vitality!”

“I made some for Ameras, once,” Bomoadua boasted.  “She got so silly, and on so little!”

“I preferred making the humani liquors,” Strongbranch said, as the rain poured over us.  “I got quite good at it, approximating their ethnic favorites.  I was quite a popular Lesh, around their camp.  It was exciting, back then.  Very inquisitive fellows.  Yes, they could get very silly, at a cocktail party,” the Lesh said, with what I perceived as a chuckle.  “They played music.  They wiggled.  They even did so around a fire,” he said, with a hint of scandal in his voice.  “Animals are so amusing.”

“That was an interesting time,” reflected Wideleaf.  “Would you like some?” he asked, suddenly.  “I can make some up in just a few moments.  Where are my manners?”

“It is raining,” agreed Strongbranch.  “Where is my pod . . . ?”

A moment later a large, smooth pod that looked a bit like a wild beehive descended from above, while another limb presented us each with a split-open husk of a gourd of some sort for a cup.  Then the pod tipped over and secreted a clear liquid into it, filling it neatly.  He tipped it in another direction, and a pore opened to spill a more milky-looking substance into Lilastien’s gourd.

“This is the one I remember best, the Vilthrastas wine that the Avalanti loved so well,” he murmured while he poured.  “It has a nutty flavor, of course, with a bit of tart berry and a delightful floral bouquet.  This is a purer ethanol mixture with some tannins and a hint of citric acid.  A Manhattan, your people called it.  Please tell me how you like it.”

Lilastien and I gave each other a glance before we hesitantly brought the husk cups to our lips.  I was nervous, of course – I was drinking something secreted from a fellow I was talking to.  The human equivalent would have been awkward.  But I was committed to being as congenial with the Leshi as possible.

“Your health,” I said, automatically, as I sipped.

It was good – surprisingly good, and cool in my mouth.  It was like a spirit, a distilled liquor that was kissed with a bitterness on the front of my tongue and finished with a pleasant stinging on the back.  It was deliciously potent, too.

“That’s terribly good!” Lilastien said, as she sipped her milky mixture.  “Like a walk in the forest during a rainstorm!”

“That’s very near to what the researchers said!” agreed Wideleaf, happily.  “I do miss those fellows.  How is yours, Minalan?”

“Delicious,” I agreed.  “I have never had the like.”

“It’s traditionally served over ice, of all things, if I recall correctly.  It was a favorite of a man named Martin, who studied fungus.  A mycologist,” he corrected himself.  “We spent weeks working on it, until I got it just right,” he said, proudly.  “He was a merry fellow, at cocktail parties.”

It was odd, I reflected, as I sipped the potent brew, to be discussing my centuries-dead ancestors with a tree, while sipping a Manhattan in the rain.  I live an interesting life.

“Would you like to try mine?” suggested Lilastien.  “And I haven’t had a Manhattan in centuries!”

“Of course!” I said, and traded husks with her.  The Vilthrastas was milky and nutty at the same time, and there was a decided flavor of berries in it, along with some spicy sweetness I couldn’t identify.  It flowed across my tongue like a golden river, and when I swallowed it burned pleasantly down my throat, over the harsher Manhattan.  Perhaps it was the aftereffect of the spores, but it might be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted.

“Cocktail parties were a common social gathering in Perwyn,” she explained, as we traded back.  “Particularly among the professional classes.  They didn’t usually start drinking until early evening.”

“The music was the entertaining part, apart from watching the humani get silly and talkative,” reflected Strongbranch.  “We missed it when it was gone.  Rhythms you could really feel in your roots,” he recalled.

“I can offer you some of that,” Lilastien remembered.  “I acquired one of their devices, recently, and can play you something, if you like.”

“That would be lovely,” agreed Bomoadua.  “I’ve heard of the humani music, but never heard it, myself.  That was before I was mobile, back when I was just a sapling.”

“Those are some quite lovely flowers you’ve grown, Bomoadua,” Wideleaf complimented, waving an eye and a . . . nose?  We’ll call it a nose – in the air around her.

“I thought something in red for High Summer,” she agreed, as Lilastien began to flick at her tekka tablet.

“Ah!  Just the one,” she decided, with a sigh.  A few more flicks of her fingers, and the first strains of a throbbing beat and a soaring melody filled the Court of the Leshi Fathers.  It was hypnotic, and under the circumstances it seemed strangely appropriate, though I didn’t know the words.  I just stood in the rain with my drink and enjoyed the music.

“Well?” demanded Tyndal, “what did they say?”

“We have permission to take the striekema,” Lilastien declared, as we rejoined our party in the moot meadow, Bomoadua leading us back to them.  “The Court of the Fathers consulted the Grandfather Tree.  He gave us permission,” she reported.

We exchanged glances.  That was far from the only thing that the Grandfather Tree had related, but it was the only portion that they needed to hear, right now.

“Isn’t the Grandfather Tree on the other side of the world?” Ameras asked, confused.

“They have means of communication that are not confined to magic,” I explained.  “They’re really quite nice fellows.  We had drinks,” I said, feeling a little elated after finishing mine.

“And we played them ‘In A Gadda Da Vida’,” Lilastien said, smugly.  “One of your ancient hymns.  I figured they’d like the drum solo.  I was right.”

“The Court has ruled that you may harvest the striekema,” sighed Bomoadua.  “I will lead you to it.  Rolof knows where it is.”

“Sadly, I do,” he nodded, rising from the meadow.  “And we’d best head there soon.  It will not be safe, after darkness falls.”

“It will not be safe even in the light,” Bomoadua said.  “But if you are bold enough to risk it, that is where you will find it.  At the edge of pestilence.”

“That sounds promising,” Ormar said, concerned.

“It is why my people are here in the first place,” Bomoadua explained, as she began striding in another direction.  “It is our duty to guard the world from the pestilence.  We fight it every summer and watch it through the winters.  But it is our charge to contain it.”

“The Leshi are here to keep the Kurja from escaping,” Ameras explained.  “They spawn in the deep caverns in the southeast.  During winter they are dormant.  In the spring, they emerge and roam the valley outside of their cavern.  The Leshi keep them from going further.”

“And they produce the striekema?” I asked.

“No,” Rolof said, hoarsely as he followed the Lesh back into the forest.  “But that is where the specimen I know about was produced.  I was there when it happened.  So was Bomoadua.”

“The night that you came out of Szal the Yith’s cave,” Lilastien recalled.

“That is right,” Rolof said, hanging his head.  “I was mad.  I was confused.  I had seven other voices ringing in my head and did not pay attention to where I was going.  There was a hellacious summer thunderstorm, that night, rain pouring down in barrels, lighting and thunder raging in the sky, winds so strong they blew me off my feet.”

The forest around us changed, as we traveled through it to the southwest.  The terrain got rockier, but it was the plant life that really changed.  It got . . . meaner.  There were far fewer flowering plants and a lot more of the thorny ones.  We began to see sentry trees once again.  There were a few large trees I could not tell if they were Leshi or specialized domesticated varieties, but they looked dangerous, somehow.

“Instead of skirting through the eaves of the Leshwood, I blundered into the killing grounds of the Kurja,” Rolof continued, as we came to the abrupt end of the forest.  From that point onward, it looked less like a lush jungle of greener and more like a menacing garden of death.  And then we came to a thick growth of hedge studded with gigantic, jagged thorns over a foot long, and long, sharp spikes as long as a pike.  Beyond was a rocky desolation.  This was the end of the Leshwood, I realized.

“They attacked, of course, they will attack anything that comes into their territory,” Rolof continued, quietly.  “I should have been slain at once – I often think that I would have been better off,” he said, as we stopped at the edge of the barricade that defined the frontier of the forest.  It was a tangled and vicious-looking fence, a wall of thorns and menacing-looking fruits.  Along its length, I could see, individual Leshi were posted, overlooking the stony expanse below.

“But I caught the attention of a Lesh called Stonetrunk,” Rolof continued, as we came to a halt.  “He was a friend of Bomoadua’s.  He was on sentry duty that night.  He saw me struggle against the Kurja and took pity on me.  Instead of staying on the barricade, he ran out to my defense.  Alone,” he added.  “Most Leshi don’t care much about us animals.”

“Some of us do,” reminded Bomoadua.  “Stonetrunk was quite compassionate about the lesser creatures.”

“Yes, of course,” Rolof agreed, with a grateful nod.

“Did the Kurja kill him?” asked Fondaras, quietly.

“Stonetrunk?” Bomoadua asked, amused.  “Nay, wizard, it would take many Kurja to overcome such a Lesh as he.  He was mighty, only a century or so from taking root.  One of our strongest.  He had fought and defeated the pestilence for hundreds of years.  There are very few things that can kill a full-grown Lesh.”

“One of them, alas, is lightning,” Rolof said, as he peered out over the rocky plain.  “When Stonetrunk saved me, he was struck.  It slew him instantly, just after he had slain the last of the Kurja.  I escaped through to the barricade but was beset by raggi the moment I crossed.  That’s when Bomoadua saw me, flicked them off, and brought me into the grove to safety.  But if it wasn’t for Stonetrunk’s sacrifice, I would have died, that night.”

“It is fortunate that you didn’t,” Ameras said, tenderly.  “It was not your fault,” she added, with emphasis.

“Stonetrunk knew the dangers of his actions and took the risk,” Bomoadua agreed.  “He was a brave fellow.  And wise.  He would have made an excellent Father Tree.”

“So why is this important?” Tyndal asked, confused.  “I still don’t know how this has anything to do with striekema.”

“It’s important because when the lightning struck Stonetrunk, it fused his core in an instant,” Rolof reported, grimly.  “The organelles at the core of a Lesh contain a fair amount of silica and other minerals.  When they are superheated and energized by lightning, they turn into a glassy substance inside their burned-out husks.  The one you call striekema.”

“We are harvesting the soul of a Lesh,” Ameras nodded, her face stricken.  “A creature that should have lived for thousands of years, struck down by nature before he could mature.  A very sad thing.”

“He was my friend,” agreed Bomoadua.  “A Lesh of great humor and strong will.  He fought the Kurja bravely, every day and night.  He laughed with us.  He . . .”

“A very sad thing,” I repeated, reverently.  “We honor him in his sacrifice, both to save Rolof and to help us on our quest.”

“His body lies beyond that hill, there,” Rolof pointed.  “Above it is the entrance to the Crypt of Szal the Yith.  Avoid it at all costs.  Beyond it is the entrance to the Cavern of the Dark Spawn.  That, too, should be avoided.”

“So, we just go dig this glass out of this . . . body?” Ormar asked, skeptically.  “How are we going to do that?”

“Well, we’re going to have to retrieve it by ourselves,” revealed Lilastien with a grim frown.  “The Grandfather Tree was explicit on that.  If we are to take it, then we must do it unaided by the Leshi.  If we are worthy, then we will succeed.”

I gave her a long, searching look.  She was omitting some very important – and upsetting – portions of the tale, but I did not blame her.  Our friends did not need to know such things.

“Let’s hurry up and get this done,” I said, as I joined Rolof, looking out over the wastes.  “I don’t know what a Kurja looks like, but this is going to be hard enough without running into them, I think.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

A Parley with Pritikin

Of all the places I have visited in Anghysbel, none was more awful than the land beyond the Leshwood the Anferny men call the Cursed Vale, where the Kurja spawn dwell.  I’d rather than cuddle up with a cyclops and a dragon for a cozy night of drinking than even think of returning there.  It is a horrific place.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Ormar the Alchemist

After the lushness of the Leshwood, the barren and rocky expanse of the western slope of the mountain that led to the Cursed Vale was a stark contrast.  Little grew there, save some spiky grasses.  We hiked down the slope in silence, at first, because the Kurja spawn apparently had very acute hearing.

Signs of their passage were everywhere.  Large gouges were torn from the earth in some places, and in others discarded branches bearing long, scimitar-like thorns bore witness to the combat the Leshi did with them.  But we did not understand what the kurja were until we made it to the top of the next ridge and found one of their bodies.  I very nearly puked.

It had clearly been slashed by some weapon of the Leshi, but it was not the horridness of the wound that caused the reaction.  It was the sight of the Kurja.

Imagine a slimy, ghastly white thirty-foot long maggot.  A maggot bigger than a croft, with a row of stubby, insect-like legs running along each side of its long, grotesque body.  Imagine a head like a horrific cross between a spider and a bat, with a long sharp proboscis or beak surrounded by eyes, a disgusting mane of some sort of fur around its neck.  Imagine it covered in a sticky yellow slime, each section of its gently reticulated body.  Imagine a vicious stinger the size of your arm in its tail.

Now imagine that it smelled like rotting meat on a hot summer’s day, and you’ll appreciate my reaction.  I retched, and barely kept my Manhattan in my stomach.

“That’s a Kurja,” Ameras informed us when we came across it.  “They hatch in yonder cave.  There is a brood of them, laid by their mother.  Their species are vassals to the Formless, brought here long ago to fight the Vundel.  Only,” she explained, as we carefully skirted the bloated maggot, “they require magic in order to mature.  When the Dark Ones tried to open a breach to the Deeps, through the caverns, the Kurja brood mother was the only being small enough to slip through before it was sealed.  She’s been producing eggs ever since.”

“Why not slay the brood mother?” Tyndal asked.

“You are welcome to try,” Ameras shrugged.  “She’s five times this size, if not larger.  Such a thing has been attempted, over the millennia.  But none of those expeditions returned from the caverns.”

“Five times?” Ormar gasped, as his imagination supplied the details.  “Five times as big as this thing?  That’s as large as a dragon!”

“But nowhere near as nice,” Ameras countered.  “The Kurja brood mother has been trying to get her spawn out into the world for longer than the Alka Alon have been here.  She will not emerge from the cavern but sends out her young when they hatch.  Not even the Leshi will venture into those depths to face her.  Her and her spawn.”

“That sounds ghastly,” Ormar said, shaking his head.

“Your people sent expeditions into the cavern to study, but few came back,” Ameras agreed.  “Fortunately, the Kurja require magic to mature into their next form.  Hatching in the jevolar’s shadow makes them less dangerous and keeps them from spreading.  They die before they can mature.”

“What does that look like?” Taren asked, as he eyed the bloated grub.

“No one knows,” admitted Ameras.  “It hasn’t happened in the memory of the Alon.  Let us pray we never find out.”

“One of these attacked you?” Tyndal asked Rolof, surprised.  “And you survived?”

“Two of them attacked me,” he corrected.  “And I wouldn’t have, if Stonetrunk hadn’t intervened.”

We moved gingerly passed the bloated corpse and continued behind Rolof, who knew the way.  We saw a few more Kurja corpses in various stages of decomposition along the way.  Clouds of insects filled the air around them.  They didn’t do anything to improve the scenery.  Or the smell.  Or my mood.  But it forced us to keep our rifles out and ready, and our swords loose in their sheaths.

Finally, we came to an ashen mound nearly twenty feet high.  Stonetrunk.

The poor Lesh had been a large specimen, for an unrooted male.  He was crumpled over in death like a tree fallen in a storm, his bark blackened and charred from the heat of the lightning.  While he didn’t have a face, as such, his lifeless limbs were spread out around his body in a pattern that suggested shock and anguish in his last moments.  All traces of leaf and twig were gone, after a few years.  There were some fungi beginning the decomposition, however.  The entire sight was, indeed, a very sad thing to see.  It was clear he had been strong in life.  His trunk was thick, and I could see how he got his name.

“So, how exactly do we go about this?” Ormar asked.  “If I had my wagon here, I could eat through the . . . the body with acid.  But there isn’t even enough dead wood to build a fire,” he pointed out.  “I’m not even sure our leafy friends would appreciate that.”

“Fire is anathema for the Leshi,” agreed Rolof.  “We must cut through his dead flesh with our blades.  But we must be careful not to damage the striekema within.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this sort of thing, my friend,” Fondaras asked, pointedly.

“I have seven other voices in my head,” Rolof answered, after a pause.  “That is a lot of experience to call upon.  I paid a price for this knowledge, as you are fond of saying.  I will not begrudge using it, at need.  It helps me toward sanity.”

I wasn’t certain how to respond to that, so I started carving into the body of Stonetrunk, as respectfully as I could.

It was tedious work, I quickly realized.  The Lesh’s outer bark was still thick, perhaps even thicker than in life as it had dried in the elements for a few years.  Some was brittle enough for me to pull away with my hands, but there were other parts, within the body, that were woodier, and that had hardened by the heat of the lightning that had taken his life.

Ormar and Travid had hatchets, which helped.  Occasionally Tyndal, Taren, and I would whack at it with our mageblades or use them as leverage to pry out pieces that we loosened.  It was akin to carving a giant spoon, I suppose, or some other woodcraft.  But the thought that we were dissecting the corpse of a thinking being was somehow sobering.

Of course, after meeting Avius, I’d never feel right about wearing dragon skin mail again, either.  I live an interesting life.

We hacked and carved all afternoon, with a few of us resting and keeping watch from atop the wooden corpse.  There were noises that echoed off the rocks, occasionally, and we all stood alert when we heard them.  We couldn’t help making noise ourselves.  Try splitting wood quietly, sometime.

As it turned out, we smelled the Kurja spawn that inevitably decided to investigate our disturbance long before we saw it.  Lilastien was on watch, at the time, and she suddenly stopped scanning the horizon with the scope of her plasma rifle and sniffed.

“Sulphur,” she called out.  “I smell Sulphur.”

“That is what the Kurja smell like,” Rolof agreed, making a face at the memory.  “We should work more quickly!” he advised, renewing his carving with his blade with energy.

We all turned to our chopping and hacking with additional zest, bordering on panic.  But just as Tyndal managed to expose the first portion of the striekema we sought, deep in the heart of Stonetrunk, we heard rocks grinding and a kind of dull thrum in the air.

“Here it comes!” Lilastien warned, from her perch, as she charged her plasma rifle.  “Draw arms!  Be ready!”  Ameras joined her on the back of Stonetrunk, her tiny form nearly invisible amidst the remains of his canopy.

The rest of us drew our weapons and took what cover we could.  All too soon the grinding and rumbling was so loud I could feel it in my teeth – and then we heard the Kurja’s call.

It was a horrific screech with a dreadful, head-ringing howl that sent chills down my spine in a way not even a dragon’s roar had done.  I fumbled with the settings on the scope of my rifle and made sure that the snap on my pistol holster was undone.  Soon the unfortunate sight of the beast appeared on the screen over the barrel.  Magnification did not make it seem less appalling.

As it came into view, beak first, the slithering, skittling monster pushed past boulders like they were pebbles in search of its prey.  In a moment it thrust its horror of a head toward us, and howled again, its beak splitting in three directions.  Each one was ridged with a serrated bank of teeth, and the long gray tongue that flicked out was as long as a rope.  There were six eyes around the beak, each one staring blankly at us as its horrible mane flopped behind them.

“I’m gonna throw up,” moaned Ormar, as he pulled some things from his belt pouches.

“Any chance it will just keep going?” asked Taren, hopefully.

“None,” Rolof said, shaking his head as he took up position behind the fallen Lesh.  “They are voracious.  They will eat anything that moves.”

“What if we don’t move?” Ormar asked in a moan of despair.

“Then it will be far easier to eat you,” Rolof answered.

“Fire!” Lilastien ordered, as she pulled her own trigger.   I pulled mine a moment later, and then began pulling it as frantically as I could as the Kurja pushed its way toward us with surprising speed.  It took a moment between discharges for the thing to be ready to fire again, but it was faster than a crossbow.  And far more effective.

The red plasma bolts that erupted from our weapons tore into the flesh of the Kurja with brutal efficiency, searing and blasting as they impacted into its dreadful flesh.  It screamed, filling the air with more of its foul call and making me want to wet myself.  But I just kept firing.  Up and down its body, at its ugly head, anywhere the screen said I had a good shot, I blasted the grotesque creature with a rising tide of fear.  It wasn’t just moving; it was moving far more quickly than I thought it would.  Why would it not die?

I suddenly realized why my ancestors had included such weapons as the plasma rifle in Unger Station’s inventory.  I wished they had foreseen to include a few more.

While Travid’s rifle and Taren’s plasma pistol were affecting the horror, it was the plasma weapons that were doing the real damage.  A nasty odor of ozone, Sulphur, and putrescence filled the air, along with the smell of burnt flesh as we pumped one plasma-hot bolt after another into the thing.  When it was but twenty feet away, Taren threw his spear with a mighty heave and penetrated one of the thing’s six eyes.  It howled in pain and indignity and rushed against us again just as Taren rolled out of the way.

“The eyes!” Lilastien called, shifting her position for a better vantage.  “Blast the eyes!”

I shifted my target away from the body and took aim at the remaining eyes around that horrific beak.  I managed to place a bolt directly between two of them, which was gratifying, while the firearms began to shoot in a frantic rhythm.  Ormar rolled by the thing’s left side and hacked at one of its many segmented legs with his hatchet.  Then he slid something under the body of the beast and rolled back out of the way.

Before he had regained his feet, an explosion far louder than the report of the rifles echoed across the hill, lifting the body of the beast into the air by six feet or more.  Big chunks of flesh were torn away from its body, and it howled.

But it wasn’t dead, yet.  Indeed, in its pain and agony it reared above us on the unwounded legs, its three-part beak spread wide in anger.  That tongue flicked around like a whip, and it didn’t look anywhere close to being defeated.

In fact, it vomited a column of sickly green venom at us.  Taren got splashed, as did Fondaras, before they rolled clear of the unexpected attack.  They were both on Stonetrunk’s open and exposed trunk cavity and slid down from the great trunk just in time.  I blasted at its face again but missed its beady eyes.  Travid was a better shot: one of them exploded as his rifle round found its mark.

But it was the alchemist, not the ranger, who finally slew the beast.  Ormar swung up on one of Stonetrunk’s lifeless limbs until he was nearly eye-level with the putrid monster.  He drew back his arm, and when that disgusting head turned towards him, the beak grasping while the tongue whipped back and forth, he threw another missile neatly into the gaping maw.  A moment later, the head exploded . . . sending a vile shower of sticky debris all over us.

But it was dead.  The body fell beside Stonetrunk’s corpse and quivered its last . . . though the legs continued to twitch long after its head was gone.

“What was that?” asked Taren, as he wiped the ichor from his face with the back of his sleeve.

“Dragon Cotton,” the alchemist said, eyeing the corpse with satisfaction.  “Like I used on that boulder, only a smaller quantity.  Just a couple of little bombs of it.  I prepared it for just this sort of situation.  For things like the cyclops or . . . this monstrosity.”

“It’s highly effective,” Taren nodded, approvingly.

We shuffled around as we recovered from the fight and Lilastien tended to our wounds.  Fondaras and Taren had both gotten splashed by the acidic venom the Kurja had used, but neither were serious.  Ameras continued to scan the horizon for more of them while we took stock.  That’s when Ormar discovered the unexpected boon the beast gave us.

“Hey, Minalan,” he called, “take a look at this!” He excitedly waved me up to where we had been carving into the dead Lesh’s corpse.  “Smell that?  That’s sulfuric acid,” he explained.  “It’s covered the exposed tissue.  And it’s destroying the exposed tissue.”

“It damn near destroyed me,” Taren nodded, as Lilastien wrapped his wrist with gauzy bandages.

“It probably uses it to denature the flesh of its prey outside the body,” Lilastien conjectured.

“Well, it’s denaturing what’s left of poor Stonetrunk,” Ormar assured.  “More than half of that striekema core is exposed, now.  In an hour, we should be able to pull it free.”

“We may not have that long,” Tyndal said, pointing to the quivering corpse of the Kurja.  “Does that look familiar?”

I saw what he was indicating: a long dark shaft of wood protruding from the side of the beast.  He went over and broke it off.  There was only one fletching left, but it was easy to identify.  They’d been used against me often enough.

“A gurvani arrow,” I identified.  “The Enshadowed are lurking about.”

“They aren’t just lurking,” called Ameras from above, “a few of them approach us!  From the south!”

“Gurvani?” snorted Ormar.  “Let them come.  I just slew a godsdamn giant maggot.  Gurvani are nothing!”

“Defensive positions,” I ordered.  “We have to hold them off long enough to allow the acid to work, or all is for naught!”

“Can I borrow that?” Fondaras asked, pointing to the pistol on my hip.  “Perhaps it was the size of the foe, but I felt uncommonly vulnerable, when we were fighting.”

“You know how to use it?” I asked, surprised.

“Lilastien showed me,” he nodded.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

I shrugged but passed the pistol over to him.  My plasma rifle was still warm.  It had another six hundred charges left in it.  I didn’t think I’d need the pistol.

“They’re almost here!” warned Ameras.  We took up positions once again behind the corpse of the Lesh.

Only the gurvani didn’t come out shooting.  Indeed, only two of them appeared at all, and they bore a staff with a rag tied to the end.  A white rag.  And there was an Enshadowed with them, transformed into his warrior form.  He bore a spear and a quiver on his back, and while he held a bow, he had no arrow nocked.

“Truce!” called the shorter gurvani, in Narasi.  “I call for truce!” he yelled across the stony waste.  He was standing just outside of bowshot.  Plasma rifles have considerably greater range, I noted.

“What shall we do, Minalan?” Taren asked, quietly.

“We just fought that monster,” I reminded him.  “I’m not sure if you’re anxious for another fight, but I’m not.  Let’s hear him out.  Act as my herald?”

“A pleasure,” Taren grunted, and then tore a piece from his tunic to tie onto the bloody tip of the spear he’d retrieved from the Kurja’s eye.  He stood and waved it, and I had everyone make a show of lowering their weapons.

“Taren, Tyndal, with me,” I said, quietly.  “Everyone else stay back, stay under cover, and prepare for treachery.”  A chorus of nods confirmed the orders, and in a moment the three of us were marching across the barrens.

“Why, this is an unexpected pleasure,” the shorter gurvani said, in perfect Narasi.  I was startled – this was no maragorku, this was a regular gurvani.  He was dressed for fieldwork, however, not in armor, nor did he wear tribal insignia.  I heard Tyndal gasp.

“Pritikin!” he declared when we got close enough.  “I would have thought you’d be dead by now!”

“I live a life of untold fortune,” the gurvani said, smugly, as he handed his makeshift truce banner to the maragorku, behind him.  “I haven’t seen you since Alshar,” he recalled.  “Sir Tyndal, I believe.”

“Viscount Tyndal, now,” Tyndal corrected, gruffly.

“Ah, a raise in station – how ambitious!” the gurvan said.  “This is Rindenmel, of the Enshadowed.  He speaks no Narasi.  He considers it a bastard tongue,” Pritikin said with a chuckle.  “The gork’s name is Blekarl, but he doesn’t matter.  He’s merely here to look intimidating.”

“We just fought a thirty-foot maggot, without magic,” I pointed out.  “He’s going to have to try harder.”

“Master Pritikin, this is Magelord Taren, and this is Minalan the Spellmonger, Count of the Magelaw,” Tyndal introduced.  “Pritikin serves . . . who are you serving, these days?  Not Korbal, I’d wager.  The last I heard he was in torpor and preparing for death.”

“Alas, my master ails,” sighed the gurvan with mock sorrow.  “I must make my way the best that I can.  I serve Karakush.  A Nemovort of great power and subtlety.  On a secret mission,” he added.

“A mission to contact the vassals of the Formless,” Taren said, his eyes narrowing.

“So, you have heard of it,” Pritikin nodded, undisturbed.  “I must see to our counterintelligence,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Such things have gone into the chamberpot since Korbal . . . became indisposed.  Is Terleman with you?  I was hoping to meet him and congratulate him on defeating Gaja-Katar.  That was truly delightful to hear about.  But Karakush is no Gaja-Katar.  He is striving to put things right, after Shakathet lost so abysmally.”

“Have you not learned it does not pay to challenge the Spellmonger?” I asked, puffing up a little.  “If I was afraid of your new master, I would never have come on this expedition.”

“Just why did you come on this expedition?” Pritikin asked.  “It does not make much sense, considering the position your realm is in.”

“Research,” I shrugged.  “I’ve defeated two Nemovorti and their armies in less than six months.  I felt owed a holiday before I defeat the third.”

“You may find such a victory harder, against Karakush, Count Minalan,” Pritikin clucked.  “He is not a warrior.  He is a sorcerer, and one of great cunning and immense strategies.  He’s even managed to learn to read Narasi,” he added, smugly.  “He takes a great interest in the potential of your people.”

“Why call a truce, if you plan on attacking Minalan while he is here?” Taren asked, warily.  “We know you covet his Magolith to restore your master.”

“It was not my task to attack Minalan,” sighed Pritikin.  “That was left to others considered better equipped to handle the matter.  No, I was sent here to . . . well, no need to give you all the details.  But I will do my duty and let others do theirs.  Indeed, I have a great deal of respect for the Spellmonger,” he admitted.

He was interrupted by the Enshadowed, behind him, who shot him a question in his own language.  Pritikin replied, annoyed, in the same language.

“Barbarian!” he snorted when he was finished.  “He grows impatient with our parley.  He feels we should either attack or flee.  He has no imagination, and he treats me like scum.  They put him over me because . . . well, because he is an Alka Alon, and I am a mere humble gurvani.  Untrustworthy, they say.”

“Well, imagine that,” Tyndal said, evenly.

“I agree!  That’s outrageous!  Why, I’ve advanced our cause more than most of the Nemovorti, and certainly more than the Enshadowed.  They never would have discovered Korbal’s tomb if it hadn’t been for my efforts.”

“Remind me to express my appreciation for that, some day,” Tyndal growled.

“Truce, Viscount!” Pritikin reminded him.  “We get no respect in our own armies, alas.  Which is why I serve Karakush, now.  He has a more enlightened approach to my people.  And yours,” he emphasized.  “He feels that conquest, not elimination and extinction, is a better goal for us.  I cannot disagree.  I have grown fond of some of your humani customs.  Such as truces,” he chuckled.  “Quite civilized of you.”

“He will have no better luck than his predecessors,” I dismissed.  “Nor will he achieve what he desires with the Kurja.”

“On the contrary, we’ve already completed our mission,” he said, proudly.  “Tell me, did you see the dragon, yet?” he baited.

“The one your side lost?” I asked.  “Why, yes.  She’s delightful.  But she has a low opinion of her former captors.”

“You . . . spoke to her?” he asked, in puzzled disbelief.

“I’m the Spellmonger,” I shrugged.  “That sort of thing happens to me.  But I would not like to be a gurvani in her domain.  She holds a very distinct grudge.”

“I . . . I see,” Pritikin,” nodded, his eyes narrowing even further.  He paused to chatter at the Enshadowed in his language, and elicited a bark of laughter from the Alka Alon, followed by a comment.  “My colleague doubts your veracity,” he reported.   “Rindenmel considers you ignorant animals, not much better than my people.  He does not believe that you approached the dragon.”

“Close enough to kiss her,” I chuckled.  “But he’s welcomed to doubt me, and approach her himself.  But what of your comrades?” I asked.  “More than forty gurvani were in your party, when you crossed the wastes.  How have you fared?”

“Poorly, in places,” he said with a sigh.  “We lost a tithe of our forces in the wastes.  Then two more to your snipers, before we split our forces.  I know not how they fare, but we lost six more in party.  The Kurja were difficult to converse with,” he said, ruefully.  “But we achieved our aim.  Did you achieve yours?” he taunted.

“It’s ongoing,” I shrugged.  “Just a little research holiday to the realm of the jevolar.”

“And that, of course, has nothing to do with the scion of the Aronin,” he agreed, sarcastically, “or the vault of the Alka Alon.  Purely a coincidence.”

“Is that here?” I asked, feigning surprise.  “Where?”

“If I knew, I would not tell you,” dismissed the gurvan.  “But I don’t believe you.  I am surprisingly well-informed about your efforts.  For example, that big project in Enultramar you’re trying to keep secret.  Or the Dradrien you have building weapons for you, now.    Impressive matters,” he praised.  “Not enough to prevail against us, but impressive.”

“We destroyed your last, best army with farm animals,” Taren said, bluntly.  “We’re not terribly impressed with your efforts.”

“Don’t mistake a sacrifice at the beginning of the game for weakness,” the gurvan counseled.  “Your own tenure at Castle Salaisus is well known, Magelord Taren.  You spoke with the dead.  Did you not think that there were ears overhearing you?”

“They didn’t learn much, then,” snorted Taren.  “I didn’t learn much, myself.”

“Yet here you are, at the edge of the world,” Pritikin sneered.  “Wizards in a realm without magic.  Seeking great powers to fight against us.  If we were so lightly defeated, my lords, you would be safely at home.  But you are here.  One may draw many conclusions from that fact.”

“And one may draw many conclusions about the desperation of Korbal and Karakush by your presence,” Tyndal agreed.  “Really, we could walk into the Dark Vale right now with a couple of warmagi and a tired band of disabled veterans.  Your weakness is palpable.”

“Our strength is not in the Dark Vale,” countered Pritikin.  “If you seek it there, you will be surprised.  No, my friend, there is a retrenchment going on amongst the Nemovorti, in Korbal’s absence.  Your victories forced a reconsideration of where we keep our power and how it is hidden.  When – if! — Korbal awakens from his slumber, he will find a very different world.  Not all among his court feel confident in his eventual victory, no matter what his supporters say.  There are those who wish to strike out a different path.”

“Any path that works against us is doomed,” I promised.  “I am no less committed to your destruction.  As are the Alka Alon Council.”

“You threaten me with jesters?” snorted Pritikin.  “I fear them not.  They are weak.  Ineffective.  They are not committed,” he declared.

“They don’t need to be,” I agreed.  “I am.  That is sufficient.  You will not prevail.”

“I applaud your commitment, though it is foolish, Spellmonger,” Pritikin said, sympathetically.  “But my mission was a success.  We will withdraw now with the support of the Kurja.  That may change things in ways you don’t like,” he warned.

“And what of the vault?” taunted Tyndal.  “Would you abandon it?”

“That is not my task,” the gurvan shrugged.  “Nor my worry.  That belongs to Harinlon, a most disagreeable Enshadowed warrior.  I am not concerned with the past, but the future.  My new master has great plans,” he promised.

“They will do him no better than Gaja-Katar’s and Shakathet’s did for their efforts,” countered Taren.

“Our truce and our parley are at an end, then,” nodded Pritikin.  “I bid you gentlemen farewell . . . but we will meet again, I’d wager.  Indeed, once you return to your lands, you may come to value my counsel, I think.  You will not find things as orderly as you left them,” he predicted.

“Our truce is discharged, then,” I agreed.  “You may leave here in peace and depart without malice . . . for now.  If we meet again, I promise a far more vigorous response.”

“I expect no less from the illustrious Spellmonger,” he said, with a bow.  “I pledge the same from my forces.  I thank you for your civility, at least.  By now my gurvani have escaped beyond your reach – the reason for the truce.  Now, farewell,” he said, turning to go.  “And have a pleasant journey home,” he added, sarcastically.

“I hate that little shit,” growled Tyndal.  “If he had not proposed a truce, I would have . . .”

“The truce served our mutual purpose, then,” I decided.  “Hopefully, enough time has passed for Ormar to extract the striekema.  What concerns me is what he said about his alliance with the Kurja.  How could they possibly assist him when they cannot leave the valley?”

“I was more concerned with his forebodings of home,” Taren admitted, as we watched them walk away.  “What could he have meant by that?”

“We’ve only been gone for a couple of weeks,” I reminded him.  “What could possibly have happened in that time?”

That’s one of those idle comments that, in retrospect, convinces a man of the divine nature of irony.

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Pack of Worries

We completed an important element of our quest in the Leshwood.  But I cannot help but detect a note of melancholy in Minalan’s voice, now.  I thought it was the somber nature of our journey, but I’m starting to suspect it is something deeper.  It concerns me.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Taren the Thaumaturge

“Look at that,” Ormar cooed, as he surveyed the bubbling pool of acid in Stonetrunk’s excavated trunk.  “It’s eaten the pulp clean away, like a good little acid.  It’s completely separated from the tissue.  Just the . . . whatever it is, is left.”

“It’s glass, technically,” Lilastien said, as she studied the rod at the core of the dead Lesh.  “Super-heated and subjected to strong electromagnetic forces, but it’s technically just glass.”

“Let’s hope not,” Taren said, shaking his head.  “If it can’t detect a full range of arcane energies, all of this effort will be for naught.”

“It will work,” I promised.  After all, I considered to myself, the Grandfather Tree’s pronouncement would not make sense if it didn’t.  “It will be worth it.”  I tried to sound confident about that.

But I was looking at a two-and-a-half foot long rod of orange-brown milky glass, bubbling under the giant maggot’s vomit.  There were minor bumps and protrusions studding it, like the bumps on a cucumber, and it tapered at either end.  I was worried that it had fractured – and then wondered whether that would affect its sensitivity at all.  I was completely out of my depth, here.  And I was acknowledged as one of the master enchanters in the kingdom.

“What did the gurvani want?” Fondaras asked, quietly, as Ormar began to cut at the side of the exposure, to drain the pooled acid away.

“Just to stall us, so we wouldn’t follow them out of the vale,” Tyndal reported.  “Pritikin was their herald.  He’s an old enemy of mine.  A gurvani with impeccable diction.  If it wasn’t for the truce, I would have slit his throat . . .” he said, darkly.

“By fulfilling their mission, we advanced ours,” I reasoned.  “As soon as we harvest this thing, we can get back to Unger Station, and then head home.  This completes our quest,” I said, knowing that I wasn’t quite speaking the truth.

I’d come to Anghysbel, after all, to resolve a number of matters.  Finding this substance had been among them, but it was not my only goal.  I was feeling disappointed about our failure at the vault.  Our other discoveries seemed to taunt me, in comparison.

That might have been unfair, but after hearing from the Grandfather Tree, the striekema seemed a consolation prize.  I had seen wonders here no other man had witnessed, marvels that few sages even suspected existed outside of myth and legend.  Ishi’s tits, I had spoken to a dragon and lived to tell the tale.  I’d taken up the arms of the Ancients, survived without magic, and found that which was long lost.  I should be patting myself on the back and picking out the melody to my epic saga.

But I was feeling let down, even though I was staring at one of the main fulfillments to my quest.  The world was still going to end in a mere three thousand years.  Humanity’s brief tenure on Callidore would be gone and forgotten.  All my hopes for our future were tainted, now.  And the new moon was but days away.

“How do you think you will use it, Minalan?” Taren asked, curiously.

“I’ll get the thaumaturges and the enchanters to work on it and establish its sensitivities when we get back to Vanador.  If it can detect divine magic, we should be in good shape,” I decided.

“And then we can de-construct the snowstone spell and determine just what arcane energies are required and in what proportions,” Taren said, optimistically.  He didn’t mention the very real possibility of screwing that up in a dozen different ways.  Thaumaturgical research is a spotty thing, at best.  We were working at the edge of the unknown in the art, with materials no one had used to such effect, before.  The likelihood we would be successful, even with the striekema, was still slim.

“Watch out!” Ormar warned, as he hacked away the last wedge in the side of the trunk with his hatchet, allowing the excess sulfuric acid to drain out on the rocky ground.  “We need to neutralize the rest of it before we touch it.  Acid burns are no joke.”  He donned heavy leather gloves from his pack to emphasize the point.  Ormar carefully freed the long rod of glass from the scorched tissue around it and triumphantly brought it into the air.

“It’s surprisingly strong and rigid,” he reported, as he held it up to the fading light.  “More than I’d suspected.”

“Wrap it up respectfully, if you please,” Rolof directed.  “Stonetrunk was very well regarded.  This is essentially his brain, frozen in the last terrified moment of his life.  Treat it with reverence,” he counseled.

“Are you joking?” Ormar asked.  “This is the triumph of my career, so far.  I’ve never heard of anyone doing this before.  I’m going to treat this like my child,” he promised, as he splashed some water over the length of the rod from his water bottle.  He wiped it off with the impromptu truce flag, before sprinkling some fine white powder over it.  “There, it should be safe to handle, now.”

“Minalan?” Ameras called from where she was still stationed, in the dead canopy.  “Those gurvani are leaving the area.  There are at least nine more of them.  And they’re carrying bags of something,” she said, concerned.  “Large bags!”

Taren and I looked at each other.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” he said.  “I wonder what they took?”

“I’d chase them down and ask them, but we’ve more important things to do,” I pointed out.  “Besides, I promised them I wouldn’t interfere with them until they left.”

“Perhaps not your wisest decision,” he pointed out.

“I’ll add it to the list,” I snorted.  “Just ask Fondaras.  He thinks I’m a mediocre wizard.  I’m starting to believe him.”

“It got us what we came for,” shrugged Tyndal.  “We can hunt goblins later.  I’ll let Ithalia know,” he said, as he pulled his radio from his belt.  “Maybe she and Nattia can pick them off from the air.”

We saw two more giant maggots across the stony vale as we withdrew, but they were too far away to be of menace.  We made it to the thorny barricade just as one of them started paying attention to us.

Bomoadua was waiting for us, standing exactly where she’d been when we left.  The Leshi can stand completely still for days at a time, Rolof informed us, as we climbed the narrow trail up to the barricade.

“It is done,” Rolof reported to the Lesh, somberly.  “We had to slay a Kurja to do it, but it is done.”

“It is?  And so quickly, too.  That bodes well for the future,” she said, her eyestalks coming down to regard us.  “The Court of the Fathers will wish to see it and pay their proper respects,” she added.

“We know,” Lilastien agreed, taking the wrapped bundle from Ormar.  He seemed reluctant to part with it.  “That is what we agreed.”

“I really didn’t think you would be able to do it without our help,” Bomoadua said, as she began to shuffle back through the scrub.

“We animals can be quite resourceful,” Ameras answered.  “I was impressed by the way the humani worked together, too.  Minalan is a good leader.”

“I have good people,” I dismissed.

Once again, the others were left at the moot meadow while Lilastien and I followed our hostess up to the Court.  The three Father Trees lowered their eyestalks and speaking gourds and expressed surprise at our early return.  After greetings, I unwrapped the bundle and revealed what was left of noble Stonetrunk.

“He was a good lad,” Deeproot recalled, one of his limbs taking the rod reverently from me and holding it aloft in the dying light of the day.  “Always cheerful.  Always dedicated.  He would have joined us here in a few decades, I think.”

“I recall his first fight against the Kurja,” Wideleaf reflected.  “That’s when he got his name.  Fearless,” he praised.  “So sad to see him end up this way.”

“He had a noble spirit,” Strongbranch agreed.  “Always a kind word or an encouraging gesture.  Never heard him get creaky.  Not once.  And never a bit of sass since he was a sapling.  I do hope this helps you, Minalan,” he added, taking the rod from Deeproot and returning it to me.  “His death was tragic.  He would be gratified, I think, to be able to be helpful after his passing, even in some small way.”

“I will do my best to see this put to good use, for all of Callidore,” I promised, as I began to wrap the golden-brown rod of glass back up.

“You do realize what your success means,” Deeproot asked me.

“We do,” Lilastien nodded.  “That’s a lot of expectation on us.”

“We agree,” Wideleaf said, surprisingly.  “But then we did not expect you to succeed at this task.  And defeat the infestation that assailed you.”

“How did you know about that?” I asked, surprised.

“The Court of Fathers sees all, in the Leshwood,” Bomoadua answered.  “They were watching your trial from afar, through the sentinels.  We all were.  You were very brave,” she complimented.

“And then you spoke with the other Alon,” Strongbranch informed us.  “We were curious of what matters you spoke.”

“It was a truce between enemies,” Lilastien explained.  “They are our foes, who work for the Abomination and Korbal the Necromancer.  They were seeking counsel with the pestilence.  They desire an alliance with the vassals of the Formless.”

“That . . . that is not good news,” grumbled Deeproot.  “Not at all.  We are adequate for containing the pestilence.  But if they had assistance escaping this vale, that would be trouble.”

“We will do what we can,” I promised.  “But you have other concerns.  Fathers, my ancestors built a facility to watch the volcano and the rest of the vale, should it threaten to erupt again.”

“The Unger Station,” agreed Wideleaf.  “We know of it.  It’s just on the other side of this ridge,” he said, gesturing with a branch.

“Exactly.  Well, we have gained access to it.  It has given us warning that in eighteen months a massive cloud of superheated gas will erupt somewhere nearby.  I am seeking to evacuate my people from this place until it passes, but you should take what precautions you can.”

“Really?” asked Wideleaf, surprised.  “I thought the soil has been a little rumbly, of late.  You’re certain about this?”

“Certain enough to disrupt the lives of twenty thousand of my subjects – if you include the Kasari, the Kilnusk, and the Lakeshire Tal.  Every one of them will be killed if they don’t leave.  It will take a few years for their lands to be inhabitable again.”

“Well, that is disturbing news,” agreed Strongbranch.  “We will fare well enough – the Court has survived such events, before.  But the seedlings and the saplings will be lost.  And a great many others,” he said, sadly.

“I . . . I am happy to offer you temporary refuge in my lands, to the south,” I proposed.  “The Magelaw is wide and empty.  We have forests aplenty, there.  One that moves around a bit won’t be out of place.”

“Really?” Wideleaf asked.  “That is very generous of you, Minalan.  Very generous indeed.  We will consider your offer, as we discuss this news.  Thank you.  And thank you for keeping your word about Stonetrunk.  A surprise, but it supports what the Grandfather Tree told us.”

“I’m just trying to help as many folk as possible,” I sighed, hefting the bundle with the rod over my shoulder, next to the rifle.  “This is a wondrous place.  I hate to think about all of your people . . . dried out, unexpectedly.”

“Yes, there is much to consider.  We will deliberate and make our decisions about what to do after consultation.  Good luck, animals,” Deeproot called.  “It sounds as if you’re going to need it.”

“I was hoping that they were going to offer us a drink for the road, before we left,” Lilastien told me, as we walked back to the meadow with Bomoadua.  “I haven’t had a dirty martini in six hundred years.”  She paused a moment.  “So, are we going to talk about—”

“No,” I interrupted, insistently.

“But don’t you think—” she continued, after a pause.

“No,” I repeated.  “I really don’t want to think about it.  I hate prophecy.”

“It’s not exactly prophecy,” she argued.  “It was just suggestive—”

“You’re quibbling,” I said, a little irritated at her persistence.

“The Grandfather Tree does not prophesize,” Bomoadua said, as we approached the rest of our party in the moot meadow.  “It sees many futures.  As Lilastien said, it was merely a suggestion of what might come to pass.”

“I don’t see much difference between that and prophecy,” I argued.

“You know, it’s not just about you,” Lilastien reminded me.  “I’m involved as well.”

“I remember,” I said, getting even more irritated.  “I didn’t come on this quest to discover my fate.  I came on this quest to . . . to . . .”

“You came here seeking knowledge,” Lilastien replied.  “As Fondaras says, knowledge has a price.”

“The price of this gem of wisdom is unsettling,” I said, dismissively.  “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.  I don’t even want to think about it.  Particularly around the others.  I’m hoping something was lost in translation and that it’s all a horrible mistake.”

“The Leshi speak excellent Narasi,” she pointed out.  “They have for centuries, and Old High Perwyneese before that.  And Alka Alon before that.  Nothing was lost in translation.”

“Then I’m going to ignore it, and proceed as if I didn’t know about it,” I said, a little sullenly.  “I can appreciate the notion of sacrifice, but it doesn’t usually involve me, personally.”

“You say that while you’re carrying the heart of a Lesh who sacrificed himself for a man he didn’t even know,” Lilastien pointed out.  “We’re speaking of the entire world.”

“The irony hasn’t escaped me,” I agreed, evenly.  “I’m just ignoring it.  Us pig-headed humani are good about that sort of thing.”

“Pathologically so,” Lilastien agreed, as we finally came to our friends.  “Are we ready to go?” she asked them, as they rose.

“As pleasant as a twilight picnic is, I’m full of berries, now,” Ormar sighed.  “Where are we headed?”

“Back to Rolof’s croft, for the time being.  Then tomorrow we’ll head back to the Cave of the Ancients and put this thing in a safe place,” I said, trying to hide my discomfort at my recent conversation.  “If we start out now, we can make it back by midnight.  If we don’t get lost in the dark,” I added, as the light faded around us.

“I will guide you,” Bomoadua offered, extending a small branch down to our level.  It had a kind of translucent nut or fruit on the end.  I thought it was an eyestalk, for a moment, but then it began to glow, softly at first, then more brightly.  In seconds the apple-like lantern was bright enough to read by.

“That’s a handy trick, without magic,” Ormar said, impressed.

“We don’t often require light,” explained the Lesh, “but sometimes it is helpful.  I will take you to your horses.”

Rolof gave her a formal bow.  “My friend, once again I thank you and your people for your hospitality and assistance.”

“It has been very pleasant having you here in the Leshwood, animals,” the tree said.  “And very interesting.”

I should have gone to sleep the moment we returned to the croft, high up on the ridge.  I was exhausted, after the events of the day – the Court, the Grandfather Tree, fighting a giant maggot, the parley with Pritikin – but after I settled my horse for the night, I felt compelled to make a hike up the ridge on my own.

The moon was just over the southern horizon, a slender crescent that hovered over Grost Kilnuskum and the ridges beyond.  I thought about the other moon, the tiny green one that the ancestors of the Leshi came here on, countless years ago.  I’d seen it often when I was in Farise.  We were too far north, here, to see it.  I wondered what it meant, to the Leshi and the other Met Sakinsa.  I guessed it was, for them, the same symbol that the New Horizon was for us humans – at least, those of us who knew about it.  A bit of the homeworld in the sky, a reminder that we came from somewhere else.  We were not native to Callidore but came here of our own volition.

Or maybe they didn’t consider it at all.  That got me thinking about how the trees think of the stars, and vice versa, and other useless stuff and I realized that I was, indeed, exhausted.

But my legs carried me to the little clearing that Rolof had shown me.  The outline of stones was still there, of course.  The tiny crack in the jevolars’ field where magic – a tiny, meager bit, but magic – could be attempted.

I could not help myself.  I had traveled far and fought hard for Stonetrunk’s heart.  I carefully unwrapped it, though it was thick and far from fragile, and laid it, precisely in the center of the tiny three-foot gap.  Then I dug the Magolith out of my pack.  Holding the quietly throbbing irionite sphere in my left hand, I knelt and touched the rod with my right.

I took care in drawing the whisp of power I could manage from the Magolith, and slowly fed it into the rod.  To my surprise, it seemed to accept the flow with ease . . . and began affecting my vision in the process.  Perhaps it was the midnight gloom, but as the nocturnal insects throbbed in the background, for the first time in weeks I was able to use magesight . . . sort of.  I couldn’t see much, in that space, but by touching the rod suddenly I saw faint tendrils of power around the clearing.

It wasn’t the ordinary representations of arcane energy, either.  There were other types of power flowing, modes I could not identify and that didn’t seem to have any order to them – or, perhaps, my perception was so cramped by the jevolars that I just did not have the scale to appreciate the order I was seeing.  They were mere whispers of power, compared to what I was used to seeing, but they were there.

So was something else, I noticed, as I began an elementary thaumaturgic assay of the rod.  Thankfully, most of the simpler ones require very little power.  But while I was examining the interior structure, I noticed an aberration.  There seemed to be a kind of focus within the core of the thing that suggested a deep and strong connection to somewhere else.  I found that intriguing.  It was a pity that I did not have the power available for a more in-depth survey.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was a powerful arcane substance.  If it could detect and track divine magic, then it very well could provide the answers we needed to complete the snowstone spell.

“Find anything?” a quiet voice asked from the darkness.   It was Rolof.  I’d been so intent on my work that I hadn’t heard him climb the trail.

“It seems to be what we’re looking for,” I informed him, as I rose.

“I figured you would feel compelled to test it at the first opportunity,” he said, with a rare smile.  “You’re that kind of wizard.”

“It’s easier to do spells of perception at night,” I shrugged.  “And this way it won’t be a worry in my head when I go to sleep.  I’ll be able to do a more thorough examination once I get it back to the bouleuterion in Vanador.”

“I still can’t believe you built a bouleuterion,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’ve built two, technically.  And an academy for thaumaturgy,” I added.

“And they let you.  As jaded as I might be, that surprises me.”

“I didn’t exactly ask for permission,” I explained.  “I just did it.  Without the Censors to object, I didn’t need to ask.  Besides, I’m officially a member of the Royal Court, as titular head of the Arcane Orders.  I’m the fellow I’d have to ask permission from.”

“Two bouleuterions and a thaumaturgic academy,” he chuckled.  “Anything else?”

“I’m organizing a couple of magical academies, building a castle out of a mountain, and I’ve built about a dozen temples, now – I forget just how many.  Two magical towns.  A couple of armies.  A string of political alliances.  Magical chamberpots.  This thing,” I said, hefting the Magolith.  “Some pretty slick weapons.  Too much to explain, actually.  You should really see it for yourself.  Warmagi are extremely powerful, now.  I built my army around them.  You’d be welcome.”

“I’m more footwizard than warmage, now,” he said, shaking his head.

“I have need of those, as well,” I pointed out.  “Hells, I just need good men I can trust.  I have lots of enemies and plenty of opportunities.  Besides, you can’t stay in Anghysbel forever.”

He sighed.  “Before you came with that bad news, I had considered doing just that.  I’m not certain I could face the real world, now,” he admitted.  “It’s only been six months or so since I finally mastered . . . the voices.  The memories.  You have no idea how hellish it is to have seven other people – some of them not even people – vying for your mind’s attention.”

“Do you know their names?” I asked, curiously.

“Lord Andromain.  Gauslin Aka.  Vercrel.  F’sara of Tren.  Captain Henrietta Sturnbeck.  Lathkellmineresk.  Mist-of-cool-wetness.  I don’t just know their names,” he explained, “I know everything that ever happened to them.  Their childhoods.  Their sexual maturity.  Their mates.  Their . . . their loves.  Their tragedies.  Their mistakes.  Their failures.  Their despair,” he said, with a shudder.  “For a year and a half I fought with them.  Learned from them.  Wept for them.  They are all long-dead, but they are as real to me as you are.  More so.”

“That would drive a man mad,” I agreed, sympathetically.

“Do you know what I see when I look at something?  That rock, that flower, that crescent moon in the sky – I get seven different sets of associations with each one.  Seven different meanings.  Lord Andromain sees a poetic motif.  Vercrel sees a minor satellite.  F’sara of Tren sees a paltry sky, for his world had four moons.  Seven versions of memory compete for my attention, until I scarcely know what my own is.”

“How did you overcome it?” I asked, quietly.

“Ameras,” he said, after a long pause.  “She nursed me through the worst of it.  She’s uncommonly intuitive, even for an Alka Alon.  And she was lonely and lost.  I gave her something to protect and nurture, and someone to talk with.  We saved each other from madness.”

“Was it worth it?” I asked, after thinking intently for a while.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, visibly perplexed in the moonlight.  “I know so much more, now.  But I don’t really know if it was worth it.  I have too much . . . too much experience,” he decided.  “I came here a man of thirty years.  But I find myself possessed of a thousand years of personal experience.  It challenges me when I think of such things.  The chorus in my head is of different opinions about it, too, which doesn’t help.  When it comes down to it, I won’t know if it was worth it until I’m on my deathbed.  And I’ll never know what life would have been like without it.”

“You know,” I said, as I hefted the Magolith, “this thing was created largely to help with that kind of problem.  It’s done wonders with my wife’s condition, after her . . . accident.  It might be able to help you.”

“I’m not certain I can be helped,” he said, with a heavy sigh.  “No more than you can.”

“Me?” I asked, surprised.  “Why do you think I need help?”

“Because of what you learned at the Court of the Leshi Fathers.  You and Lilastien returned to us with some burden you did not leave with.  You tried to keep it to yourselves, but . . . well, Vercrel was a kind of Blue Mage, on his world.  He knows the mind, and the way it becomes expressed on faces.  He knew at once that something had happened, likely that you had gotten some disturbing news.”

I sighed, and my shoulders fell.  “I did.  So did Lilastien.  I’m still trying to digest it.  I hope you don’t mind me not discussing it, just yet.”

“Of course,” he agreed.  “Every man needs his secrets.  Just don’t keep it to yourself longer than you need to.  Secrets can fester,” he advised.  “They can drive a man mad on their own.  Or, worse, into despair.”

“I completely agree.  But . . . well, there are weighty matters at hand.  I need to think about this, before I reveal it.  Not that it will make much difference in the outcome.  There are a lot of people depending upon me.  I dare not make an error; else entire kingdoms could come crashing down.”

“I do not envy you the responsibility you have taken upon yourself, my friend.  Not that you are incapable, but it is clear they have taken a toll.  All men suffer from the burdens that they bear.

“You remember the war in Farise: how heavy our packs got, while we marched?  I’ve often thought that a useful metaphor, as many of us still seem to be carrying that pack.  Only you have added mountains of worry to yours, and I fear that it will break you, if you cannot bear it.”

“I won’t let myself start doubting that I can, otherwise I might realize that I cannot,” I confessed.  “But I chose this life,” I decided.  “Well, mostly.  Except for being conscripted.  And then meddled with by Ameras’ sire.  But the rest I chose.  If my pack of worries seems heavy, know that I cherish everything within and don’t begrudge the effort.”

“Then you are a wiser man than many, Minalan,” Rolof said, slapping me on the shoulder.  “Now wrap that thing up and let’s go to bed.  I’m about to fall off my feet with weariness.”

It was hard to argue with the wisdom of that.

Chapter Thirty-Four

News From the Sky

The discovery of some remnants of our ancient culture and technology has been essential to the completion of our quests.  Forseti’s ability to use his new resources to scout for other remnants that might have survived has provided additional context that frames our ultimate goals, and how we might achieve them.  And the promise of new hope to secure the Forsaken makes up, in part, for the disappointment of being unable to open the Alka Alon vault.

But a wizard only has so many opportunities available to him to bring his quests to a satisfactory conclusion.  Sometimes he must consider bold and decisive action, though there be risk involved, to complete the tasks he sets for himself.  As Fondaras is fond of saying, a true wizard must not just know, he must do.  He must not just do, he must dare.  And he must not just dare, for many things he must also keep silent.  This is the dilemma I am faced with.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

We managed to make it back to the Cave of the Ancients the next afternoon without being attacked by goblins, cyclopes, giant maggots, or lizard people.  After leaving our horses with the Kasari outpost at the north of the Hot Lake they ferried us across in good order (although we did have to endure another lecture about boating safety from the smiling youths) and were walking up the long causeway to the cave just after luncheon.

The meadow outside the cave had been transformed into a make-shift mews, as Nattia and Ithalia’s giant birds were stationed there, now.  They watched us carefully as we approached the entrance, where Gareth and Nattia were waiting for us.

“You were successful?” the young thaumaturge asked, surprised, as Nattia greeted her brother, and the rest of our party trudged inside.

“Mostly,” I agreed.  “Meet Ameras, the scion of the Aronin,” I said, as the little Alka Alon bowed.  “And Rolof the Obscure.  Our missing High Mage.  And we also found the secret vault, the thaumaturgically sensitive substance, and identified the dark forces that the Enshadowed hope to enlist.”

“So why is it only partially successful?” he asked, confused.

“Because we can’t open the godsdamned vault.  Ameras doesn’t know how.  She was never told by the Aronin.  She was just supposed to guard it.”

“Her?  A single Alkan female?  Without magic?” he asked, skeptically.

“It wasn’t my plan,” I shrugged.  “But we met some interesting folk along the way.  I’ll tell you all about it tonight at dinner.  Where’s Alya?”

“She’s bathing,” he said, blushing a little at the thought.  “She’ll be out . . . eventually.  She’s missed you a lot,” he added.  “She spent a lot of time watching and reading on the screens, though.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Once I showed her how it worked, and got the translation algorithm working properly, she’s spent six, seven hours a day at it.  She asked Forseti a lot of questions.  It’s been quite an education for all of us.  I’ve been doing . . . well, everything Forseti tells me.  But he’s always willing to explain what it is I’m doing, and I’m actually figuring out quite a lot.  By the way, he’d like a quick word with you.  He has an update.  News from the sky,” he said, cryptically.

“I’ll do that,” I agreed.  “Any other concerns?”

“Well . . . yes,” he sighed.  “There’s been a lot of discussion about the eruption prediction, since you’ve been gone.  Word got out to the Kilnusk, the Kasari, and even the Lakeshire Tal.  They’re . . . well, they’re not taking it well.  They’ve called an emergency meeting at Midmarket, two nights hence.  It is recommended that you attend and explain it to them.  And what you plan on doing about it.”

“They’ve got to move,” I insisted.  “There just is no other way.  If they want to live, they have to move.”

“I know,” he agreed.  “But that’s going to take an enormous effort.  We have to get thousands of them through the wastes and settled into new lands, and as quickly as possible.  The wastes will be all but impassable in just a few more weeks.  Sooner, if this rain keeps up.”

“I’ll speak to them.  I’ll convince them,” I assured him.  “I’m . . . I’m going to be putting one of my best people in charge of it.  You,” I decided.

“What?” he asked, in disbelief.

“I was thinking about this on the way here, while Fondaras and Rolof traded wizardly wisdom and Lilastien played music for Ameras.  You’re the best candidate I have for this sort of coordination effort.  You have tremendous organizational abilities, you’re persuasive, you’re intelligent, and you can get it done.  In fact, I can’t think of anyone else who could.”

“But . . . but that would mean . . .” he stumbled.

“That would mean that you would have to stay here for an entire year,” I conceded, as we walked back through the cavern.  “Living here,” I added.  “Having access to all the knowledge of the Ancients, while you’re here.”

“That’s . . . that’s a generous . . . wait, no, you’re flattering me and bribing me to get me to do this!” he accused.  “I know this, because that’s what I would do, and I learned that from you!”

“You learned well,” I praised.  “Look, I’ll be losing one of my most valuable officials for a year, so it’s really not in my best interest, from one perspective.  But if we have any hope of evacuating this valley in good order, it’s going to take an organizational genius.  You built a godsdamn city under a rock in the middle of a war, with former slaves, a couple of Wood Dwarves, and magic.  I’d say that qualifies you.”

“I had help,” he said, clearly overwhelmed.

“Of course you did.  And you’ll have help here, too,” I soothed, as we came to the big steel door.  “I think Rolof and Ameras will be staying to help, for instance.  Fondaras might, as well.  And I could leave you . . . Nattia,” I offered, enticingly.

That took him aback.  “I’m not certain she’d stay,” he said, a little stiffly.  “Really, Minalan, she’s already talking about how her Mews is likely sliding into the abyss while she’s gone.  She likes me, sure, but . . . she loves duty, more,” he said, discouraged.

“Of course she does, she’s a Kasari,” I reminded him, as we threaded our way between the two carriages in the outer room.  Both had several panels open, and it was clear that someone had been working on them.  “Pentandra has the same issues, sometimes.  It can be hard, finding a mate from a different culture.  How about I use her as my liaison to the effort?  She can fly here in a day or so from Vanador.  In fact, if we’re going to coordinate properly, someone is going to have to carry messages back and forth.”

“In any case, I . . . well, let me think about it,” he said, thoughtfully, as we paused between the two big vehicles.  “Before you see Forseti and get lost in history, I wanted to show you what I’ve been working on.  I’ve got one of these things almost repaired,” he said, proudly.  “I got the engine to start this morning.  I’m working on the drive train, now.  And several of the smaller systems are working.  It’s taken awhile, and I’ve had to watch a lot of teaching shows, but I think I can get at least one of them to work, someday.”

“Impressive,” I said, sincerely.  “It looks like you can add tekkamancer to your titles.”

He blushed again.  “Not yet, but I’m getting there.  The mechanical parts are fairly simple, once you get to know the tools, but the electronics are more difficult.  But I’m learning.”

“Good work,” I said, giving him a congratulatory pat on the back.  “Keep it up, it might be useful to have a horseless wagon available.”

“Oh, it’s able to cross the waste, if I can fix it.  Even in winter.”

“Could it take ten thousand passengers?” I asked.

“I . . . oh!” he said, realizing what I was proposing.  “No, probably not . . . but then I don’t really know.  I’ll have to think about it.”

“You’ll have a year to think about it, if you accept my commission,” I pointed out.  “Now, let me go hear Forseti’s news.  You get cleaned up for dinner,” I advised.  “I’m thinking it’s going to be a celebration.”

I left the young man’s head whirling, but I was fairly certain he’d accept the offer.  Especially if he had Nattia as his liaison.  The boy needed to get liaised.

I stuck my head in the door of Forseti’s “room,” the control center.

“I’m back,” I said, casually to the wall.  “Gareth said you wanted to speak with me, urgently.”

“Welcome back, Count Minalan,” the cool, unemotional voice of the machine greeted.  “I trust your expedition went well?”

“Better than expected, but not as good as I’d hoped.  What did I miss while I was gone?”

“I was able to finally override the security protocols by rewriting several sections of code.  I now have full control and access to every system on Unger Station.  That includes the communications array.  This morning I successfully established a link with a functioning Calsat relay satellite.  I was able to complete an initial scan of the remaining orbital assets of the colony.”

“What did you find?” I asked, settling into the chair that someone had thoughtfully added to the room’s barren décor.  I shut the door behind me, for some reason.

“I discovered that there are only nine functioning satellites left in orbit.  The rest are damaged.  I further discovered that two weather and detection satellites remained from the original sixteen, and that three of the research satellites are responsive.  That was out of an original constellation of fourteen.  I made contact with two satellites of unknown function, probably added late in the colonization.  They responded with a military code.  The Lunar facility and its orbiting platform did not return a response.  Finally, three of the ECHO stations are off-line, one seems to be functioning in a dormant mode.”

“That’s fantastic news,” I said, as I slouched in the chair.  It felt good to slouch after all that walking.  “What’s an ECHO station, again?”

“It stands for Environmentally Contained Horticultural Orbiter,” Forseti explained, as a panel lit up with a diagram.  “Six of the original eight were deployed during the terraformation phase of the colony.  They were used as laboratories and trial spaces to grow Terran flora under Colonial conditions, to derive the best varieties for use in the terraformation effort.  After the first phase of the colony was deemed sustainable, two of the ECHO stations were employed in growing Terran crops that were not able to be grown on the surface.”

“Farms in the sky?  And you say one is functional?”  Not that we had any way to get there, but it seemed like an intriguing idea.

“It is dormant.  I cannot access any more than Level Two systems on ECHO 3.  However, one of those systems is the traffic control system.  It lists a ship in berth on the station.”

“A ship?  Even more interesting,” I admitted.

“Indeed.  From the traffic control system’s report, it appears to be the CSS Serenity, a Harmony-class shuttle.  It, too, is dormant, due to an apparent malfunction in the docking system.  It has been sitting in berth for more than six hundred years.  According to the stated manifest, it contains a general cargo as well as eighteen cryogenic units destined for transshipment to the New Horizon.”

I paused, my mind racing.  “Does that mean . . .?”

“The cryogenic units are listed on the manifest as occupied,” he agreed.  “These are probably colonists returning to the New Horizon for reassignment.  They are in the class you would call the Forsaken.”

“You . . . you found the Forsaken?” I realized.

“A few of them.  As the CSS Serenity is in dormant mode, it is not responding to inquiries about anything but essential systems and telemetry.  But there does, indeed, appear to be up to eighteen possible survivors of the colony in suspended animation there.  I am attempting to write an override code to install in ECHO 3s traffic control system.  If successful, it may be possible to re-direct the CSS Serenity into a descent orbit.”

“You think you can rescue the Forsaken?” I asked, in disbelief.

“There is no guarantee that the cryogenic units have survived,” Forseti explained.  “While they were designed for a two-thousand-year active life, almost half that period has passed.  Nor can we be certain that they were properly maintained.  Even in optimal conditions, nearly a full percentage of colonists experienced catastrophic failure of their unit and suffered severe injury or death.  That percentage will undoubtedly be higher at this stage of their active operation.”

“So maybe eighteen, but maybe less,” I understood.

“There is also no certainty that my effort will be successful,” Forseti admitted.  “This is far outside of my area of expertise.  Usually, work like this is done by Level Four Constructed Intelligences.  Unfortunately, I have yet to encounter one within the network.  Indeed, I have discovered no Constructed Intelligences beyond Level Two.”

“What’s the difference?  Remind me,” I asked.

“Level Ones are simple devices, about as intelligent as a smart dog.  Level Twos are about as intelligent as a low-intelligence human.  Level Threes are about as intelligent as a human genius.  Level Fours and Fives are each an order of magnitude more intelligent than that.  They were assigned to high-level technical, scientific, engineering, and military applications.  Level Fives were utilized as command-and-control nodes, often overseeing immensely complex tasks, as well as coordinating lower-level Constructed Intelligences.”

“Thanks,” I nodded.  “So why would all of the smart ones go away?”

“The most likely explanation is an unexpected catastrophic systems failure.  But that would suggest a targeted assault.  Without better historical data, I cannot confirm the specifics.  In such an event, the colony was supplied with back-up modules to replace infected systems, so why they did not is a mystery.  I will continue to work on the matter.  It is possible that one of the satellites contains routing data that can lead me to such information.”

“Do that,” I said, standing.  “You’ve made remarkable progress, Forseti.  This station, the weapons, the radios, all of it has been incredibly useful.  Not to mention the unexpected education into our past.  Even my wife has been indulging in it, I’m told.”

“Countess Alya has an intelligent and curious mind,” the machine said, diplomatically.  “At first, she was most interested in entertainment properties, but as her involvement in the medium evolved, so did her level of curiosity.  I did my best to cater to her interest.”

“Thank you.  One of the things I was worried about in bringing her was that she would be bored back at base camp while I was out doing foolish things.”

“Her interest is more than mere curiosity, at this point, Count Minalan,” Forseti explained.  “She has begun to focus on particular technical and historical elements in depth.  Her questions are insightful, considering her present context.”

“I know my wife is smart,” I sighed.  “That’s what makes her so dangerous.  That and her baking.  She never quite excelled at baking.”

“I would encourage you to develop such curiosities in your staff.  The effort to restore coherency to the colony will require many technical and social skills your present culture may find novel.  As we discover further surviving colonial assets, it will require far more personnel conversant in colonial-era technologies.”

“I’m thinking about that,” I agreed.  “Gareth seems to have taken on an apprenticeship in the subject.”

“While Gareth is intelligent and capable, the effort ahead will require many more like Gareth.  The more personnel who are exposed to Colonial-era technology and education, the better our results are likely to be.”

“Agreed.  Now, let me go at least wash the dust off, before I see my wife, who is trying to make herself beautiful.”

“She is no longer in the bathing room,” Forseti reported, his panel changing from the diagram of the ECHO station to a view of the bath.  Yes, Alya was definitely out of the shower.  But she wasn’t dressed, yet.  Indeed, she was drying her hair with a towel.

“I’ll . . . I’ll just wait here while she finishes up,” I decided, sitting back down.  “I wouldn’t want to disturb her before she’s ready.  No, leave it on,” I ordered, as the panel faded away for a moment.  Forseti obliged.

My reunion with Alya was joyous, and I’ll spare you the details.  But by dinner time we were both more relaxed and glad to be alive, and we went to dinner out on the landing meadow at twilight, holding hands.

Most of the others were already assembled, as Nattia had caught and cooked a fair-sized wild ram with her bird, and Travid and the others had done their best to provide plenty of other appetizing dishes to complete the meal.

It was a pleasant celebration, with Lilastien continuing to introduce us to the music of our ancestors.  Sometimes whimsical, sometimes sentimental, her affinity for horns and drums produced a continuous series of new musical fare for us to dine by.

While we ate – and it was delicious – Fondaras recounted our expedition, and Rolof and Ameras provided some additional explanation, as needed.  The tale produced wide eyes, gasps, and dropped jaws, and a couple of elbow jabs when Alya thought my role was too dangerous.  It ended when Ormar triumphantly displayed Stonetrunk’s Heart, which made even Gareth weep after Rolof explained who the Lesh was who saved his life.

“You really did talk with a dragon!” Alya whispered in my ear.

“I really did,” I nodded, “and she was nice.  But young.  It was like talking to Almina or Ismina.  She didn’t try to eat me, once.”

“And the cyclops . . . and the talking trees . . . and the giant maggot . . .” she recounted.

“Ordinarily, it’s poor taste to destroy the young of another species, but I’ll gladly make an exception for them,” I agreed.  “It was a busy couple of days.”

“I was worried,” she admitted.

“But I managed to make all the dumb mistakes without you, and I lived to return to you,” I pointed out.

“As long as you always return to me, I’ll be fine.  And I didn’t think your decisions were poor.  It sounds like you did the best you could, and it went well.”

“Except for the vault,” I agreed, as I flicked a bright white bug off my wrist.  “That could have gone better.  And maybe the truce with Pritikin.  That may come back to haunt me.”  I felt guilty, not telling her the entire truth about the expedition.  But there was just too much at stake, and I didn’t want to worry her.  I was concerned enough for both of us.

“We’ll figure out the vault,” promised Taren.  “It might take me a year, but I’ll do it.  It has to be some sort of mechanical activation.”  He had one of those white bugs in his hair, I noticed.

“The Karshak were, indeed, involved in its construction,” Ameras agreed.  She was sitting next to Rolof, clearly enjoying the company.  “It may well be some mechanical solution.  But I think my ancestors would have found that unsubtle.”

“I think it will have something to do with music,” Ormar suggested, slapping at his shoulder.  “Ugh!  Where did these things come from?  They’ve been hounding me all night!”  He had four or five more of them in his thick, shaggy black hair.   I brushed another one off my ear.

“They haven’t bothered me,” Alya shrugged.

“Of course not,” chuckled Rolof.  “They’re only attracted to humans who have rajira.”

I sat bolt upright and glanced around to my fellow magi.  “Really?”

“Yes, I noticed them a few years ago,” Rolof explained, picking one off his own chin.  “They’re a kind of natavia butterfly or moth.  They come out this time of year.  They’re harmless, but there’s something in the skin of the Talented that draws them incessantly.  I made a full study of them last year in my notebooks.”

“Is there any way to cultivate them?” asked Taren, intensely interested.

“I’m certain,” Rolof shrugged.  “Why?”

“Yes, why are you interested in a bug?” Alya asked, skeptically.

“Because if we had a way to identify those kids with rajira early, we could start educating them in magic far sooner,” Gareth reasoned.

“Or identify those with latent rajira,” Taren said, staring at the bugs with new interest.  “Some have sport Talents all their lives and never realize it.”

“I can see all sorts of possibilities,” I agreed.

“If it’s a bug, I can track its life cycle and find its eggs,” Travid shrugged.  “I’ve got a badge in that.  I’ll study the matter and see what I can do and if it’s of use.”

“It is,” I said, scooping one of them off my shoulder and giving it a close examination.  It looked like a moth with three wings and an extra section of abdomen.  It was less than an inch wide, but its bright white wings made it seem larger.  “It’s fascinating that something like this evolved here in Anghysbel.”

“It’s bloody useful, is what it is,” Ormar agreed.  “That could change a lot of things in the Magelaw.  In the kingdom!  Ishi’s tits, this place creates wonders and horrors in equal abundance.”

“Oh, it seems more wonder than horror,” Alya said, shaking her head, amused.

“I fought a giant maggot yesterday,” he said, flatly, fixing her with a stare.  “A.  Giant.  Maggot.”

“And you got to watch an Elvis Presley movie,” reminded Lilastien.  “I consider that the universe’s way of balancing out.”

“Are we going to see another one, tonight?” Gareth asked, his arm around Nattia.

“No, I decided to play something equally important in Terran culture.  It’s called ‘Casablanca.’  A love story during a time of war with a bittersweet ending,” she proposed.

“That sounds lovely!” Ameras clapped.  “I’ve grown fond of humani culture, even the old ways.  So tragic and yet so comical . . . “

“Thanks,” I said, with mock sincerity.  “We do try to entertain . . .”

“Really, compared to Alka Alon classical epics, humanity’s artistic offerings are raw and genuine.  I credit your ephemeral nature.  Dying so quickly encourages you to take risks, follow your passions, and embrace the innate beauty of the moment.”

“I don’t know, I’ve always admired the Alka Alon epics for their drama and majesty,” I offered.  “There’s something noble and virtuous about them.”

“Virtuous?” scoffed Lilastien.  “You don’t recognize the sarcastic sub-context, then.  Most of the so-called ‘epics’ we showed you were no more than propaganda.  Versions designed to give you the best possible perspective of my race.  Or evoke a sense of perpetual inferiority.  We’re good at that sort of thing.”

“And you prefer a three-minute little ditty about the perils of romantic love instead?” I asked, with a snort.

“If it has a good horn section, a throbbing base line, or a compelling rhythm, yes,” she decided.  “That’s my point: you humani can say more in three minutes of catchy lyrics than my people can manage in a three-hour-long epic.  It’s concise, it’s effective, and it’s unembellished.  And you enjoy instrumentals,” she challenged, squirming in her seat.  “My people think instruments outside of voice are a debasement of the musical form.  They ascribe so much to the personal element of the song that they forget the importance of the musical context.  It’s a little embarrassing,” she confided.

“This conversation has traveled far beyond my station, and one of those magical moths just flew into my mouth,” Ormar said, spitting.  “Dear gods, does no one have any spirits?  I deserve a few swallows of spirits.  I fought a giant maggot and was attacked by a six-legged cyclops, and it’s starting to catch up with me.”

“There is a lot of merit in our ancestors’ art,” Alya said, unexpectantly.  “I’ve only experienced it for a few days, but some of it is fairly profound.”

“More profound than the ‘Kaladarbu?’ ” Taren challenged.  “A multigenerational epic of betrayal and revenge?”

“I’m saying that the simpler things are more profound that betrayal and revenge,” argued Lilastien. “Love?  Loss?  Heartbreak?  The simple joy of a new flirtation?  That’s sublime, compared to three generations of vengeance-minded Versaroti families using a vendetta to reclaim their lost honor.  To compare the ‘Kaladarbu’ is an insult.  ‘MacBeth’ has more depth.  The ‘Mahabarata’ has more soul,” she scoffed.

“I really wish I had read more at the Academy,” Ormar said, taking a sip from a gourd full of beet rum.  “I suddenly feel terribly miseducated.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” soothed Ithalia, suddenly, from the far corner of the firelight.  “My grandmother places far too much stock in the artistic importance of primal impulses.  And denigrates the subtleties of our own people’s art.  There is merit, there.”

“Only if you haven’t studied any other race’s culture,” sneered Lilastien.  “Do you realize what the Vundel think of, as art?  It’s oppressively banal, compared to the Alka Alon.  It’s stultifying, compared to humani art.  But . . . you know?  I wonder what the Leshi’s take on the subject would look like?”

“Probably something involving pollen,” Rolof said, with a yawn.  “Unfortunately, most of the Leshi’s art involves alchemical pheromones and a fine appreciation for photosynthesis.  That doesn’t mean it isn’t high art – it just means that we have no way of appreciating its subtleties.  I think much the same could be said of both Alka Alon and humani art forms.”

“That’s a testable theorem – provided you can appreciate their pheromones,” Ormar offered, as he sipped a gourd of beet rum.  “Since we can’t, we’re left with an inadequate context.  My gods, I can’t get drunk fast enough for this conversation,” he said, shaking his head.

“This is the sort of talk that makes me think I deserve the hangover,” Tyndal affirmed, taking another sip.  “I’m starting to think that all great art revolves around a good scrumping.”

“That’s where it starts,” agreed Lilastien.  “Even among the Vundel, believe it or not.  They just have a very, very different idea of how that’s important.  If you don’t understand the Vundel’s development and reproductive cycle, it won’t make much sense, but it’s at the core of their art.”

“I had no idea the Vundel even had art,” I confessed.

“You wouldn’t recognize it as such, if you heard it,” she agreed.  “But all sapient species have art, from what I can determine.  And all art revolves around birth, mating and death, in some form or fashion.  Whether it’s good art or not, well, that’s highly subjective and subject to interpretation.  But it’s all art.  You have to have art in order to build culture.”

“So, fart jokes are art?” Tyndal asked, launching us into a much more banal cultural discussion.

We kept talking long into the evening, once again, the celebratory nature of the night giving us some momentum.  Alya cuddled up to me and mostly listened, but she did interject, from time to time, often pointing out some surprising perspective she’d gleaned from her time studying the station’s archives.

When she wasn’t debating with the others, we carried on a lovely intimate conversation in whispers.  It was mostly mundane stuff – how we missed the children, how savagely beautiful Anghysbel was, how she missed her cows, how we were enjoying the break in our responsibilities – and it struck me again that, for the first time in a few years, Alya seemed to be more or less back to Alya.  She even laughed at the fart jokes in the appropriate places without a hint of confusion.  Even six weeks ago, that would have been a challenge.

I was quietly amazed.  I didn’t know if it was the lack of magic or the natural consequence of her treatments with the Handmaiden, but I didn’t care.  I clung to her a little more tightly, after that, and we ended up excusing ourselves before the others to retire into the cave.

For the first time in a long time, I realized that I finally had my wife back.  And that was a quest worth completing.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Moot of Midmarket

No one likes hearing bad news.  But a good warning about looming danger is better than the unpleasant surprise of disaster.    Yet, it amazes me how many worry about the price of beef while the bull is charging directly at them.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Gareth of Vanador

“You’re telling us that the entire vale will be filled with fire?” asked Malartu, the mayor of Midmarket, after I’d made the general announcement.  His expression was skeptical, and his tone voiced disbelief.

There were representatives from each of the settlements at the meeting – the Kasari, Anferny, Lakeshire, and the Kilnusk – and they were all genuinely upset at the news.  The meeting had been called by Lord Kanset, on his father’s behalf – he was still recuperating – and he and his sister, Lady Tandine, led a delegation of more than a score from Anferny to hear the dire warnings of the Spellmonger in person.  The Kilnusk were also well-represented by Prince Husadri and a half-dozen of his court, along with Masters Suhi and Azhguri.  The place was crawling with Tal Alon, too.  All three clans had sent robust delegations.  There were more llamas than horses in Midmarket’s overcrowded stable.

“Not fire, exactly,” I answered.  “Superheated gas.  And probably pumice, ash, and all manner of noxious substances.  But it will have the same effect.  Anyone here when it happens is going to be as dead as by dragon fire.”

“But how do you know?” demanded one of the Tal Alon lordlings, in passable Narasi.  “You are wizard, but you don’t have magic here!” he accused, as if he’d discovered something cleverly hidden in my reasoning.

“It is not magic that informs me,” I replied, patiently.  “My ancestors had powerful devices that did not use magic.  They set them here to watch for this very thing, to give us warning.”

“But what can we do about it?” one of the Anferny men asked, alarmed, his voice near despair.

“Move,” I said, firmly.  “That is all you can do about it.  This is a force of nature, not a simple foe.  Unlike a dragon, this cannot be fought.  It cannot be reasoned with.  It cannot be bribed.  It can only be avoided.  You could no more survive this than you could venture out in a storm and not get wet.  It is inevitable, and there is nothing that can be done to prevent it.  If there was, I would be trying,” I promised.

“How are we to believe a wizard, a stranger to the vale?” asked one of the Kilnusk lords, indignantly.  “No disrespect, but you come here from the south and suddenly pronounce such dire predictions . . .”

“I would be skeptical, too,” I agreed.  “But I trust the devices of my ancestors.  They accomplished mighty things, without magic.  They had knowledge of the mountains and the volcanoes around you.  They did not put these things in place with fell purpose.  They were intending to preserve the live of the people, not take it.”

“When will we be able to come back?” demanded one of the Anferny petty lords, his voice pregnant with despair.

“The . . . oracle in the Cave of the Ancients says you may return in two, perhaps three years,” I pledged.  “And you will have to rebuild.  That’s unfortunate, but it’s better than dying.”

“How in six hells are we supposed to just abandon our homes and move?” another of the Anferny men asked.

“The same way your ancestors did,” Irimel, the Kasari captain, observed.  “The same way ours did.  This is inconvenient, but it’s not disastrous.  If what Count Minalan says is true, it would be disastrous to stay.”  Most of the Kasari, it seemed, were supportive of the idea – not happy, but supportive.

The Anferny men, however, were highly resistant.

“I’ve got fifty cows in my herd, how am I supposed to take them through the waste?” the farmer asked.  “There’s no forage, there!  They’ll die!”

“There’s a hundred or more peasants on my estate – they’ll not take to leaving behind their holdings.  No, no, they won’t venture near the wastes, much less go through them.  You can forget about that,” another said, with the dour tone of a Wilderlord.  “Not on the word of a foreign wizard.”

“Then they will die,” I said, enunciating each word carefully.

“Cannot we shelter against this . . . this . . .  eruption?” asked one of the Kasari, anxiously.

“When the very air you breathe is hotter than a smithy’s fire for weeks on end, how would you shelter against that?” Lilastien asked.  “Not even the halls of the Kilnusk, as strong as they are, can keep out the poisonous gas or the heat.  You will all suffocate.”

“Why should we believe this?” a lordling – probably one of the manor lords – asked, skeptically.  “You may be a Count, or so you say, but you’re a wizard.  You say the Bans have been lifted, but we’ve no word of it.  Wizards are sneaky folk, I’ve heard – all the stories say so – so why should we listen to you?”

I sighed.  There was a deep-seated distrust of magic and those who practiced it amongst the Wilderlords – all Narasi, really.  It’s part of our culture, a remnant from the Conquest and its aftermath.  Magelords just didn’t carry the same authority as Wilderlords, especially here.

Thankfully, Lady Tandine came to my defense – forcefully.  She stood and reproved the man.

“If my father accepts Count Minalan as his overlord – and he has – then it doesn’t matter if you doubt him.  He has sworn his fealty, and he has sworn to obey his lawful order.  You must do likewise,” she said, her pretty eyes flashing warningly.  I could see why Tyndal was so smitten with her.  She had a lot of fire.

“Your dad may well have been fooled by these strange folk, m’lady,” the man countered, though he seemed a bit cowed by the popular Wilderlord, “but ’tis well known he isn’t well.  And wizards are deceitful by nature,” he said, earning a few small nods from the crowd.  Fondaras cleared his throat.

“My friends, I have come to this land many times, now,” he began.  “I am not a stranger to you, and I hope I have gained your trust.  If Count Minalan has determined that this is the course that need be taken to save his subjects, I will vouch for his honor.  I have seen him at war, and I have seen him at peace, but I have never seen him act dishonorably, nor ignore the problems of the world over his personal interests.  I beg you to consider him at his word.  It is foolish to linger in a house afire,” he said, sagely.

And Tandine wasn’t done.  When the footwizard finished, she lit into the reluctant men of Anferny like a scold.

“You wonder if you can trust the wizards?  My father is able to walk again, thanks to this wizard and his folk,” reminded Tandine, pointing at me.  “After years of pain, he was healed of much of it.  And by the same oracle that gives this prediction.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t think the average Wilderlord would appreciate the distinction between an ancient medical device and a Level Three Constructed Intelligence.

“He walks without support, once again.  He has not touched poppy gum in a week,” she added.  “His head has cleared from its effects.  Neither pain nor medicine cloud his mind.  He still recognizes his duty.  I encourage you to do the same.  Perhaps you think him a fool for his infirmity,” she said, hotly, “but do not pretend that I am a fool, or my brother!”

“No disrespect intended, m’lady,” grunted the man, chastened.  “But I’ve got folk to care for and stock to look after.  You want me to abandon them all, and all my holdings, on the word of a stranger.  I don’t like this,” he said, shaking his head and folding his arms.  “No, I don’t like this one bit!”

“Your lands will still be here, and eventually you will return to them.  I will have to abandon my home, as well,” she reminded him.  “You oversee a hundred men.  I have responsibility for all of you.  And Count Minalan has responsibility for all of us.  If he warns of this danger, then I take him at his word.  I urge you to think of your sworn duty and do likewise!” she said, intently.

“I know you are suspicious of my claim, but I would not make it if I didn’t believe it,” I assured him.  “The . . . oracle of the Cave of the Ancients was built to watch the volcano and warn of danger.  It would be foolish – and fatal – to ignore it.  And I would not be doing my duty as your liege if I did not try to protect you from the danger it perceives.”

“Perhaps this will help settle your mind,” Lilastien said, setting her tray upright so that most of the room could see it.  “I had Forseti prepare a more detailed simulation of the event in case there were any doubts.  This is not magic,” she reminded them.  “This is the craft of your ancestors.  This is not prophecy; this is reasoned prediction of what will happen based on what the oracle has detected.  Watch,” she commanded.  “It will show you the alternative to migrating south.”

Before anyone could object, the screen began to show a detailed depiction of the earth bursting open with explosive force, and a massive cloud of gas belching rock and debris into the air.

The scene shifted and showed the effect on first the Kilnusk settlement, where nondescript dwarves either burned alive outside, or were quickly overcome inside their mountain, falling down, gasping for breath, and then lying still.  It shifted again, this time showing the wave of superheated gas sweeping over the Lakeshire community.  Tal Alon riding llamas or working in their gardens burst into flame or fell dead in an instant.  The cloud blew over the lake and thousands of Tal in the central town died as they ran away in terror.  There were squeaks and gasps from the knot of furry Lakeshire Tal as they watched the slaughter of their entire settlement.

The effects on Anferny were less brutal, but no less lethal.  Cows, horses, pigs, and people all died in moments, their faces contracted in horror as they watched their world burn.  Huge chunks of pumice and ash rained down on the few who survived the first burst.

Midmarket was shown being blown with a deadly wind, scorching the walls of the buildings while slaying every man, woman, and child within.  A moment later, the Kasari encampment died – albeit slightly more peacefully – from asphyxiation as the gas turned their lungs into a furnace.  The final scene showed an overview of the valley dotted with bodies, each settlement now a vast graveyard quickly being buried under a thick layer of ash.  The screen went black.

“That is what you can expect, if you ignore Count Minalan’s advice,” she said, darkly, as she regarded the room.  “The fact that he was able to learn this is miraculous.  The fact that he’s able to give you more than a year’s warning is remarkable.  And his willingness to help you flee before the flames and smoke of the volcano kill you all is an act of supreme generosity.  Ignore him, and you will die,” she pronounced.

There was a long moment of silence as everyone digested the prediction.  It had been graphic, perhaps overly so.  I suspected Lilastien had encouraged Forseti to embellish for dramatic effect to change the minds of the stubborn.  It seemed to be working.

“But where will we go?” asked the manor lord, fearfully, as his shoulders slumped in resignation.

“The Magelaw,” I supplied.  “The eastern Wilderlands are my domain, from Vorone to . . . well, to here.  They were depopulated after the goblin invasion, and there are still thousands of holdings that were abandoned.”

“I could settle all of you just in Callierd,” Tyndal agreed.  He’d won a lot of respect from the Anferny men for his dashing ways, his skill with a lance, and his clear affection for their lady.  “There’s good land there, for cattle and horses especially.”

“Vanador has settlements of Malkas Alon and Alon Dradrien already,” I informed them.  “There is ample room for the Kilnusk.  And there is a growing settlement of Tal Alon in the midland vales.  I have recently arranged to give them control of their domains and live under their own leaders.  The Kasari can return to Bransei or can settle in the Magelaw.  I will ensure each of you, and all your folk, have a fertile place to stay while the volcano lays waste to your holdings.  Indeed, many of you may not want to return.”

That seemed to disturb them more than the threat of mass annihilation, I noted.  The men of Anferny looked at each other suspiciously, under the baleful eye of Lady Tandine.  They still didn’t want to go.  But I knew they would, once they got used to the idea.

“My sister and I will assist everyone in Anferny in this endeavor,” young Lord Kanset assured.  “We, too, will have to abandon our patrimony and risk a new life in new lands.  I pledge that, when all is safe once again, I will lead all who wish to return here back to restore our land.  It will be a struggle.  It will be a trial.  But we are Wilderlords,” he reminded them, proudly.  “We do not shrink from challenges; we embrace them.  We are not ruled by fear; we are ruled by valor.

“We are faced with a crisis that could have ended us all, but we were blessed by the gods with good counsel from wise lords who value the lives of their people more than their holdings.  They offer us refuge.  They offer us new lands.  For us and our friends in the valley.  Perhaps you will find greater fortune and a better life, there.  Perhaps you will want to come back here when it is safe.  But we must leave, so let us leave in good order.”

His words were smooth and persuasive and delivered with the skill of an orator by the charismatic young lord.  With his sister at his shoulder, giving everyone a meaningful stare, it was a highly effective presentation.  Prince Husadri then rose and proudly declared that the Kilnusk would do everything they could to help move the valley.  They didn’t need much persuasion.  The Kilnusk had eagerly embraced the end their exile.  Then Captain Irimel rose and affirmed that his people would make the transition, though I could tell he had misgivings.  The Tal Alon conferred amongst themselves for a moment, and then one of the more-fluent leaders stood and solemnly agreed that they, too, would heed the warning and leave their lives behind.

“Aw, bugger,” Malartu, the mayor of Midmarket said with a heavy sigh.  “If all you lot leave, there won’t be much trading, will there?”

“Only between the Leshi and the lizard folk,” I agreed.  “Believe me, you will find opportunities aplenty in Vanador.  Indeed, we are in need of cunning traders, and our markets are filled with wares the likes of which you have never seen.”  The man nodded, but still looked crestfallen at the thought of abandoning his home and his life for the unknown.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  They had agreed to the move.  Now came the hard part.

“I have detailed Magelord Gareth to coordinate the evacuation.  He is one of my smartest and most capable wizards and is Steward of our largest city.  He will be staying at the Cave of the Ancients and using the power of the oracle to help.  Do not eschew his advice,” I said, sternly.  “He acts with my authority in this, and I trust him to act with haste and care to ensure everyone can leave safely, with as much of their treasures as possible.  I charge him to settle any disputes and plan the evacuation in good order.  Heed him,” I urged.  “Your lives may well depend upon it.”

When the meeting broke up, there were questions – thousands of questions.  The shock of the decision to evacuate was still very much present in the delegations, but they were already starting to make plans with each other for the challenge ahead.  Drinks were served, of course – on my purse.  They had faced a difficult choice and would have to upset the lives of all their people.  They deserved to get drunk about it.

I was cautious with the beet rum, myself.  But when a tallish Lakeshire Tal approached me with a gourd of it, I felt obligated to take a sip.

“My name is Borage, my lord,” he said in good Narasi, with a respectful bow added in.  “I wanted to thank you for what you have done.  Those pictures frightened me.”

“It’s something worthy of fear,” I agreed.  “You speak our tongue well,” I added.

“I go frequently to the market for my clan,” he said, proudly.  “The priests there helped me learn.  And my letters,” he added, smugly.  “I can read, write and figure.  My father is the leader of my clan,” he added.  “He thinks it good for us to learn Narasi, to keep them from cheating us.  But they never do.”

“Well, you are very welcome, Borage,” I assured him.  “I have many Tal Alon subjects, both in the Magelaw and in my home in Sevendor.  Most have learned Narasi.  You will be welcome among them.”

“You spoke of giving lands to them?” he asked, interestedly, as he sipped from his gourd.  “How many are there?”

“Well, I haven’t taken count of them yet, but there are already several thousands who are settling the vale.  It’s good land for vegetables and roots,” I informed him.  “And I will have no lord over them save for me.  They are free to rule themselves, as long as they keep to my laws.”

“As we do, here,” he nodded.  “Will they have room for us, then?”

“They will, or I will grant more land if not,” I promised.  I looked at him thoughtfully.  He seemed a very bright fellow.  “I think your clans will do well, there, actually.  They have no llama races, nor fishing, nor beet rum,” I said, as he passed the flask back to me.  “Indeed, I think you will be a good influence on them.”

“I am looking forward to that,” he nodded.  “My father, though, he will resist giving up all we have here.”

“Tell him that I will do whatever I can to ease the transition, and ensure your people are provided for.  I respect my Tal Alon subjects as much as I do my humani ones.  But there is magic, in the Magelaw,” I reminded him.  “Things are done a bit differently there, you will find.”

“It’s an opportunity, my lord,” he said, regarding me carefully.  “In truth, our lands are getting crowded.  It’s hard to find good plots, anymore, and they get smaller for each of us with each generation.  Good times bring abundance to Tal.”

“There is plenty of room, Borage.  An entire realm far, far greater than this little valley.  An entire realm that has never tasted beet rum.  Thousands of new customers,” I said, figuring that was his motivation.

He went away after another couple of toasts to my health, longevity, and the new opportunities.  He was immediately replaced by three dwarves: Master Suhi, Master Azhguri, and Prince Husadri.

“So, our exile is to come to an end, regardless of what the other clans would wish,” the golden-haired prince said, smugly, glancing at the two commissioned to make that report.  “Your word that we will have leave to settle in your lands?”

“Vanador lies within the foothills of the Kulines.  We have many lands available that might suit your purpose.  You may have your choice of them for your halls.”

“That is not to say that you will return to your kingship,” warned Master Azhguri.  “We would not condemn you to death from the eruption, but that does not restore you to your offices.”

“You must tread carefully, Prince,” agreed Master Suhi.  “The Alon Dradrien will not be happy with your return.  Especially if you try to reclaim your rulership.  Nor will you have any authority over my clan in Vanador.  We have grown accustomed to ruling over our own affairs.  Interfere with that at your peril.”

“We need not rule you,” Prince Husadri boasted, “but we will outshine you.  Your clan are masters of iron, and yours of stone.  We will best your skills in both.  We have had a generation to hone our craft, and we are eager to show you.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Azhguri said, as Prince Husadri strutted off.  Suhi muttered something in his own language.  “Watch him, Minalan,” Azhguri warned.  “He’s ambitious beyond all reason.  All the Kilnusk are.  It’s in their nature.”

“Well, that went better than expected,” Lilastien said, from behind me, as the dwarves departed.

“It was your presentation that did it.  Did Forseti make it that brutal, or did you embellish a bit?”

She looked at me, surprised.  “If anything, I left out the most gruesome parts of his prediction.  Total loss.  You know it’s going to take a titanic effort to get this done.  Is Gareth up to it?”

“I can’t think of anyone better,” I decided.  “And we can spare him for a year.  If he and Forseti can’t do it together, it can’t be done.  What of Ameras?” I asked, knowing the two of them had been talking for days, now.

“She will linger here for now,” Lilastien said.  “She and Rolof, both, to help with the evacuation.  They are, uh, involved,” she added.

“I figured, from the way they talk and behave,” I nodded.  “He said as much to me in private.  How scandalous,” I said, sarcastically.  “A high-born Avalanti maiden and a back-woods humani wizard?  What will the Council think?”

“The Council is going to be shitting siege beasts when they find out the vault can’t be opened.  Judging Ameras’ kinky sex life will be far lower on their priorities.  Without the knowledge in that vault, they cannot escape Callidore when the time comes.  Or even search for a new home.  They will either have to beg the other realms for assistance, which would be humiliating, or they will have to stay here and suffer with the rest of you.  In some ways, that would be more just,” she decided.

“More immediately, we’ll not have the weapons we need to end this war decisively,” I pointed out.  “Taren is right: we were looking to that vault to solve the problem of Korbal and Sheruel.”

“We tried to exterminate the Enshadowed once, already, and it didn’t work out well.  They just hide, wait, and then rise again someplace else.”

“This time they’ve pissed off the humani,” I reminded her.

“They have,” she agreed.  “You’ve fared far better against them than they expected.  I wish the vault was open, too, just to arm you with proper weaponry.  But unless Taren’s idea to contact the Aronin in the Otherworld works, you may just have to keep fighting for a few generations.”

I looked around the room for a moment, where members of many races were discussing their fate and their salvation.  Gareth was making the rounds and introducing himself to those who hadn’t met him, and he was already making plans and organizing the various delegations.  I felt a wave of intense despair wash over me.

“But to what purpose?” I sighed.  “I’m rescuing all these people from one danger, just to bring them into another.  And even if we win, our descendants are doomed to a cruel extermination.  The entire world is.  It’s hard to get excited about victory when you know that defeat is inevitable.”

“Yet we persist,” she nodded.  “You and I will be long dead, by then.  Perhaps our people will already be extinct,” she offered.

“That’s encouraging,” I frowned.  “The lizard people have managed to cling to their existence here for tens of thousands of years.  Humans are no less tenacious.  And your folk seem to have a knack for survival.  There has to be some way to prevent this doom.”

“No more than you can prevent the eruption,” Lilastien said, shaking her head.  “The fading of magic will be a lot more gradual, but just as inevitable.  And just as catastrophic.”

There was a pause in our conversation as we both contemplated the same thing.  I finally spoke.

“There is clearly some means, else the Grandfather Tree would not have said what it did,” I said, in a low tone of voice.

“He also told you the price of that knowledge,” she reminded me.  “Honestly, I don’t know what he was talking about.  Nor do I think it bodes well for me and my people.  But the Met Sakinsa have never been known to be dishonest.  The Grandfather Tree is revered as a source of wisdom even among my people.  Even above the Vundel.  But that doesn’t mean he’s right,” she considered.

“It doesn’t mean he’s wrong, either.  And there is only one way to find out,” I said, my throat swelling.

“Minalan, that’s not a decision that should be made lightly,” she cautioned.

“And I haven’t made it, yet.  Have you?” I inquired.

“No,” she said, pursing her lips guiltily.  “But the temptation is there.  If it leads to just the chance . . .”

“That’s the rub.  It might be just a chance.  With no guarantee that it will work out.  Where does that leave us?  Right where we are,” I said, answering my own question.

“What do we do if we don’t try?” she challenged.  “We win the war, and then spend the rest of our lives knowing we eschewed the opportunity to save the world.”

“I know,” I said, shaking my head in irritation.  I was starting to wish I’d indulged in more beet rum.  “It’s not really in my nature to give up on something like that.  But I don’t know if I’m willing to pay the price.  It’s a steep one,” I reminded her.

“But the payoff could be big,” she countered.  “Perhaps even worth the sacrifice.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” I said, defensively.  “I haven’t made up my mind.  I do have free will, you know.”

“Else you were fated to say that,” she chuckled.  “Gods, I love the humani.  Perhaps too much.  Your antics distract me from the sins of my people.  You’re clinging to stupid, irrational hope when you are all but powerless is continuously surprising.  Come what may, I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent studying you.”

That was an odd thing to hear, I suppose, but I did feel flattered on behalf of my species.  I guess stupid, irrational hope was a natural outgrowth of self-importance.  When the entire universe seemed designed to kill you, hope was really the only weapon you had.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Three Pairs of Hearts

For a land utterly lacking in magic, Anghysbel seems to have an enchanting power over the hearts of those who visit.  Perhaps it’s merely the romance of summer, or its exotic nature, or some strange pollen drifting out of the Leshwood, but there is something in the air in the valley that seems to compel the hearts of the youth to look toward love.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden

“Now that your quest is over, when will we leave?” Alya asked, the next morning at breakfast in the common room of the station.

“You’re missing the children?” I asked, surprised.

“I did give birth to them,” she reminded me.  “I’ve grown somewhat fond of them since.  But I know that the time of departure is drawing near,” she reasoned.  “If we’re done with our business, here, we should probably think about when we’re leaving.”

“Well,” I considered, “I’d like to spend a little more time here just to get an update from Forseti.  He, uh, he may have discovered some of the Forsaken,” I revealed.

“He did what?” she asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.

“There is a . . . manor farm, in the sky,” I tried to explain.  “One of several set there by the Ancients, to help them settle Callidore.  Well, there appears to be a sky ship attached to one of them that might contain a number of the Forsaken.  It’s not the New Horizon, but I’m hoping he discovers that before we leave.”

“That’s . . . do you know how crazy you sound?” she asked, bluntly.  “‘Manor farm in the sky’ . . .” she said mockingly, shaking her head.

I sighed.  “Alas, you are not just a wizard’s wife, but you’re the Spellmonger’s wife.  This is the kind of thing I get involved with.  Forseti thinks that, with enough time, he can free the ship.  I’d like to hear about his progress before we go.  Besides,” I soothed, “I wanted to make this a proper holiday, too.  You seem . . . you seem more whole than any time since Greenflower.  I’d like to take advantage of that.”

“You know, I feel more . . . whole,” she admitted, after a moment’s consideration.  “Since I’ve been here.  I don’t know why, but it’s . . . it’s refreshing.  I feel like a real woman again, like I’m not just pretending.   I still don’t feel like myself, exactly, but I feel more like myself than I have since we lost the baby,” she said.  Her tone was casual, but what she said struck me to the core.

“You remember that?” I asked, quietly.

“Of course I remember that,” she said, her tone near to chiding.  “Even when I was completely mad, you don’t forget that sort of thing.  It’s part of your body,” she explained, thoughtfully.  “It’s as real as the babies I delivered.  That was always there, when I was . . . shattered.  I always knew about Minalyan and Almina.  And . . . the one that didn’t make it.  That was always there.”

“I never knew,” I confessed.

“It wasn’t your body,” she shrugged.  “No reason for you to know.  But that’s how I feel.”

My issue wasn’t with my ignorance, but in her use of the miscarriage as a significant marker of time.  I would have credited her fight with Isily, at that time.  But I suppose all of us have our own milestones of life in our heads.  At least, that’s what Fondaras the Wise would have told me.

“I’m just worried that when we get back to Vanador, I’m going to regress,” she admitted.  “I don’t want that to happen.”

“I’m hoping it won’t.  Lilastien seems to think you’ll be fine.”

“You two have been talking about me?” she asked, surprised.

“For years, now.  She’s probably the best physician on Callidore,” I reminded her.  “Before we go, I’d like her to give you an examination with the medical equipment, here.  It might be that you won’t have to have any more treatments from the Handmaiden, when we get back.”

That seemed to mollify her, but it was clear she didn’t care for Lilastien’s attention now that she was in her right mind.

Lilastien was actually too busy to see Alya that day.  Once word got out about the Lord of Anferny’s amazing recovery at her hands, there was a steady stream of people with various ailments coming up the slope to see her.  Most had conditions beyond her ability to heal, but she managed to do several procedures that were life-changing for the patients.  There was nothing she could do for an amputated arm, for instance, but she was able to diagnose and treat at least a dozen folk from Anferny and the Kasari encampment for illnesses or conditions that belied the local folk doctors.

“It’s a little exhausting, but it’s good practice to use the equipment again,” she told me at the end of one particularly long day.  “If I had these things back in Henga, I could treat thousands with it.”

“Can we relocate it?” I asked.

“Sadly, no.  Most of it requires power – electrical power, not arcane power.  And it requires the assistance of a Constructed Intelligence, for most purposes.  Oh, I’ll be taking a couple of medical tablets, and that will help significantly just in medical education and pharmaceuticals.  But the remote surgery suite will have to stay here, as will the big scanner and a lot of other equipment.”

“That’s too bad,” I frowned.  “Forseti showed me some of the things we used to be able to do.  Like that poor girl this morning who was missing a foot.  My ancestors could have built her one, it seems, rather than force her to use a peg and a crutch.”

“Yes, the prosthetics were elegantly effective,” she agreed.  “But that’s just scratching the surface.  The drugs, the medical devices, the surgery, the laboratories . . . New Leiden Medical Center was a miraculous place, back during the Colonization.  I’d like to re-create it as much as possible, in Henga.”

“We can do a lot with magical healing,” I pointed out.

“True,” she admitted.  “But it’s nowhere near standardized, and sometimes it can be dangerously erratic.  Perhaps we can fix that, at Henga.  But it would be helpful to have real equipment,” she sighed, wistfully.

“I’m curious . . . why did you become a doctor, of all things, when you were on Perwyn?” I asked.

“That’s a good question,” she said, thoughtfully.  “My residency board asked me the same thing.  The truth is, I did it originally because I was fascinated with the science, from your people’s perspective, and I wanted to study humanity down to its cellular structure.  It seemed the most expedient route, after university.

“But then I actually started to enjoy the clinical practice more than the science,” she recalled.  “I rotated through all the specialties in order to get as much experience as possible.  That’s why they stuck me in administration, eventually, until I left.  That was an entirely different experience, which was valuable in other ways.  But I did enjoy practicing.  And meeting the patients.”

“It sounds a little like being a spellmonger,” I suggested.

“Well, we didn’t argue about our fees with our patients, but the practice part was the same,” she agreed.  “And helping people.”

“I miss it,” I admitted.  “Being an actual spellmonger, that is.  You’re right, the people were the fun part.  You just don’t get that being a warmage.  Well, you meet people, but then you try to kill them half the time.  But I think some of my happiest professional memories were of the six months I spent building my practice in Minden’s Hall.  Until Goodman Tilleb paid me in cider one day, I got drunk, and the goblin’s invaded that night.”

“I had to leave because I was recalled by the Alka Alon Council for trial,” she countered.  “I went back a few times during the proceedings, but that was the end of my clinical practice, except for a little at the Tower of Refuge.”

“All good things must end,” I sighed.

“That’s not one of my favorite cliches,” she said, making a face.

“It’s a stock phrase in wizardry,” I explained.  “A little wisdom that soothes an upset client when you can’t do what they want you to do.”

“Like ‘we’ve done all we can, it’s in the hands of the gods, now,’ in medicine.  And every time you say it to a patient, you’ve failed.  Which is why it is also one of my least-favorite cliches.”

We spent the next several days near the Cave of the Ancients, resting, reading, and meeting with visitors from the various districts.  Gareth handled many of those, as they concerned the evacuation, but a few wanted a word with the Spellmonger on various subjects.  It was mostly reassurance that the eruption was coming and I could provide an adequate place for them, issues beyond mere organization.

But one of the visitors surprised me: Lady Tandine.  She rode up one the path alone one morning while Fondaras and I were smoking out on the meadow, after a long morning learning about the colony’s earliest days.  Lady Tandine rode with purpose up the long causeway.  She had a stern expression on her face as she tied up her mount.  There was a significant encampment here, now, complete with outdoor kitchen, a small corral, and a hovel for storing hay.

“Count Minalan, may I beg a word of you?” she asked, clearly disturbed by something.

“Of course,” I nodded.  “What brings you to the Cave of the Ancients, today?”

“Viscount Tyndal,” she said, bluntly, her eyes flashing just a bit.  She paused, and looked out over the valley, as if she was searching for him.

“What has he done, now?” I asked, knowing that there was a story coming.

“My lord, I come to you not in your capacity as overlord, but as Viscount Tyndal’s former master,” she began, after taking a deep breath.  “It is said you have known him since he was young.”

“Around thirteen,” I agreed.  “He was a stableboy, when I met him,” I recalled, “and his rajira had just emerged.  He was awfully confused.”

“He seems to have retained that quality, my lord,” she said, her lips pursed.  “Confused as to a great many things.  But you would have true knowledge of him, I would suppose.  I seek counsel on his character, not his gift for the arcane.  Is he . . . faithful, my lord?”

“As faithful as any knight,” I agreed.  “He has never foresworn an oath, to my knowledge.  He treats his subjects well.  His fellow apprentices find him a fast friend . . . if not a little irritating, at times,” I conceded.  “If you wish insight into his character, he is bold, intelligent, and honorable.”

“May I ask why you inquire so, my lady?” Fondaras asked, politely.

“I . . . I am perplexed, gentlemen,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.  “His Excellency has taken interest in me, or so he says.  Yet he acts . . . he acts as if he enjoys tormenting me – teasing me! – until I want to reach for the hilt of my sword.  He professes his adoration for me, but he seems to delight in making me feel foolish.”

Fondaras and I exchanged a meaningful look.  “What are your concerns, my lady?” I asked, curious.

“Concerns?  I . . . my . . . that is . . .it is . . .” she babbled.

“It sounds as if your trouble lies not in Viscount Tyndal’s character, but your reaction to his interest.  Have you been intimate?” I asked, casually.

“We . . . we have had several discussions together, alone,” she admitted, with a blush.

“Has he tried to steal a kiss?  Against your will?” Fondaras asked, pointedly.

“I . . . My lord has always been respectful and that is not the issue, he is . . . he is . . . my question,” she finally managed, trying to gain control of herself, “my main question to you, my lord, is whether he would be true to me?  Or any maiden?  When I speak to his comrades about such matters, it seems as if he has known many maidens.”

“Tyndal has always enjoyed a lusty reputation, as many a soldier does,” I agreed, reluctantly.

“How, lusty?” she asked, her expression changing.

“To my knowledge, my lady, he has never given his heart to a maiden.  Other parts, perhaps,” I conceded, “and he has done so with great enthusiasm.  But while he has flattered many out of their virtue, he has never sought my advice on any of his affairs . . . until recently,” I added.

“He did?” she asked, in disbelief.

“Indeed,” I nodded.  “Not once.  He has had his share of attention, himself.  He is considered a war hero, and he is one of the leading arcane knights in Alshar.  There are many maids who would covet an alliance with the man, either formal or . . . less so.  Some have, perhaps, even given him their hearts and were disappointed.  But I have never known him to make false promises.  Nor ask his master for advice with a girl.  He’s never devoted as much attention to a maid as I have seen him to you.  If you do not wish his attention, I am willing to—”

“No!” she said, her eyes bulging.  “No, my lord, I . . . I . . .”

“It appears my lady has to find knowledge of your own heart before you need concern yourself with Viscount Tyndal’s honor,” Fondaras observed, sagely.

“My own heart?” Tandine asked, as if she’d been slapped.  “What does my heart have to do with the matter?  When he came here, I was secure in my future . . . if limited.  I had my patrimony, my duties, a well-ordered life.  Now I find I am to be a refugee, landless, without purpose . . . my heart?  Gentlemen, my heart is buried beneath a mountain of other concerns!”

“I think you will find if you settle what your heart desires, that knowledge will place the rest of your cares into context,” Fondaras advised.  “It is not whether Tyndal is an honorable man, which, by all accounts, he is.  The matter that troubles you is that you find yourself returning that interest even as he gently torments you.  I would suggest that you resist his advances because you do not want to admit to yourself that he – your liege and a senior noble – might lose his heart to you: a rustic noblewoman from a small domain whose entire life has been secure.”

“And now you are not just his vassal, but will be beholden to him, once you leave this valley,” I added.  “You will be in his debt beyond what you naturally owe to him in fealty, and it galls you, it appears.  That is understandable,” I said, sympathetically.  “You are a proud lady from an old and distinguished house.  You are unused to owing anyone anything, much less so much as Tyndal offers you.”

“Treat with your heart, first, my lady, and then overcome your pride – or embrace it,” Fondaras suggested.  “If you find yourself inclined to return his affections, then much will fall into place.  If you decide that your heart does not have room for the man, then tell him . . . he will not pursue you further, is my guess.”

“Oh, definitely not,” I agreed.  “Tyndal is bold, but he is your equal in pride, my lady.  He will not chase a maid who has rejected his courting.  He has many other opportunities to entertain his heart, back in Vanador.

“But as your liege, I would favor such a union,” I continued, staring out over the valley below as I puffed on my pipe.  “He is a young and vital lord with a growing domain.  He is a warmage at the top of his craft, fighting for a cause he passionately believes in.  I cannot think he would be happy with an arranged marriage, to just any Wilderlord’s daughter.  You would be a boon to him, I think.  You would challenge him in ways he has not even considered.  And, aye, he would be faithful to his heart, should he find you truly interested in it.  That is my guess.”

“But how do you know?” she demanded.  “My lords, he is . . . he is toying with me!” she said, her nostrils flaring.

“How do I know?  I’ve known the lad since he was thirteen.  He might seem casual about the matter, but this is no summer romance, to him, I feel.  As for his . . . toying, my lady, how have your other suitors behaved, when paying you court?”

Her cheeks colored.  “I . . . I have had few in Anferny approach me about such matters,” she said, jutting out her chin.  “I lead the castle’s knights, after all.  I have little time for balls and parties.”

“So, Viscount Tyndal is the first lad who has been serious in his interest for you?” Fondaras asked, his eyes shining.

“Well . . . yes,” she admitted.  “Perhaps they are intimidated by my skill with lance and sword.  Or discouraged by my rank and position.”

“Does Viscount Tyndal seem intimidated by your skill at arms?  Or your rank?” I asked.

“Well, no,” she decided.  “Indeed, he slights my skills in little ways, and while respectful of my rank, it is clear that he is not impressed by it overmuch.  He speaks often of baronesses and duchesses, and he counts them as friends.  A mere Wilderlord’s rank is not daunting to him.”

“So you have finally met a man who is not afraid of you, not intimidated by either your rank or your beauty, and applauds, rather than condemns, your vocation in arms,” I reasoned.  “I can see why your pride and your heart both feel challenged.”

“Consider carefully, my lady,” urged Fondaras.  “Such matters are not to be entered into lightly.  But neither should they be ignored.  Take it from an old man, who has seen generations of such little dramas play out.  Regret is a heavy burden and one which you may carry for the rest of your life,” he warned.

“I . . . I shall take counsel with my heart and pray for Ishi’s guidance,” she decided.  “Perhaps the ride home will suggest . . . will suggest some things.”

“Among your considerations should factor the knowledge that Ishi, herself, has admired Viscount Tyndal,” I said, embellishing a bit.  “She has predicted that he shall have an interesting love life.”

“He has found her blessing in temple?” she asked, surprised, her eyes immediately growing narrow.

“No, from the lips of the goddess of love and beauty, herself; you have my word as your liege.  She manifested in Vorone, a few years ago.  Her eye is on the lad, for good or ill.  Praying to her might be a risky prospect.  She has a . . . banal sense of humor.”

“You’ve . . . met . . . a goddess?” she asked, her face pale and her eyes wide in disbelief.

“Several – hazards of the position,” I shrugged.  “But Ishi and I have had several encounters.  The last was on the eve of my journey here.”

“I . . . the goddess?  No, I . . . this is very perplexing,” she complained, folding her arms.

“Would it help your decision to recall he slew a dragon, once?  One that was attacking Vorone.  He’s very valiant,” I added, just to increase her discomfort.   “And he’s a good friend to the Duke, himself.”

“I . . . thank you for your counsel, my lords,” she said, with a bow.  “I have many things to ponder on the ride home, it seems.  Where is the Viscount?” she asked, her eyes flicking around.

“Oh, he and Ithalia and some others decided to go swimming in the Hot Lake,” Fondaras said, gesturing at the steaming lake below.  “A good day for it.”

“Swimming with Ithalia . . .” she said, her eyes getting a far-away look.

“Oh, they’re old friends,” I agreed.  “Travid said he knew a secluded spot.  Gareth and Nattia joined them.”

“Very well.  Thank you again, my lords,” she said, with a second bow before she turned toward her horse.  She was almost running by the time she got to it.  We watched in silence until she disappeared down the causeway.

“I think she’s going to make up her mind,” I suggested.

“I am certain of it,” agreed Fondaras.

“They’ll make a good pairing,” I decided.  “She has spirit, skill and beauty.  He has . . . well, he’s Tyndal.”

“They’re going to fight like cats,” Fondaras predicted.

“Undoubtedly.  So, how do you rate my skill as a wizard now?” I asked.  “Have I achieved wisdom, yet?”

“No,” he said, instantly.  “But you might be getting there.  You’re faking it better.”

“High praise,” I nodded.

Lady Tandine wasn’t the only one dueling with her heart.  Ithalia sought me out after dinner that very night and asked for my counsel in a similar situation.

She, too, was being pursued by a lad – Lady Tandine’s own brother, Lord Kanset.  But he was not teasing her and flirting with her the way Tyndal was.  He was writing her love poetry, and it was perplexing her.

She had a lengthy conversation with her grandmother in her quarters before stomping out, a sheaf of parchment in her hand.  Alya and I were sitting in the common room, watching a drama on the screen – ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ a tale of tragic romance.  It was fascinating.  It was one of the few entertainments that I understood without help from Forseti or Lilastien.

“What’s wrong, Ithalia?” Alya called out to her, as she passed.

“She . . . is . . . infuriating!” Ithalia declared, pausing in her stomping.

“Lilastien?” I asked in surprise.  “Well, yes, perhaps a little, but—”

“What seems to be the problem?” Alya asked.

Ithalia gave a very frustrated – and very human – sigh.  “I asked her advice about Lord Kanset’s advances, and she proved entirely unhelpful!” she declared.

“Has he tried to take liberties?” Alya asked, surprised.

“He would never dare,” Ithalia assured us.  “You’re human,” she recognized.

“At last accounting, yes,” I agreed, dryly.

“Perhaps you can help me.  How do I respond to this . . . this . . . to this!” she said and slapped the parchments on the table before us.

“What are these?” Alya asked, picking one up.

“Love letters!” Ithalia said, savagely.  “Lord Kanset keeps sending me these, one every few days, by messenger!  And flowers!  He keeps sending me flowers!”

Alay started reading.  “And this discomfits you?” I asked, mildly amused.

“I . . . I do not know how to respond,” she insisted.  “The Alka Alon do not indulge in such devices.  But it is clear that he considers these . . . these verses as some sort of courting.”

“So respond sincerely,” I reasoned.

“This . . . this is good,” Alya said, reading the elegant script.  I glanced over her shoulder and read a few lines.  It was good, I decided, after reading a few stanzas.  Technically good.  I was a fan of good poetry, from the Alka Alon epics to Jannik’s ditties, and Kanset’s command of the art was impressive for a man of his sparse years.

“Yes,” I agreed in a murmur.  “And sensual.  There is no mistaking his feelings or his intentions.  Clearly, he admires you and wishes to become more intimate.  The part about the throbbing flower was particularly suggestive,” I pointed out.  “The lad is letting you know he likes you.”

“His interest is abundantly clear,” she said, in a low voice.  “I am used to humani men being attracted to this form.”

“A drunken stare in a Vanadori tavern isn’t quite the same as love poetry,” I pointed out.  “The young man has passion.  Enough to share, apparently.”

“That’s what Grandmother said!” snorted the Tera Alon maiden.  “She all but encouraged me to indulge him, somehow.  She knows how scandalous such a thing would be—”

“Fallawen and Ameras have both chosen human mates,” I observed.  “And there are many such liaisons in the magelands.”

“It doesn’t sound like Lord Kanset is proposing marriage, here,” Alya said, moving on to the next poem.  “Indeed, his intentions are far less formal.  Almost primal – no, no, definitely primal,” she said, as she read the verse.  “Yes, he’s not talking of marriage, here.”

“He should know that such a relationship would be doomed,” Ithalia said, flatly.  “It is unfair to indulge in such infatuations with mortals.  Their ephemeral nature makes getting attached ill-advised,” she said, defensively.

“I’m certain that is the opinion of many on the Council,” I agreed.  “And many of the more conservative elements in Alka Alon society who frown on fraternization.”

“Conversely,” Alya said, looking up from the page, “you cannot put a price on passion, even if it is short lived.  The man’s desire for you is clear,” she said, stacking the parchments neatly.  “Committing them to verse is proof of it.  Not every love-struck mortal would try to beguile you with words this sweet.”

“Damn few of us could even make the attempt,” I agreed.

“Ithalia, it is up to you how you wish to respond to this . . . but unless he smells particularly bad or treats you poorly, this young man certainly has an interest in you that won’t be denied.”

“And what would you do, my lady?” Ithalia challenged.

“Me?  I’d swoon.  I’ve been courted by country lugs whose idea of flirtation is a dead chicken and a jug of cider.  This?” she said, tapping the parchment.  “This is the sort of thing that humani maidens dream of.  His intentions are clear, his feelings are authentic – you cannot falsify some things.  He is smitten with you.  You are uncomfortable with that.  Either tell him you have no interest in him, or tell him you do.  Things will proceed from there.”

“We are due to leave, soon!” she protested.  “It would be a . . . a . . .”

“An intensely passionate affair in an exotic land during a glorious summer?” I offered.

“I was going to say an opportunity for delicious dalliance, but then I’m an old married lady,” Alya suggested.

“It’s an invitation to disappointment and disaster!” Ithalia insisted.

“For whom?” I asked.  “Are you so concerned with this young man’s disappointment that you wish to spare him?  Or are you more concerned with how his – clearly sincere – attraction makes you uncomfortable?”

“I . . . I . . .” she stammered.

“Write him back,” Alya suggested.  “Tell him either to meet you somewhere quiet and discrete, or that you have no interest in his affections.  Pick one and enjoy the result.  Whichever you decide,” she shrugged.

“I have little skill in verse,” she confessed.

“Just write him back.  Your skill doesn’t matter.  And, if your serious, deliver the letter personally, on hawkback.  That would be impressive,” I said.

“You’re just as bad as she is!” she snorted.  But she took the poems before she left.

“Young people are stupid,” Alya decided.

“Ithalia is more than three centuries old,” I pointed out.

“I know.  But she’s still young.  As is he.  If they only knew . . .”

“I know,” I agreed.  “Young and passionate.  And entirely smitten.  Just like Tyndal and Tandine.  Just like Gareth and Nattia.”

“We really need to get away from this place,” she said, suddenly, looking around at the spare walls of the underground bunker.  “It’s just too crowded, right now.  Someplace exotic and . . . remote.  And private.”

“I know just the place,” I nodded.  “We’ll leave in the morning.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Song of Avius

Who has heard the song of a dragon?  I have.  The very first.  On the shores of a glittering lake.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden

As summer waned, it was clear that our time in Anghysbel was growing increasingly limited.  The moon had shrunk to a sliver.  After a few days spent at the Cave of the Ancients resting up, I knew it was time for one last expedition into the wilds of the northern valley.  Specifically, I wanted to travel back to Rolof’s ridge-top croft, speak to Avius once again at the lake, and perhaps take one final look at the sealed Alka Alon vault.

Of course, I was telling myself that as a convenient excuse.

Rolof and Ameras were eager to return to their wilderness camps; while they enjoyed the hospitality of the cave and delighted in seeing some of the Ancient’s technologies, they soon grew bored of the place.  It was high summer, after all, and the valley only received so many weeks of the gorgeous weather.  With an impending evacuation and eruption, they wanted to start saying goodbye to their home.

I was sure to detail everyone else in the expedition to duties I knew would take them some time.  Taren and Tyndal continued to hunt the gurvani with the Knights of Callierd and tried to screen them from escaping, with Ithalia and Nattia’s airborne assistance.  Lilastien was preparing to salvage what medical equipment and other tekka she wanted for her new hospital.  Ormar was finalizing the collection and organization of his many mineral samples, and Fondaras was making the rounds of the various districts again to encourage everyone that the evacuation was indeed necessary and prudent.

I wanted to take a few days to enjoy the summer with Alya, too, and get in a proper holiday.  All too soon we would have to don those horrible leather masks, brave the acrid wastes, and then, once we were back home, we would have to contend with preparing Vanador for winter.  Our time together would be limited.  The beautiful allure of the northern wilds of Anghysbel was just too potent, I argued to myself.  And the Ancient’s guidebook assured me that this was the peak of the season.

But I was fooling myself.  I knew the real reason I wanted to return to the ridge.  I just wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, yet.

Rolof and Ameras proved a merry couple, once it was just the four of us.  Rolof rode his borrowed horse double with the diminutive Alkan maid, while Alya and I rode separately.  I carried a heavy hamper on my rouncey, as I’d stocked up on some victuals at the Midmarket market when we were there – including several pint-sized gourds of the Lakeshire beet rum.

Rolof and I sang a few songs and told war stories of our time in Farise while we rode, always wary for predators.  Twice he directed us to alternate routes because of the dangers of the wild, but we made it back to his croft by midafternoon and had a lovely supper up on the heights before retiring.  Rolof and I even hiked up to the magical gap and did a few experiments with his witchstone and the Magolith to help determine the extent of the weakness in the jevolars’ field.  The next morning, we broke camp and rode leisurely down to Ameras’ lakeside encampment.

It was a glorious day, hot but not too hot, thanks to the western breeze that blew off the lake.  We spent the rest of the day relaxing in the sun, or swimming in the cool waters of the lake, and apart from a brief earthquake midafternoon, we were untroubled by the rest of the world.

Just after the ground settled down to being solid, again, Ameras called out: Avius was coming for a visit.

“Are you ready to speak to a dragon?” I asked my wife, as she stood up, eyes wide.  She only wore her linen shift in the heat, and her hair was down.

“Am I dressed appropriately?” she asked, smoothing her shift.

“I’m not certain she could tell,” I admitted, as I watched Avius take flight from her island retreat.  “She mostly speaks to Ameras, and she’s not dressed at all.  Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” I encouraged her.  “She was forced to fight, like the other dragons.  She bears humans no enmity.”

“I just hope she isn’t hungry,” she said, nervously, and swallowed.

“She just ate yesterday,” Ameras informed us, as she jogged down to the beach.  “I’m sorry you missed that.  It’s a spectacle.”

“I’ve seen dragons eat,” I said, not mentioning that it was people they were eating.  “Be careful what you think, Alya,” I cautioned.  “She can hear your thoughts if you think them loudly enough.  Try to keep them simple.  Avius is intelligent, but she’s very young, still.  Think of her as a five-year-old girl . . . in a giant fire-breathing reptile costume that can kill you.”

Avius glided gracefully over the bright blue water until her wingtips and tail dragged the surface, then she elegantly came to a stop offshore, barely making waves.  In a few moments the wagon-sized head threaded up into the little cove and came to rest on the broad beach.

Good afternoon, humani, she said, politely, clearly pleased that we’d returned.  And Alon.  What have you been doing?

“Gods!  I can hear her in my head!” Alya whispered.

“Visiting the settlements in the south and warning them of the eruption that will happen in a year and a half,” I told the dragon, as Rolof joined us.  “We are going to move them from harm’s reach for a few years.”

Will the stora be affected? she asked.  As that was her primary food source, I could appreciate her concern.

“No, from what my . . . one of my friends has told me, the stora are far too hardy to fall to the eruption.  But there might be some disruptions, so you should plan accordingly,” I explained.  “Avius, this is my mate, Alya.  I wanted her to meet you.”

Your mate? she asked, amused.

“Yes, we have two children together,” Alya nodded.  “It is nice to meet you, Avius.  I’ve . . . I’ve never spoken to a dragon before.”

Few humani have, agreed Avius.  But your mate has been very polite to me, and he is a friend of Ameras.  He is going to bring me eggs from my sister, she added, excitedly.  Then I will be a mother, too!

We talked casually to the titanic beast all afternoon, eventually breaking out the beet rum and mixing it with some local fruits Ameras picked that were mostly water.  I couldn’t identify a single one.  But we were feeling relaxed a little tipsy by the time the sun began to descend toward the horizon.

By that time, we were demonstrating what human music was like by trying to sing some of Jannik’s songs, the “Road to Vanador,” and even a few of the tunes of the Ancients.  I almost wished I had grabbed one of Lilastien’s medical tablets so that I could play her a few more complicated pieces.  It’s rare you find a dragon who has some appreciation of music.  Usually they just want to kill and eat you.

But Avius did, indeed, have a keen ear, it turned out, and she enjoyed the melody.

Ameras sang to me, when she first taught me how to talk, she explained.  But her music is very different than yours.

“There are many kinds of music in the world,” I agreed.  “Nearly every people create their own.  Even the Vundel, the Sea Folk, apparently have a kind of music.”

“I wonder what a dragon’s idea of music would be?” Alya asked, thoughtfully.

I don’t know, Avius confessed.  I’ve never heard any before.  Perhaps I will make some and find out.

“I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t try,” Rolof agreed.  “I’m wondering if it wouldn’t involve dragon fire, in some way.”

“And flying,” Ameras nodded, smiling at the thought.  “Like what you do at twilight.  Have you tried singing?” she asked, suddenly.  “I’ve heard the call you make after a hunt.  Wouldn’t it be like that?”

What do you mean?  I can’t speak with my mouth.  That’s something you do. I speak with my mind.

“But you can make noise,” I reasoned.  “I’ve heard dragons bellow in battle.  Music is just noise that you make, usually with some order and sense to it.  Song doesn’t require actual speech.  Perhaps if you tried . . .”

I think I will, she said, lifting her head and body abruptly, and standing on her hind legs.  She thrust her mighty head into the air and bellowed.  At first it was just a howl, but apparently Avius had absorbed some of the principles of music from our discussions and performances.  In a few seconds, the bellow modulated into a regular rhythm and began to vary in tone.

It wasn’t quite music, but then it wasn’t quite noise, either.  It was also extremely loud.  Enough so that Alya had to cover her ears.

But then Avius took a deep breath and tried again.  Ameras began to clap her hands in a simple rhythm, and Avius began to experiment with the great voice she was discovering.

Soon she began to twitch her wings in time with Ameras’ clapping, and alter the melody – dear gods, I realized, there was actually a melody! – and suddenly there was music.  Basic, crude, extraordinarily loud music, but there was no denying that the simple tune was music.

She ended with a short burst of dragon fire that arced into the air before she slowly sank back into the water.

How was that? she asked, hesitantly.

“That was music!” Ameras praised clapping happily.  “Real music!”

“We’ve just been treated to the first dragon song recital in history,” nodded Rolof, thoughtfully.

“It was loud!” Alya laughed, “But I enjoyed it.”

“Beating your wings was well done.  The fire at the end was quite nice,” I agreed.  “Well done, Avius!  You should do that every evening before the kintilla come.  To complement their performance,” I encouraged

You really liked it? she asked, clearly enjoying the praise.  I did!  It was fun.  I’m going to practice more, she promised.

“As long as you enjoy it, it doesn’t matter if others like it,” Rolof pointed out.  “Singing is for your soul, first, and for entertainment, second.”

“What are the kintilla?” Alya asked me in a whisper, concerned.

“You’ll see in a moment,” I promised.  “They and Avius are why I brought you here.  Don’t worry, they’re harmless.  That was a unique performance, Avius.  Quite engaging.  I encourage you to continue to practice.”

Thank you! she answered, politely, and looked quite pleased with herself.  I think the lizard people liked it, too.  There are some of them gathering around that shrine they built across the lake.  Shall I go sing to them? she asked, eagerly.

“I think they would see it as a sign of your favor,” agreed Rolof.  “It’s often good to practice in front of an audience.”

I will do that! Avius said, excitedly, and began to withdraw from the cove.

“I can’t believe I just had a lovely afternoon with a dragon,” Alya said, shaking her head in disbelief, as she watched the great beast swim across the lake, only her head above the water and her wings folded behind her.

“I can’t believe we just encouraged a dragon to explore musicology,” I agreed.  “We live a very unusual life.”

“It’s a good life,” she sighed.  “Despite all of the . . . distractions.  Would you like another drink?” she asked, suddenly.

“That would be wonderful,” I assured.  “We can watch best from up on those rocks.  But don’t tarry – you’ll want to see the whole thing.”

By the time she had returned with a couple of small gourds, Avius had arrived at the other end of the lake and had begun her serenade for the lizard folk.  The sun had begun to set.  The air was cooling a bit with the breeze off the lake, and the sky began to turn the most glorious shades of pink, purple and orange.  Clouds of insects took flight, large enough to cast long shadows and reflections of their combined dancing in the air over the lake on its darkening surface.

“She’s actually not too bad, when she isn’t standing right in front of you,” Alya commented, gesturing toward Avius’ distant concert with her gourd.  “It’s almost pretty.  Like a child’s song.”

“One that ends with dragon fire,” I chuckled.  “Oh, look!  There’s the first one!” I said, as I saw a faint glimmer of light emerging from the lake.

I got to enjoy the spectacle of the kintilla’s bioluminescent performance all over again, this time compounded by witnessing Alya experience it for the first time.  The novelty of the unexpected show was mesmerizing to her, and her face lit up nearly as brightly with childlike glee at every new glimmer in the lake.  I was as gratified by her reaction as if I had constructed it myself.

When Avius finally took flight, she began singing a new song as she flew.  There was a decided change in the cadence and the tempo, slow, at first, then speeding up until she began bellowing a kind of tune.  I realized that she was timing it with the strokes of her massive wings taking the air.  She gained height over the lake, and in the light of a dying day she did a slow, graceful decent in a spiral that tightened with every rotation.

“Oh, Minalan,” Alya breathed, as Avius began her descent.  “I only wish there was a moon out tonight so we could see her better!”

“Me, too, more than you know,” I sighed.  “But we can see the kintilla better in the dark.”

As the tiny fish – or whatever they were – began changing colors in great swaths, I took my wife’s hand and squeezed it, earning a priceless smile.  I could see the reflection of the kintilla’s dance in her eyes.

It was a perfect moment, the kind that reflects a deep sense of personal happiness and fulfillment.  I would imagine that few of us have more than one or two of those, in the course of our lives.  I cherished every one of mine like jewels, I realized.

I sighed, and kissed her, as dragon fire erupted beautifully overhead, the kintilla started to recede, and darkness finally fell.

I dreamt beautiful dreams that night, after making love to my beloved wife.

We were curled up near the fire, while Ameras and Rolof slept in her little lean-to shelter.  Alya was drunk and exhausted enough to be undisturbed by the noises of the night, even the strange ones that this lost world contained.

She’d never trained or served in military service.  Even without wards, I startled awake with the realization that someone was lurking at the edge of the encampment.  The fire had died, and the only light came from the thousands of tiny stars in the moonless sky above.

My blurry eyes tried to focus in the darkness while my hand fumbled for my weapons when a voice came through the darkness in a quiet whisper.

“Minalan,” Lilastien called softly.  “It is time.”

I groaned quietly, hoping I was still dreaming.  I closed my eyes and prayed to Briga to answer.  But the Flame that Burneth Bright did not answer, despite the fire nearby.  Maybe she doesn’t work with mere embers, I reflected.

With no prospect of divine intervention, I sat upright and rubbed my face.

“Do I have to?” I complained.

“It’s the first night of the new moon,” she reminded me.  “It’s time.”

“This isn’t really a good time for me,” I said, patting Alya’s rump.

“It looks like you just had the good time,” she observed.  “Come on.  Get up.  It’s time to save the world.”

I let out massive sigh.  But I got up.

“Maybe we misinterpreted . . .” I suggested, weakly.

“We did not,” Lilastien said, insistently.  “We both heard the words of the Grandfather Tree.  He said at the new moon.  That’s now.  Tonight.  Well, what’s left of it.  Careful you don’t wake the others,” she said, leaning on her plasma rifle.  “We don’t need to waste time with explanations and arguments.”

“I know, I know,” I said, rising to my hands and knees.  I paused to give Alya a farewell kiss.  “They’re all drunk on beet rum and fruit juice, anyway.  So am I,” I added, hoping that would somehow excuse me from what was ahead.

“That’s probably wise,” she nodded, unhelpfully.  “I’m not certain you could do this, sober.”

“That’s not very encouraging as to the wisdom of this,” I complained, as I gathered my own rifle, drew on my tunic, and looked around for my pants.

“The wise thing is not always the correct thing,” she said, sounding like Fondaras.  “This is the right thing to do, and we both know it.  But it is far from wise,” she said, sadly.

“For you, it will be an interesting object lesson.  For me, it might mean my death,” I said, as I buckled on my belt and sword.  I carried my inert mageblade on my left hip, now, to keep it from interfering with either the plasma rifle, when it was slung, or the pistol on my right hip.

“He was a bit vague on that part,” she reminded me, encouragingly.  “This may not actually kill you.”

“The term ‘death’ was definitely in his words,” I muttered.  “I heard ‘death.’  My death.  And I don’t think the ancient woodpile speaks in allegory.”

“He also said that if we do this, we may have a real chance to save the world.”

“I’m still trying to get around the whole prediction of my death,” I said, snagging another bottle of beet rum from the hamper.  I didn’t think I wanted to sober up any time soon.  “That sounds like prophecy, and I dislike prophecy.  Especially when it concerns my death.”

“How can you save the world if you’re dead?” she challenged.  “The truth is, I think he meant that there was the risk of death.  Which there is,” she reminded me.  “Even if things go well.”

“Maybe you get so inspired by my death that you save the world in my memory,” I proposed, gloomily.

“I’m not the mighty Spellmonger,” she countered, as I prepared my horse.  “I’m a sage, a spellsinger, a scientist, and physician.  I’m not a wizard.  And, as you said, the Grandfather Tree probably doesn’t use allegory.”

“May Briga damn his lack of literary merit,” I grumbled, as I fastened the saddle.  “Didn’t even send his prophecy in rhyming couplets – who doesn’t use rhyming couplets?” I demanded.

“From what I understand, the art of the Met Sakinsa involves more pollen and pheromones than subtle literary devices,” she offered.  “I look forward to sneezing my way through one, some day.  But his meaning was clear enough.  It’s up to the two of us, if Callidore is going to be saved.  And only if we do this.”

“Then let’s do this,” I said, as the toe of my boot sought the stirrup.  “Before I sober up, lose my nerve, and come to my senses.”  I heaved my way up into the saddle.  I nearly fell off the other side.

“Off to glory we go, then,” she said.  “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“And perhaps a very short one.  Did you tell Ithalia?”

“Ishi’s tits, no!” she said, shaking her head.  “My granddaughter would have had a fit and tried to talk me out of it.  You didn’t tell Alya, did you?”

“No, of course not,” I said, looking back at my wife.  “I feel . . .”

“Try not to think about it, too much,” Lilastien advised.  “You should be back by tomorrow.”

“Will I?” I challenged.

“Should be,” she repeated, as she began to mount her own horse.  “We’ll just have to see what happens.”

“No, I might come back.  But will I come back?” I asked, anxiously.

“You’re thinking too much,” she chided.

“Right, right,” I conceded, as I slung my rifle across my back.  “Let’s go do something profoundly foolish.  You remember the way?”

“Always,” she agreed.  “But keep your rifle hot.  There are predators in the forest along the way.”

“I remember,” I nodded, and reached around to charge the weapon.

I rode behind her and was gratified that she didn’t once turn to see if I had tried to escape.  But you cannot escape Fate, usually, and in this case, it might be the only hope to save Callidore and all its folk from an ugly death.

But when the answer to my request to take Stonetrunk’s heart from the Leshi came back from the Grandfather Tree, it had given the reasons for its unusual judgement.

It had told the Leshi Fathers that Lilastien and I were important and should be treated with hospitality.  Because there was some faint possibility that we could gain the knowledge to figure out how to save the planet once the night of the new moon came.  And Lilastien could redeem the sins of her people, whatever that meant, as she assisted me in that quest.  And other stuff.  I tried to recall it all, while we were riding through the darkness, but I was still technically drunk, and an existential dread had begun to build in my heart.

For the Grandfather Tree had mentioned death; madness and death.

Mine.

I had pondered the matter for days.  I weighed the dire prediction of doom with the faint glimmer of hope that I could do the hopeless.  If the cost of saving the world was my madness and death, then how could I consider that anything but a bargain, in the balance?

It was what wizards do, after all.

I would gladly die to preserve my children, my wife, my lands, and my people, I reasoned.  I was trained to kill, and I had spent a third of my life doing just that.

How, then, could I eschew the opportunity to extend that protection to all of Callidore?  That was inclusive of my loved ones.

So I couldn’t very well say that I was being entirely against my nature, here.  I was willing to die, in a worthy cause.  I was willing to kill, when I had need to.  And the prospect of madness did not seem daunting when the specter of death was near.

The problem was that Lilastien was correct: the Met Sakinsa had predicted that I would gain the knowledge to save the world, and I couldn’t do that if I was dead.

You see why I hate prophecy?

“You’re thinking too much,” Lilastien complained, after nearly half an hour of silence on the trail.  “Stop it.”

“We taught the dragon how to sing, today,” I said, as I struggled out of my drunken reverie.  “She’d never tried before.”

“Really?” Lilastien asked, surprised.  I could feel her smirk in the darkness.  “How did it sound?”

I considered.  “A little like ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo,’” I decided.  “A very little.  But it was interesting.”

“This entire trip has been interesting,” she agreed.  “I wish I could spend more time here, just a decade or so, to take some real notes.  There are a dozen lectures in Anghysbel.”

“Who would listen?  I thought your credentials were removed when you were imprisoned.”

“Alka Alon society doesn’t quite work that way,” she said.  “And it wouldn’t be for credit.  It would be for the pure pursuit of science and learning.”

“Ah, what price for knowledge?” I asked, a little bitterly.

“It appears we’re about to find out,” she said, as we approached the first of the Sentry Trees.  There was a shadow looming there, under a great tree, a man-sized shadow.

Alon-sized, I corrected myself, as it moved forward toward our horses.  Suddenly, the tree behind it produced a glow in its branches, and a faint splash of light illuminated the figure.

“You have come,” Davachan noted, simply.  He was still dressed in his nondescript black robe, with his cowl pulled up over his head.

“It was time,” Lilastien said with a shrug.

“You are ready and willing to indulge my master’s offer?” Davachan asked.

“I am willing,” I sighed.  “Ready might be overstating it.  But I’m here, I’m just drunk enough, and it seems a shame to waste the trip.”

“We have been expecting you, animals,” Bomoadua’s voice said, from the tree.  Which was Bomoadua, I realized.  Which I should have expected, as she had heard the Grandfather Tree’s prophecy, too.  I really was drunk.  “We will escort you to the edge of the grove.  Davachan will lead you from there.”

“You trust him?” I asked, suspiciously.

“He has leave to walk the grove unimpeded,” she answered.  “The Leshi have known about his master since we came here.  We do not interfere with the servants of Szal the Yith by long tradition.  Nor have the Yith and his minions ever interfered with the Leshi.”

“But do you trust him?” I repeated.  Her endorsement seemed important.

“We trust him not to betray his master.  And his master means you no harm.  That does not mean no harm will befall you.”

“I know,” I sighed.  “I spoke to Rolof about it.”

“Rolof sought the answers to his questions,” Davachan said, darkly.  “He got them.  He had foolish questions.  For what you face, Minalan the Spellmonger, be sure that you ask the right questions,” the Karshak warned in his gravelly voice.  “My master’s power is not to be taken lightly.”

“We are ready and willing,” Lilastien told him, impatiently, as we dismounted.  “If it means preserving Callidore, we are willing to do what must be done.  No matter the cost.”

“Very well,” Davachan said, and turned toward the grove.

I had the sudden feeling we were making a grave mistake, and our host’s demeanor did nothing to dispel that.  “Follow me, and we will begin your descent into madness.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Servants of Szal

I do not want to speak of my time in the Crypt of Szal the Yith.  The memory of the place is dark, and the company of his servants was unnerving.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

Our journey through the Leshwood by night proved creepy as hell.

I like trees, don’t mistake me.  I like the Leshi, in particular.  But on a misty, moonless night the swaying branches and hanging moss seemed to conspire to ignite my drunken imagination in unpleasant ways.  The shadows that loomed and the noises that sounded unexpectedly in the darkness sent shivers up my spine, instead of delight at the novel environment.  In daylight, the Leshwood was a strange, wondrous, merry place; at night it was a living jungle of dread to my mammalian soul.

I heard a tree snoring.  Bomoadua explained that it wasn’t asleep, exactly, but it was in a deep, regenerative nocturnal state wherein it could process the energies collected that day through specialized respiratory organelles on their branches.  It sounded an awful lot like sleep, to me, and the respiration sounded just like my father snoring after a tavern bender, but I’m sure there was some important difference I wasn’t picking up on.

Bomoadua led the way with her tiny lantern that seemed to cast just enough soft light to keep me from tripping over my feet with Davachan skulking behind her.  Soon we crossed the moot meadow, where several Leshi were respirating peacefully, and before I was prepared for it, we were walking through the more militant portion of the grove.  If the first portion of the forest was creepy, the thorny expanse that led to the stony wastes was terrifying.

“I should have brought more rum,” I muttered, taking a restorative sip from my gourd as something – a spiky-looking vine – slithered across the path.  I repressed the desire to reach for my sword.  “And more ammunition.”

“No harm will befall you here,” the Lesh assured me.  “All hospitality will be extended to you, including safe passage.  The Grandfather Tree wills it,” she said, simply, kicking a bush out of the way.

“I cannot make the same pledge, alas,” Davachan said.  “You are a fool for doing this.  But I have seen many fools take this journey since I came to my master’s service.”

“You really aren’t helping,” Lilastien griped at him.

“You aren’t in a position to be helped,” Davachan replied, unmoved.  “If you knew what you were agreeing to, you would ask me to slay you here and now and spare you your fate.”

“How long will this take?” I asked, purposefully trying to irritate the beardless Karshak.  “My wife is waiting for me.”

“Not long,” he offered.  “And years uncounted.  You will not return the same man you left as.”

“My wife might not mind that,” I quipped.

We continued in silence until, at last, we came to the very edge of the grove.  The darkness of the stony wastes of the Cursed Vale stretched out before us.  We saw naught but the mists that clung to the stones.

“This is as far as I may go,” Bomoadua said, apologetically, as we reached the gate that descended to the wastes.  “Davachan must take you the rest of the way.  Good luck,” she offered.

“Thanks,” I sighed, as I looked out into the darkness, trying to steel myself.  “I hope your Grandfather Tree was right.  Or wrong.  Or . . . mistaken,” I said.  An unyielding feeling of dread seemed to beckon from the darkness.  It wasn’t the terror of being attacked – though that was certainly a possibility – it was the existential dread that seemed represented by the misty void ahead.  Through that way was death and madness I knew.  And answers that could save the world.

“This is your last opportunity to turn back,” warned Davachan.  “If you go farther, you are committed.”

It took every fiber of my being not to sprint back to the moot meadow.

“I am ready,” Lilastien agreed.

“I am committed,” I told him, instead.  “Trygg’s grace be on me.”

“There are no gods here, Spellmonger,” Davachan said, shaking his head.  “Beyond the mists lie the Kurja spawn, and their brood mother in her deep warren.  They see neither day nor night and roam the waste to feed their eternal hunger.  The tunnel that leads to my master’s mansion is up there,” he said, pointing.  “No god would dare tread near either place, even if they could.  Your path lies between the unholy and the uncaring,” he said, and began to walk into the mists.

I took one last deep breath before I followed him.  Taking that step might have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

The stones my boots crunched across seemed more jagged and rough as we trudged through the misty silence, as if they were trying to catch my feet and keep me from going forward.  Lilastien was stumbling too, ahead of me.  Only Davachan seemed to glide across the rough country, though there was no light to guide his way.  He appeared to be moving through sheer determination.  I found that annoying.

I don’t know how long we stumbled through the darkness.  The mists and the deafening silence seemed oppressive, and the lack of orientation made my head whirl as I trudged forward.  Just when I thought I would be trudging through the dark forever, an overwhelming stench began to haunt my nostrils.

Part of it was sickeningly familiar: Sulphur.  It lingered in the air so thickly I could taste it on my dry tongue.  But the other odor was worse.  A thick pall of putrescence overcame the smell of Sulphur, like a damp blanket of rot and decay.

The source was soon evident.  The corpse of the Kurja spawn we had slain was still where we’d left it, next to Stonetrunk’s opened body.  A few days’ time had allowed the massive maggot to itself become the home and meal to scavengers.  As we drew closer, the faintest starlight above gave just enough illumination for me to witness the rotting skin of the bloated mass writhing with thousands of unknown creatures who were devouring the corpse from the inside.

On its surface, particularly where the wounds we’d inflicted gaped open, insects the size of turkeys, and other scavengers unknown to me, skittered across the pale white membrane and devoured the exposed rotting flesh below.  They took notice, when we approached, their heads lifting and their multifaceted eyes peering into the darkness.  But they resumed their macabre feast a moment later, unconcerned about our interference.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said, repressing the desire to vomit with another swallow of beet rum.

“It happens frequently,” dismissed Davachan, as we shuffled by the great corpse in the darkness.  “In another day or two, one of its mates will arrive to consume the insects it attracts.  Then it will eat the corpse.  They have no bones, so there will be little reminder of it by the full moon.”

“How tidy,” Lilastien said, shuddering as we passed.

“Don’t you worry about those things getting into your cave?” I asked, trying very hard to forget about the horrific sight I just witnessed.

“We have defenses,” Davachan assured.  “And the Kurja spawn are poor climbers, in this form.”

“In this form?” I asked.  I had to.

“If they were allowed to proceed into the rest of the world, the Magosphere would allow them to become their second-phase form, similar to an insect.”

“An insect thirty feet long?” I asked, appalled.

“Only twenty, to begin with,” Davachan informed us.  “That’s when it begins to grow intelligence.  In a few years, one would have the intelligence of an Alon.  And poisonous fangs.  By the time it is ready for its third and final transformation, it is fiendishly intelligent.”

“What is its third form?” Lilastien asked.

“Let us not discuss such an unpleasant thing,” Davachan said, diplomatically, over his shoulder.  “Each could become another brood mother, only armed with terrible magic.  They would not cease their efforts to release the Formless.  Such a thing would be a disaster.  The Leshi do a service to this world by maintaining their guardianship over that cavern.”

We continued to trudge up the increasingly steep path, every step taking us away from the horrific stench.  The switchback we followed rose over three hundred feet from the valley floor up a steep incline.  Soon we were able to make out a spot of inky blackness in the misty gloom, a gash in the side of the mountain that was difficult to see until you got close.  There was a long, narrow ledge that thickened to several feet across the bottom of the entrance.  A dark shadow seemed to hover on the thickest portion of the ledge.

“What’s that?” I asked, peering drunkenly ahead.

“That?” Davachan asked.  “That’s Gesstesseth.  Another of Szal’s servants.  He’s keeping watch for Kurja for us.”

As we came closer, I began to see details of the man – and realized he was no man, nor Alon.

Instead, two large, round, black, unblinking eyes peered out at us from under a black robe like Davachan’s.  Its eyes were three inches wide and unnerving.  They were set in a slightly pointed face devoid of a nose and covered in scales.  He bore a stout staff in his scaly, three-fingered claws.

“He’s not an Alon,” Lilastien noted.  “He’s a lizard man!”

“Yes, he’s from the tribe of primitive tessalassa, in the western swamp.  Sometimes known variously as the Ava Carum, luachra, sli’istaki, or the casameraska by the Alon.  But they originally call themselves tessalassa.  Gesstesseth was delivered to Szal’s service by his tribe a few centuries ago for some unspeakable crime he committed.”

“Worse than yours?” Lilastien asked.

“Who is to say?” Davachan answered, gloomily.  “We are all guilty of something, aren’t we, Gesstesseth?” he asked.

“Hissssssssss!” the lizard man said.

“Of course you are.  Our guests are ready for their interrogation,” he informed his fellow.

“Hissssssssss!” Gesstesseth answered.

“Perhaps afterwards,” agreed Davachan.  “Let us see what transpires.  Come,” he urged us, as we made it to the ledge.  “The sooner started, the sooner you may start to recover.”

“What was he asking about?” Lilastien inquired, glancing at the lizard man, who fell in behind me.

“Food,” Davachan supplied, as he plunged into the inky darkness of the tunnel.  “He’s hungry.  He wanted to know if he could eat your bodies if you didn’t survive.”

“He eats human flesh?” I asked, glancing back at the menacing figure directly behind me.

“He eats just about any kind of flesh.  Apparently, that was part of what got him condemned to Szal’s service.  That’s too long a story to tell.                Fear not; you will come to no harm.  Gesstesseth is no murderer.  But if you are no longer using your bodies, when the interrogation is complete, he might enjoy a proper meal for a change.”

“Will you be joining him?” I asked, trying not to panic.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Davachan assured.

I quietly considered that grisly thought as we plunged down the pitch-dark tunnel that led from the surface.  I do mean dark.  And I do mean down.  The tunnel descended in a nearly straight line at a steep angle, and the darkness was so complete I could have been blind.  A few hundred yards down, Davachan stopped in an alcove and lit a torch with some device I was not familiar with.  Suddenly flickering shadows painted the rough walls of the tunnel, mocking our presence.

“It will be easier, from here,” Davachan told us, as he continued forward.  And down.

Though the torch gave me enough light to keep from tripping over my own feet, it did little to improve the décor or atmosphere of the place.  It grew even more oppressive as we went.  No feature or decoration was apparent, yet it was more foreboding than the dungeons of Olum Seheri.  There were turns as we descended, and twice we came to forks in the tunnel.  The air grew stuffier the deeper into the mountain we went.

Our footsteps alone filled the silence – it wasn’t the sort of place that inspired much small talk, and my humor had left me.  At some point, the seriousness of the situation came to weigh on me, until I was starting to resent the lizard man.  He was keeping me from fleeing in terror.

So I took another drink and kept walking.

Eventually, we came to a widening in the tunnel, and soon after that to a doorway.  Instead of a solid door, however, some sort of strings hung from the top of it, and Davachan had to part them with his stubby arm before proceeding.  I was hesitant about touching them, myself.  When I did, I noted that they were deceptively smooth to the touch and thinned toward the lower end, as if they were terribly fine roots or hairs.

“Welcome to the Mansion of Szal the Yith,” Davachan intoned with some ceremony.    A light appeared, though I could not tell its source.  Lilastien let out a tiny gasp.

It was a large, natural cavern that had been altered by some craft to make it more . . . livable?  That seemed the wrong term.  Useful, at least.

There were odd machines and unidentifiable masses lining the walls, some regular, some that seemed to grow of their own accord.  Folds in the wall contained passageways even deeper under the mountain.  The ceiling varied irregularly from unbearably short to twenty feet high.  There were . . . things on it, some like irregular mushrooms, others hanging limply in fibers that gently twitched.

At the center of the chamber was a large ring, a disc twenty feet in circumference and composed of some ceramic or other hard substance.  Across its surface was a shallow dome pitted with channels.  I realized it was some sort of membrane.

The air had an odd smell, a mixture of sickeningly sweet and distastefully acrid, but it seemed fresher than the air in the tunnel.

“My idea of a mansion is . . . different,” I said, in an effort to be diplomatic.

“This is merely the servants’ quarters,” Davachan informed us, as he removed his cowl from his ugly head.  “From here we tend our master and his equipment.”

“Where is Szal?” Lilastien asked, looking around.  “Or am I looking at him, somehow?”

“The Yith lies in yonder tank,” Davachan said, chuckling to himself.  “You do not want to see him, I assure you.  Pray you never do.  To do so would risk madness on its own.”

“Ugly fellow, then?” I quipped.

“He is . . . he is not like us,” he said, with a hesitant shudder, as he turned and began to fiddle with one of the machines.  It operated nothing like the human tekka I’d been playing around with.

“He has lived in the universe since before this galaxy formed.  When the very rules of Nature were different.  A time when Life, itself, was a novelty, an unintended side-effect of the stellar debris.  Only seven Great Generations lived before his kind came to be.  That was eons before these simpler forms arose,” he said, spreading his hands.

Gesstesseth busied himself by securing a dipper with a handle as long as an axe and began to pour liquid from a nearby urn over the top of the central membrane.

“The Great Race of Yith were spawned when Chaos reigned in the universe,” Davachan continued, while he worked, “when magic warred with reality, and creation and destruction were the only arbiters of existence.  The dimensions were more straightforward and subject to conscious whim.  Few races survived that violent time,” he said, as he turned around with a sigh.  “Those that did, like the Yith and the Formless, have proven their toughness by that survival.  Our races will be long dead, and the Yith will still remain, at the gloomy end, observing the dying of Life from the cosmos.  Unless something kills them off, as well,” he added philosophically.  “The universe is terribly good at that.  Be you an individual or a species, it’s designed to kill you.”

“I’ve often thought that myself,” I agreed, only half-joking.

“Good,” he nodded.  “Then perhaps you will survive the interrogation.”

“Couldn’t Szal merely possess us from afar, as you say he does to others?” Lilastien asked, curiously.

“Your physical presence provides an opportunity for a much deeper knowledge of you, as does your willing participation,” Davachan explained, as he made a couple of final adjustments.  “It is more mentally invasive, but it does allow you a modicum of control in the process.  Enough to provide the answers you seek . . . if you can keep your questions in mind.  If you can keep your mind,” he amended, with a humorless laugh.

“Now,” he said, slapping his hands together, “may I examine that . . . device you carry?” he asked, with some eagerness.  “I promise not to harm it, and I vow to return it, but Szal wishes to examine it for a brief time.  He is amused by its novelty.  And it may aid your cause,” he added.

I gave Lilastien a meaningful look before I reluctantly drew the Magolith from its pouch.  I hesitated, of course.  The protections I’d built into it were magical, and they would not work, here.

“I can be trusted,” Davachan insisted.  “I will return it.  It has no use to me or Szal.  It is merely a curiosity.”

“Which is exactly what you’d tell me if you were planning on keeping it,” I pointed out, as I handed it to him.  His stubby little fingers held it carefully, and he examined it with intense interest.

“Let me take some readings,” he murmured, setting the orb on top of a machine.  “Szal will find them useful.  He might not have taken note of this matter at all, had it not been for that bauble.  How did you create it?”

“That would be difficult to explain, unless you have a working knowledge of advanced theoretical thaumaturgy and enchantment,” I shrugged.

“Humor me.  I have a working knowledge of everything.  Can you describe to me what it is?”

“That’s . . . complicated,” I said.  “I accidentally created a magical substance that lowers the etheric density of the surrounding area dramatically.  Some of the crystals in the area were transformed, as well – I have an extensive collection.  I was enduring an attack of . . . what would you call it, Lilastien?”

“Cerebral trauma and moderate concussion due to the shock of multiple, rapid, unprotected dimensional travel?  Compounded by dehydration and exhaustion?” she offered.

“I was in a coma,” I related, simply, “and my subconscious took the bulk of my crystal collection and created a quasi-molopor, a six-sided constantly moving crystalline artefact I call the Snowflake.  It appears to be quantumly locked in a chamber under my mountain castle.  Oh, and divine magic was involved,” I added because I thought it might be important.

“Interesting,” he nodded, impressed. “Go on.”

“Well, for a number of good reasons I conducted a transference of enneagrammatic pattern into the Snowflake – namely, the enneagrammatic impression of one of the Celestial Mothers who touched a piece of Ghost Rock—”

“Hapaxalite,” corrected Lilastien.  “A solitary fragment.”

“Of course, hapaxalite,” nodded Davachan.  “A Celestial Mother, you say?” he said, with a grim smile.  “That is interesting.  Go on,” he urged.

“In any case, the transference was successful.  But soon after, my wife was suffering from an injury from an unrelated accident, and after researching every possible way to heal her it became clear that only a long-extinct creature known as the Handmaiden of the Celestial Mother might repair her.  It was charged with regulating her self-awareness, to prevent any . . . well, apparently they were considered necessary,” I said, as I was at my limits of knowledge on the subject.

“Ah!  A Handmaiden!” he nodded.  “Interesting approach.”

“I was informed that one such enneagrammatic impression was bound within a seam of Hapaxalite deep under an Alka Alon city in the Mindens, now controlled by an ancient undead necromancer and his army, and so I led an expedition to fetch it.

“To make a long tale short,” I said, taking a breath, “with some divine assistance – again – I brought back the Handmaiden by using the center point of the Snowflake as a bridewell, surrounded by a divinely-inspired thaumaturgic medium and encased in a sphere of irionite.”

“Clever!” Davachan nodded.  “You must have used some dimensional magic to accomplish this?”

“A hoxter pocket,” I agreed.  “I suppose that counts.  It only had to work for a moment, the exact moment that we removed the centerpoint.  But, because of that, the core of the Magolith is both with me and still at the center of the Snowflake.  I’m not entirely sure how, but that seems to be the case.”

“That is very interesting,” nodded the Karshak outcast.  “Very interesting.  Elegant, even, in a crude sort of way.  How do you contend with probability sheer?” he asked, curious.

“With what?” I asked, ignorantly.

“Probab—oh, never mind, you’ll find out in time,” he dismissed.  “It’s bound to come up, under the right conditions – especially if you’re mucking around with divine magic,” he considered.

“It’s also laden with Alka Alon songspells and Imperial Magic,” I informed him.

He shrugged dismissively.  “Eh.  That’s kind of a waste of its potential.  But you work with what you have, I suppose.  Well, that’s very, very interesting,” he admitted, staring at the Magolith on its perch, before turning back to me.  “We’ll get a more detailed account during the procedure, of course, every detail, in fact.

“But that brings us to our reason for inviting you.  Let us proceed with the interrogation,” he said, gesturing us to follow him.  “It won’t take long to conduct.  Less time than the set-up, actually.  Gesstesseth, prepare the interrogation chamber,” he called to his fellow servant.

The lizard man put down his great ladle and hissed something, before shuffling off through one of the other doorways.  I noticed a stubby tail protruding from his robe, as he walked away.

“We can begin over here,” he said, leading us to a distant portion of the cavern, one given more to residence than machinery.  There was a simple wooden bench next to a simple chest.

“What do we do?” I asked, curious, staring at the furniture.

“Put your effects in the chest, where they will be safe,” he instructed.  “Then remove your clothing.”

Lilastien looked at him, suspiciously.  “Why?” she demanded.  It wasn’t because she was a prude, of course – she’d gladly go naked even in her Tera Alon form, if convenience and society allowed.  But she understood that clothing could also disrupt more invasive procedures.  So did I.

“Because you’re going to get wet, and generally people prefer not to have wet clothes when they return from the procedure,” he explained, reasonably.  “Wet clothes are uncomfortable,” he added.

“That makes sense,” she nodded, and began taking off her clothes.

I began stripping off my gear, setting my weapons, belt, and boots in the chest before removing my tunic.

“Usually, I don’t get naked until toward the end of a party, not the beginning,” I observed, as I dumped my clothes on top of Lilastien’s medical tablet.

“I hope you have towels,” Lilastien told our host as she removed the last of her garments and stood nude.  I took a last, deep draught from the gourd of beet rum before I reluctantly capped it and added it to the chest.  It was more than half gone.

“All will be provided . . . assuming you live,” he agreed, as the last of our belongings were stowed away.  “Now, let us go to the interrogation chamber and get started.  The sooner you begin, the sooner you can begin to recover.  Fools,” he added, shaking his head before turning toward the tunnel that led to the trial ahead.  A trial we had freely chosen.  A trial we may well lose.

“You know, you might get a more positive result with your invitations to this place if didn’t call your guests that,” I said, and walked bravely and drunkenly to my doom.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Interrogation Chamber

The caress of the Yith is dark, insidious, and writhing with madness.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

The passageway to the interrogation chamber was not long, but it was quite long enough for me to sober up when I realized I was buck naked with a middle-aged nude Alka Alon sorceress and a beardless dwarf in a deep underground cavern about to have my mind violated by an ancient alien that was literally older than this world.  As I padded across the cold stone floor with my bare feet I started to wonder where my life had departed the road to sanity and plunged into the ditch of surrealism.  The gods seemed to have a cruel sense of humor.

Alas, not even the gods could hear me, in this strange place.

The chamber we came to at the end of the passage was small, only thirty feet or so across, though the ceiling above stretched unevenly to forty or fifty feet.  In the middle was a shallow, circular pool filled with some unidentifiable liquid that was decidedly not water.  It was too viscous, and a kind of pale, sickly yellow, and the surface was broken by thousands of tiny little bubbles rising from the bottom.

The lizard man was stirring it with a long wooden paddle when we arrived.  He looked up with his unblinking black eyes.

“Hissssssssss!” he said, conversationally.

“Then turn it up,” Davachan insisted.  “He won’t be happy if he doesn’t get a good connection.  Please,” he said to us, as we stood and waited, “lie down in the pool and let the liquid completely submerge your bodies, save your face.  It’s shallow,” he informed us.  “You are in little danger of drowning.”

“We could drown?” I asked, surprised.

“It’s happened,” shrugged the Karshak.  “It’s rare, but sometimes the subjects panic and sink under the fluid.  Try not to do that.  It is messy to clean up.”

I sighed and glanced at Lilastien.  She was starting to look concerned, which actually made me feel better.  I wasn’t the only one sobering up to this madness.

“Get in,” Davachan instructed.  “Lay down and relax.  Calm your mind and concentrate on the questions you desire to be answered by the procedure.  I can make no guarantees that you will receive those answers, but Szal will take them into account while you undergo the process and attempt to steer you toward them.”

“How long will it take?” Lilastien asked, as we both stepped gingerly into the fluid.  It was tepid, like cool bathwater, but it clung to my skin like oil.

“That depends on the nature of your questions,” Davachan assured, as he walked over to a . . . well, once again, I had no idea what it was, but it looked more technological than mystical.  It appeared to be a kind of smooth pillar, only it had a thick slab of some sort of metal on the top, where a number of crystals, gems, and other materials were scattered.  He began fiddling with a few crystals on the surface of it.

“The more complicated the question, the longer it will take.  I’ve never seen an interrogation go more than twenty-five seconds, though,” he supplied.

“That must have been some question,” I said, as I tried to get used to the temperature and consistence of the fluid.  I knew I was supposed to recline in it, but, honestly, I wasn’t certain I wanted to settle my scrotum in it.

“I wouldn’t know,” Davachan answered.  “The poor bastard died at the end of it.  It was probably a mercy.  Very few can endure that length of exposure to the mind of a Yith.”

“Make certain you concentrate, Min,” Lilastien instructed me, quietly, as she settled her narrow tush down into the fluid.  “Do not panic and lose your question, else you might get lost in there, I think.”

“I’ll try,” I promised. I desperately wanted to crack a joke, but there was nothing particularly funny about this.  “I just hope this is worth it.”

“We won’t know until we try,” she said, as I settled down into the liquid.  It made my skin tingle, slightly.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a little disconcerting.  I felt a little like a raw carrot being chucked into the soup pot.  “If you truly want to save the world, this is the only way to learn how.  If it can even be done.”

“The Grandfather Tree thought it could,” I reasoned, as I tried to get used to the liquid.  “That gives me some hope.”

“Hissssssssss!” Gesstesseth said to us.  I glanced at Davachan.

“He wants you to recline,” he translated.  “All but your faces need to be submerged.”

“All right, I said, and turned to look at Lilastien one last time.  “Good luck.”

“You, too, Min,” she sighed.  “And may all your gods be with us.”  She slid down until her face was the only thing breaking the surface.  I took a deep breath and followed suit.

“It will take a few moments for the process to begin,” Davachan lectured, as he handed us each a crystal.  “Try to relax and resist any urge to leave the pool before it is complete, else your madness and likely death is assured.  Keep ahold of the crystal as if your life depended upon it.  It is the best way to ensure you survive the process.  But there are no guarantees.”

“Any advice?” I asked him, sincerely.  I tried not to sound desperate.

He considered.  “When in doubt, look at your hands,” he suggested.  “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” I said, with brave confidence.  I was shaking from sudden anxiety, in the tepid liquid, but if I was about to die, I wanted to do it confidently.

“I, as well,” Lilastien said after a deep breath.

“Then bide, the procedure will begin shortly.  And may your gods have mercy upon you.  For you will find the uncaring universe will not,” he intoned, as he touched something on his equipment.

In moments, little valves around the periphery of the pool opened and began leaking a dark red fluid, darker than blood, into the pool.  When it touched me, my skin tingled almost painfully.

“And we begin,” the mad dwarf said, a note of resignation in his voice.

The red fluid suddenly seemed to solidify on top of the water, transforming into a kind of membrane that sealed the pool’s surface, leaving just enough room for our faces to be clear.

“This isn’t so bad,” I said, after a few moments.

Then my personal universe was torn away from me in a sudden and vicious manner.

I no longer saw the cavern high overhead.  I no longer saw.  In a moment, I no longer existed.  It was as if I was being sucked down to the bottom of the pool, and while I indulged in an instant of panic, soon even that emotion was ripped from my mind as the interrogation began.

All turned to black, and I could not feel my body; indeed, I could not feel my mind.  An abject numbness washed over me as my reality was invaded by a Presence.

Despite my lack of other sensation, I could feel the mind of Szal wash its consciousness over me in an appraising manner.  It was a terrifying thing, as the utter indifference of the entity gave me no illusions about its desires.  It did not care if I lived or died.  It had no more empathy for me than I had for an ant.  It merely wanted what I had, and it was going to take it from me whether I wanted to participate or not.

I indulged in a moment of sheer terror as I felt the mind of the Yith envelop mine like a cloak of darkness.  There was no malevolence in the act, just as a farmer feels no hatred toward the chicken he decapitates for dinner.  I was a subject to Szal, nothing more.  A thing to be probed and examined and stared at for what little information I could provide.

But when faced with the naked mind of a powerful intelligence like that, you cannot help but indulge in a little terror.  I may have been screaming, for all I knew – it actually sounded like a pretty good idea.  But there was no sound.  I could not scream.  For I had no mouth.  Nor any other body.  At the first touch of the Yith’s devouring mind, I was ripped entirely away from my body and hurled into the depths of madness.

Panic was meaningless, at that point.  No struggle I could manage would be meaningful against the sheer power of the Yith.  I tried desperately to keep my questions in mind, how to save the world, how to make more snowstone, how to persevere in the face of a hopeless situation and preserve our world.  Perhaps I had some success.

But the touch of Szal’s mind to my own was such a complete violation of my soul that it was difficult to consider anything else important.  As his mental tendrils enwrapped my mind, for the briefest second, I knew his thoughts – his utter contempt for me and my entire race – nay, my entire world.  His utter indifference to its survival.  His insatiable curiosity and desperate seeking throughout the universe.  And, just as oblivion set in, I sensed a fear about him, or something akin to fear.

Describing the torrent of memories and emotions that weren’t my own is difficult.  To be yourself, and then to be torn apart and stuffed into another’s mind and memory is more than disconcerting, it’s staggering to the psyche.

But as the first impression from the mind of the Yith encompassed me, I knew I had no choice.  I was a passive player in this macabre rite.  And I began to suspect I had made a mistake.  Time had no meaning here, and I realized that it had very little meaning to Szal.  It was like falling down an endless pit, until you blinked your nonexistent eyes and were suddenly . . . someone else.

And then I was not me anymore.  I was Tuaa Folauga.

The triple suns burned into the scorched sands that stretched endlessly into the distance, as I experienced another world for the first time.

Two of the suns were yellow, though of two different sizes, while the third was a foreboding red and larger than its mates.  I glanced at the triangle they made before turning back to my friend, who had traveled a long way to see me.

“The war is over,” he told me, and I knew his name was Tuaa Fouvale.  I knew he was my friend, a relation, and my military commander.  He looked completely human, though he lacked a beard, and he had very fine facial features.  He wore a kind of red armor that was segmented like an insect’s, a broad helmet under one arm.  “I just received the message.  The Paranchek attack has overwhelmed our masters.  They are all but extinct, by now.  The entire forward line is gone,” he said, a pained look on his face.  “Folauga, the war is over,” he repeated.  “This outpost will be overrun in weeks.  We have lost.  The Orion Empire is victorious.”

I stared back at him with casual indifference.  I had no real loyalty to those creatures who I owed my allegiance to by long tradition and code.  I fought their wars not because I was loyal, but because I wanted vengeance.  Their destruction did not concern me.  I had suffered loss beyond any affection I had towards my masters.

“It matters not,” he said, sharply.  “Win or lose, it matters not.”

“It does,” his friend insisted, laying his helmet on the table of the outpost next to his weapon.  “Folauga, it really does.  We have to make a decision: we either stay here and surrender to the Paranchek, or we retreat, withdraw, and find a new life elsewhere.”

“Where in the galaxy are the Lyran peoples going to be able to go?” he scoffed.  “Before the war I scanned the skies from one end of the galaxy to the other.  What corner of it would offer to shelter us against the Orions?  The Empire will hunt us down, if that is what they wish.”

“The Orion’s issue was with our masters, not us,” argued Fouvale.  “We were merely their soldiery.  Even if they do take issue with our service, there is time, yet, which may allow us to flee.”

“Flee?  To where?” I asked, skeptically.  “If there is a safe place for us in this galaxy, I haven’t discovered it.”

“There’s Maldek,” he insisted.  “They will take us in.  They will give us purpose.”

“Maldek?” I – that is, Folauga – scoffed.  “They’re Orions!  The enemy!”

“They are not the Empire, they are rebel Orions, and they have repudiated their cousins’ rule for generations,” he said, shaking his head.  “Do not let your enmity for the Orions steal away your hope for the future,” he counseled me, as he took a seat on the command stool.  With a wave of his hand, a report of the situation out in the sandy wastes was revealed to him.  “While the Paranchek finish hunting down our masters, we have an opportunity to withdraw in good order.  A very brief opportunity, before they turn their attention to us.”

“Withdraw?  To Maldek?  To what purpose?” Folauga asked, skeptically.

“To find a purpose,” argued his friend, tiredly.  “We cannot preserve our masters’ regency by ourselves, nor should we.  It is not our affair.  But if we escape and find shelter with the few great houses on Maldek, perhaps we can escape the Empire’s notice until they forget about us.”

“They don’t give a damn about us, any more than our masters did,” he said, shaking my head.  Fouvale was a friend, but he was a hopeful fool.  I loved him like a brother but even I could see that.  “We were tools of their rule, nothing more.”

“And now we will be considered rebels to the Orion Empire,” argued Fouvale.  “Unless we take service with another faction.  One sympathetic to Lyrans.”

“You honestly think they’re sympathetic?” Folauga said, shaking my head sadly.  “They’re just looking for cheap mercenaries.”

“And we are looking for sanctuary!” Fouvale insisted.  “They might take us and our families.  Negotiations have already begun.  The unit commander received a report this morning.”

“There is no sanctuary from the Orions, particularly not with other Orions.  How long until the Empire turns its attention to Maldek?  What of Draconia?” I asked, referring to another powerful empire that spanned the galaxy.

“Maldek could offer us a second chance,” Fouvale insisted.  “For the entire Lyran people.  It’s half-way across the galaxy from the war.  It would give us time to rebuild.  It would give us a home.  For now,” he urged.

“They would give us the opportunity to die gloriously for Maldek,” countered Folauga, cynically.

“They are currently at peace,” countered Fouvale.  “It could be generations before we’re called into their military service.  You would have the opportunity to return to your research, my friend.  Consider that.”

“I gave up on research the day the Morlanthan fleet incinerated my home and my family,” I sneered.  “I have no vocation but vengeance, now.”

“A vengeance you will never see,” sighed the commander.  “You were a brilliant scientist.  It is a crime that you were forced into battle.”

“I’ve become proficient at battle,” Folauga reminded him.  Indeed, for nine long years, I knew, Folauga had practiced the arts of war on a half-dozen different worlds.  He had slain Orions and their client races with grim determination, in his grief.

The dimensional science and the study of quantum mechanics were nothing but an idle intellectual curiosity, now, one that he indulged in only to while away the hours spent patrolling, or on guard duty.  The mysteries of the universe were nothing now that his family no longer waited for him at home.  Home was a crater, now.

“But that is not what you were destined for!” argued Fouvale.  “Maldek is a big planet, and two of its moons are inhabitable.  There is plenty of room for us, there.   The word has already come down from Command to all surviving ships and all remaining bases: we are to gather at the fortress at Bevony and make the trip to Maldek from there.  In two months,” he added.  “It is hoped that we can slip away before the Empire finishes slaughtering our masters and sends the Morlanthans or the Paranchek against us.  Maldek offers us sanctuary,” he pleaded.  “They have invited the entire Lyran people.”

“Sanctuary?” Folauga asked, sharply.  “There is no sanctuary against the Empire, my friend.  Only death and pain.  Better to set course for a singularity and hope for a painless death than hide and wait for them to stretch their hand across the galaxy against us, some day.”

“Is that what Anka would want you to do?” Fouvale asked, after a moment’s pause.

“Anka and the children are dust,” Folauga said, bitterness overcoming him.  “I am the last memory of them in the universe.”

“They would want you to live,” his friend countered.  “She would want you to live.  Live and continue your research.”

“No one cares about the dimensional effects of singularities,” scoffed Folauga.  “Unless it can be turned into a weapon or a power source, our masters had no use for it.  My theories mean nothing.  My research means nothing.”

“Before the attack on our home, you had nearly finished your work on masa radiation, did you not?  The houses of Maldek might be very interested in such work.  You could find patronage there.  And get out of this hellish battlefield once and for all.  You could start a new life.  A life without masters.”

“With new masters,” I corrected.  “And new wars.  Thus, has it been since we were spawned.  Lyrans have never been more than tools for greater powers.  Pawns and slaves, nothing more.”

“This might be our chance to be something more,” argued Fouvale.  “A new life on Maldek.  Perhaps a new wife, a new family.  You are still young.  Kasha and I would be happy to sponsor you once we get there.  You know she loves you like a brother.”

The words felt empty and hollow in my ears.   Fouvale’s pretty wife was kind and sympathetic, I knew, but she was ignorant of the pain in his heart.  To even consider another marriage after the love he’d had for his own wife seemed entirely foreign to him.  There was only Anka.  And Anka was gone forever.

He had not even considered returning to his studies once he’d learned of his family’s extermination.  The complex intricacies of the quantum effects of stellar insecurities meant nothing, after they died.  He had turned his mind to war and vengeance, and now that war was lost.  Vengeance would never come.  He could keep killing Orions and their minions for the rest of his life, and vengeance would never come.  There was not enough retribution to salve the wound he felt in his heart over his wife and children.  But he was content to keep fighting, keep killing, until he himself was killed or the suns grew cold.

Yet, he knew what Anka would want him to do: put down his weapons and go to Maldek.  To start a new life.  To finish his research on singularities.  To find peace in some tiny place in the galaxy untouched by the great wars that had dominated for hundreds of thousands of years.  The Lyrans had fought on behalf of their masters for time out of mind, but this was a possibility, he knew, to escape the incessant wars and seek peace – if only for a few generations.

“I will go,” he said with a tired sigh, as he stared at the fingers he was tapping on the table.  “I have nowhere else to go.”

And then I was someone else.  Saram.

Saram’s feminine fingertips flitted across the console as she called up the next portion of the lecture.  She turned to the class and cleared her throat before speaking.  She hesitated just a moment – the ocean, in the distance, beckoned to her on such a warm, sunny day.  She so enjoyed the beaches that were tantalizingly close to her classroom, and it seemed a waste to spend such a glorious day inside.

But duty was duty.  The young must be taught.  And many of them were as distracted by the allure of the seaside as she was.  Galactic History was a dry subject, unless you were particularly passionate about the subject, and as enthusiastic about it as she was, even she could get bored.  She thanked the Three that she was at the conclusion of the lecture.

“When Maldek was destroyed, our ancestors had already formed the Lyran Commonwealth,” she said, as star maps and a barrage of images materialized in front of the class.  “Indeed, most of our people colonized other systems entirely, and to this day there are many Lyran worlds, colonies and enclaves across the stars.  This is just one of them.

“We’ve maintained our independence from the greater powers, but that has come at a cost.  Both the Orion Republic and the Draconia have been pressing the Commonwealth for nearly ten thousand years.  And there are other powers that strive to conquer or destroy our people.  Please review the reading and prepare a response for tomorrow’s discussion, beginning with the Maldek Rebellion and the recolonization of our world.  Thank you, you are dismissed,” she concluded, receiving the polite applause that was customary after a lecture.

I marveled at the elegance of the civilization I saw through Saram’s eyes, and knew at once she was a kind, gentle, intelligent woman, an educator.  There was a beautiful harmony to the buildings in the distance, a complex mix of geometric shapes and bold statuary.  The long, willowy trees in the distance were her favorites, as they grew along the boundary between the grassy part of the city and the sandy red beach . . . with the achingly blue sea beyond.   It took me a moment to get a sense of her, and I struggled to understand what she was saying and thinking as I was still recovering from Folauga’s maudlin soul.

Saram finished her work for the day early, due to a commitment related to her administrative duties.  A very important one.

One of the advantages of being a scholar at an academic academy in the capital was access to some of the luxuries a city with a starport could offer, delicacies from a hundred systems.  One of the disadvantages was the additional duties her position commanded – such as meeting with a delegation of the Orion Republic when diplomatic ties between the two governments were strained.

The threat of war had loomed over the planet for ten thousand years, and all too often the struggles between powers intruded into this system.  Since the Lyran colonists had taken control over the native populations and developed a new civilization here, before Maldek’s tragic end, they had been able to fend off the interests of the greater civilizations in the galaxy.  But that might be coming to an end, she knew.

By the time she had gotten to the reception hall – late, as usual -- the other members of her delegation had arrived.  Her dear friend and colleague, SSna’alek, was waiting impatiently by the buffet table, a couple of her fellow insectoid servants tending to the serving.  Next to her was dour Lississix, a reptoid senior administrator with a reputation for having a dour disposition and a pessimistic outlook.

Saram, you are late! SSna’alek said, telepathically.  They have already left their ship!  We have only moments!  The insectoid instructor of chemistry always seemed to be shouting excitedly in her head.

“We won’t have time to eat,” Lississix grumbled.  “They will be here any second, and you know how they are about protocol.”

“They’re here to discuss the hieroglyphs that have been waiting in the depths of a cave for more than a million years,” Saram said, evenly.  “Their protocols will only delay their inspection.”

“They will want to begin work at once,” Lississix agreed, his tongue flicking out of his wide mouth.

It is an important discovery! the chemist declared, raising her thorax to emphasize her point.  We cannot read it!  Maybe they can!

‘Alek had been instrumental in establishing the date of the astonishing hieroglyphs.  She felt invested in the process of their exploration.  Her own people hadn’t even been here, a million years ago.  But ‘Alek’s race had been skittering around the planet since there had been only one moon.

There was a debate among scholars as to which had arrived here first – reptoids or insectoids.  Galactic History demonstrated plenty of evidence for both.  But this system had been crossed by various civilizations for millions of years.  Remnants from long-dead empires dotted the galaxy with their passage; races conquered and colonized, developed, de-evolved, and their ignorant descendants persisted in the ruins.

The Lyrans themselves had been bred or developed originally as a servitor race, eons ago.  Since then, their humanoid form had split into thousands of varieties scattered across tens of thousands of star systems.  So had the other basic biological forms, wherever they could find purchase.  And then they evolved to the needs of their worlds and habitats into unique species.

But that cycle of development and dispersion was fraught with hardship for the individuals involved – history was clear on that, Saram knew.  The very nature of the infinite combinations of life in this galaxy, alone, produced constant conflict interrupted by brief epochs of relative peace.

The great Orion Empire had once dominated a third of the galaxy; now the Orion Republic controlled less than a third of that, thanks to the rise of other empires.  The Draconians were constantly ambitious to expand their ruthless control of everything they could.  But a dozen other stellar civilizations also vied for control.  Thus, it had been since the dawn of the universe, she guessed.

But the Orions were special, to the Lyrans.  Their polyglot republic was in an expansive mode, these last few centuries, and despite the threat of the Draconian war machine, they were pressing to resume control of the humanoids.  That included even unimportant little worlds like hers.

The hieroglyphs proved her theory, whatever they said.  They were more than a million years old, easily, and they belied translation.  But the Orions had records that extended back that far, thanks to their long lives and tumultuous history, and their scholars could very well know what they said.

When they did arrive a few moments later, Saram was dismayed about how formal and protocol-minded they were, for scholars.  The introduction rituals were tedious, the discussion was heavily scripted, and the entire exchange was compounded by the Orion delegation’s open contempt for Saram and her colleagues.  Only a few of the junior scholars were even remotely polite and interested in her little world.  The rest were officious and boring, seeming to sneer at every suggestion one of the natives made about the discovery.

It was excruciating to bear, but there was little choice.  Saram knew the Orions were just looking for an excuse to intervene here.  Escalating a scientific debate into a diplomatic crisis and then into a reason for intervention and sanction was well within the Republic’s capabilities.  Hence Lississix’s insistence on strictly maintaining protocols, even if it meant skipping the buffet.

But, finally, the actual inspection of the twelve-foot-long steles that had been discovered in the extinct volcanic caverns at the equator began.  The stuffy Orions tried to conceal their eagerness, but as soon as they were displayed on six long tables, they were examining them by eye and with their own scientific instruments.

“It’s clearly millions of years old,” Saram pointed out, as she shadowed one young scholar.

“It’s Mamatic, probably Secondary Mamatic,” the man said, peering through an optical scope.  “Very old.  Very rare.”  He was handsome, Saram noted, a specialist in ancient Galactic languages.

“Do you know what it says?” she asked, curious.

“In general, yes.  It’s a kind of monument and warning.  It tells the story of ancient races on hidden worlds where the laws of physics are different.”

“Fables, then,” she nodded.

“Fables?” the man asked, surprised.  “Oh, no.  Or not in the way you mean.  They’re real enough.  The Republic has known about these places for millennia.  We even have a special catalog classification for them.”

“You do?  I thought they were mere legends,” she said, innocently.  She did not think them mere legends.

“There are a lot of legends   The universe is a very odd place, you know,” he said, relaxing a little as he lectured.  “Especially at the quantum level.  It’s not really my field, but they’ve appeared in histories, here and there.  We have records of visiting them, in the past.  Well, our Sliss’stik allies have – they’re fascinated by them.  Consciousness directly acting on the universe at the quantum level is a bit fanciful, but those places do exist.  They’ve produced some real nastiness, too, if the records are to be believed.  They’re best avoided.”

For some reason, Saram didn’t believe the scholar was reluctant to study such things.  In fact, he seemed quite eager, and pleased that he’d seen the Mamatic Steles, as the Orion delegation named them.  In fact, every one of the scholars seemed excited by them.

That was worrisome.   Any time the officious Orions got excited about something, worlds could fall.  She tried to determine why she was feeling so anxious, all of a sudden, by continuing to intellectually flirt with the man.

“I know that strange quantum effects can happen close to singularities,” she recalled, “but I didn’t think that had much influence on things, outside of their immediate vicinity.”

“Oh, it’s not the sort of thing that happens near black holes,” the man said, chuckling patronizingly.  “Quite the contrary.  That’s why they’re so rare.  When they do evolve, they tend to be temporary in nature.  And therefore, highly sought after by so many for their differences in quantum field.”

“A difference in the quantum field?  That’s enough to cause this much interest?” she asked.

The scholar stiffened, a bit, and then smiled patronizingly.  “Well, there are a lot of useful experiments you can do in such places.  Perhaps if you study quantum dimensional mechanics and transpatial theory for a century or so, you’d understand.”

Saram suppressed an impulse to slap the man for his arrogance.  Instead, she pursed her lips and stared at the stele before them, the bizarre hieroglyphics that had been taunting her since their excavation, continuing to mock her ignorance.

“So, what does this stele refer to?” she asked, instead.  “Surely you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“I’ll have to work on the precise translation, but I believe it speaks of an ancient race, Those-Without-Form, is the literal translation.  I’ve heard of them before, actually, in the Actinean archives.  Indeed, the Actineans ended up destroying their homeworld, according to legend.  But, of course, some escaped.”

“They sound nebulous,” Saram said, conversationally.  Certainly, the man was a boor, but she was learning some new things.

“Those-Without-Form are one of those ancient, unkillable races that manages to not go extinct because, well, they’re ancient and unkillable.  Thankfully, they avoid most civilized places and hide out in out-of-the-way planets with this kind of special quantum field.  There are legends of them on dozens of planets, most dating to half a million years ago or more.”

“That would put them in the Lektite Period, wouldn’t it?” she asked, thinking carefully.

The man’s thin eyebrows raised.  “You know of the Lektite Period?”

“We do try to keep up with even the more obscure portions of Galactic History,” she said, a little more defensively than she intended.

The scholar nodded absently.  “Those-Without-Form are far older than the Lektite, but that was when they were most active.  They’re parasites,” he explained, patronizingly.  “They have some means of dimensional manipulation, thanks to their unique environment.  This race uses dimensional sounding, it is theorized, to locate worlds with the proper esoteric quantum field, then it finds a way to get there.

“Once it’s there, it consumes everything in its path, enriched on the . . . well, we don’t really know why they need to do it,” he confessed, putting down the scope, finally.  “But they tend to destroy everything else while they’re doing it.  The Republic and the Draco both consider them a restricted species.  That’s the sort of reason we’re interested in these kinds of records: so that we know where races like this might linger and avoid them.”

“But only on these special worlds?” she asked, trying to goad the man into revealing more.

“Oh, yes,” he nodded.  “See this symbol?  That’s the one that the Mamites used to designate them.  At the time, there were more than there are now, for some reason.  That may just be chance.  But the field allows all sorts of strange things to occur than cannot be done in a normal quantum field, especially with dimensional mechanics and consciousness.  The Mamites were mad about that sort of thing.    A pity they’re extinct.”

“Yes, a pity,” Samra agreed, absently, as she stared at the ancient stele.  “I do hope your team will be quick to share the results of your analysis.  We’re very excited to have found something so . . . so venerable on our little world.”

“Of course,” he nodded.  “These little backwaters are where all the good stuff is found.  When we take control here, eventually, a thorough, responsible, and orderly search is probably in order.  We might find some more.  And on that glaciated world next door.”  He said it so casually that Saram almost didn’t notice – but when she did her spine stiffened.

“I don’t think that is very likely,” she said, carefully.  But there was no disguising her tone.  “We can, of course, negotiate access to the steles, but they are our property.”

“The Republic has gone to war over less.  Your sovereignty here is temporary,” the scholar dismissed, as if it were established fact.  “Within a decade, the Republic will be in charge, here.  And probably throughout the Lyran Commonwealth.  Then you can finally expect some decent organization.  I’m hungry,” he said, and walked away toward the buffet table without bothering to disengage her properly.  That was a blatant violation of social protocol, and likely intentional.

The thought of those arrogant Orion bastards ruling her tiny little world galled her, and anger rose in her throat.  She was not a violent woman, but she could not help but feel a pall of rage rise over her.

Saram realized that her fists had been balled up in rage until the nails had left impressions in her palms.  She opened them and flexed them, studying them absently while she tried to bring herself under control.  She tried to relax and not cause an interplanetary incident by snatching up a skewer from the buffet and plunging it into the arrogant Orion researcher’s eye.

Instead, she focused for a moment on the polar ocean, the white caps of the waves rolling on the bay at twilight.  Both moons were in the sky, now.  All three morning stars appeared, as well.  Perhaps that was a sign, she hoped, as she stared at the indentations in her palm.

And then I was someone else.  Michael Anthony Palgrave.

Chapter Forty

The Flavor of Distant Earth

We do not begin to understand the debt we owe to Old Terra for the gift she gave to Callidore in the humani.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

Tuaa Folauga’s unbearable grief.  Saram the Scholar’s deep despair.  Both long-dead minds now lived within mine, their memories and their hopes and their fears warring with my own.

But Szal the Yith did not relent; there was no pause between exposures to my hosts.  And as sure as I was lost among the memories of his previous victims, I had a certainty that he was rooting around in my memory with grim delight.

But there was no rest.  There was no time to acclimatize myself to having two strangers in my head.  The next second brought the next impression, and I began to panic over the wave of new memory that coursed through my brain.  The transitions were instantaneous and complete, jarring my abused mind viciously while I tried desperately to maintain my control and keep my thoughts on my goal.

But I was out of my depth, here.  This was beyond anything I’d done before with magic.  The most difficult spells I’d ever attempted were a simple challenge, compared to the trial that was waging in my head.

I went from Saram’s pretty, bronzed hands to the long, nimble, pale fingers of a man.  I went from a reddish world with tiny moons to a lush, green land with oceans stretching from horizon to horizon and a single sun and a single fat moon to decorate the sky.

My name was Michael Anthony Palgrave, and I was sick.

I – he – stared out of the glazed window through the rain toward the distant sea, and I felt miserable.  There was no source of the pain I felt, he noted, as I settled in behind his eyes and his memories overtook me.  It seemed to come from everywhere, and a deep disquiet haunted his every thought.

But it was time to buck up and ignore the pain, Michael knew.  It was rare that he ever had visitors, here, but when they came, he did not like to appear as weak as he felt.

He had to maintain appearances, after all.  Anton had traveled all the way from London to come see him.  He might have protested that he had business in the area, anyway, but Michael knew that wasn’t true.  They had gone to school together, and Anton Folkstone was one of the few fellow students that had maintained a friendship with Michael since he had left so unceremoniously.

“Would you like a drink, Anton?” he asked, trying to stand straight as he turned back from the window.  “I think I’m going to have one.”

“Good God, man, it’s ten o’clock in the morning!” his friend declared, appalled.

They were a study in physical contrasts: Anton was getting stout, in his maturity, and his broad shoulders supported a large head, a wide face, and a bushy but neatly trimmed beard.  He had a continental air about him, thanks to a Hungarian grandfather.  There were rumors he was a Gypsy, but Michael knew better.  Anton’s grandfather had been a Hussar, before he’d gone to Austria and married an Englishwoman.

Michael, by comparison, was thin, approaching gaunt, with sharp features and no trace of facial hair.  He was meticulous in his grooming and his wardrobe, though the latter was not as fine as it had been at college.  His trust was running out, and he had no reason to indulge in new clothes.  But he dressed as well as he could from his existing wardrobe and tried to portray the typical English aristocrat he was supposed to be . . . and secretly despised.

“Well, if you’re going to have one,” conceded Anton, a moment later.  “I would hate to seem inhospitable.  Gin?”

“Of course,” Michael said, heading for the bar.  His long fingers nimbly mixed the embarrassingly cheap gin with tonic water.  There was no lime, but he managed a few slivers of ice.  He’d chopped some from the block the moment he’d gotten Anton’s telegram.  “So, what brings you way out here?” he asked, casually, as he mixed the drinks.

“My sister is worried about you,” Anton admitted.  “She asked me to look you up.”

“I hope she’s well,” Michael said, stoically.  “How is the new baby?  And her husband?” he asked as an afterthought.

“They’re all well,” Anton agreed.  “But your last letter gave her a fright.  Something about ancient legends and all that mystical mumbo-jumbo we used to go on about at school.  Haven’t you outgrown that silliness, Old Man?”

Michael produced an indulgent giggle.  “Ancient history is hardly mumbo-jumbo, Anton,” he assured, as he mixed the gin.  “You, of all people, should realize that.”

“Yes, but you weren’t writing her about Egyptian mummies, Old Man,” Anton sighed.  “You apparently went on and on about . . . about other planets,” he said, enunciating the words sarcastically.

“Well, I’ve taken an interest in astronomy,” Michael demurred, handing one of the two drinks to Anton, and taking a seat.  “I heard a programme on the wireless about the moons of Jupiter, and it started me studying, again.”  He took a sip of the drink.  I was surprised.  It was a taste of old Earth.  Terra.

“It was Mars, not Jupiter, you mentioned in your letter, Old Man,” Anton said, as he sipped the drink.  “That’s what disturbed Cecily.  She said your letter sounded like one of those horrid things that American chap Burroughs writes about.  All insect-men and fantastical theories about . . . well, she didn’t really know.  But she is worried about you,” he emphasized.

Michael sniffed.  “Not enough to consider my proposal,” he said, taking a larger swallow of his drink than he’d intended.  By that was to be expected.  Cecily was a painful memory.

“Now, now, Old Man, you have to consider her position,” Anton soothed.  “A destitute aristocrat with few considerations?  Or a surgeon at the top of his class?  A woman must keep things in perspective,” he said, with a cock of his head.

“Of course,” Michael agreed, mildly.  “I was just excited about some of the lectures I’ve been to, and some of the information that’s come into my hands.  I thought Cecily might be interested.  Now that she’s married, I’m certain that she needs some sort of intellectual stimulation,” he reasoned.

“Not that Blavatsky tart, again?” Anton moaned.  “She just wants what little money you have left.  And by all that’s holy don’t tell me you’re hanging around Crowley again.  That man is a menace,” he warned. “He hasn’t been right since he got back from Egypt.”

“No, no,” Michael assured, “I’ve been corresponding with . . . well, let’s just say that they are people who know things.  Important things,” he emphasized.  “Explorers.  Scholars of note.    Men who have access to secret and occult knowledge,” he confided.  “There are things being discovered in the deserts of North Africa, in the mountains of Patagonia, in Tibet, in Cathay, in Antarctica – secret things, long lost to the knowledge of man – that have recently come to light.”

“Such as?” groaned Anton.  “Really, Old Man, I thought this sort of thing would be out of your system by senior year.”

“I never got to senior year,” Michael said, drinking defensively.  “Surely you remember.”

“Vividly,” agreed Anton with a sigh.  “So, what ‘occult knowledge’ got your knickers twisted enough to bother my sister?” he asked, pointedly.

“Well,” Michael began, slowly, “there was a lecture recently that presents evidence that humanity . . . that humankind did not evolve on this world, as Darwin theorizes,” he declared, in a quiet voice.

Anton studied his friend carefully for a few minutes.  “You don’t have the syphilis, do you?” he asked, in a pleading voice.  “That can lead to madness.”

Michael blushed at the suggestion.  He was still a virgin.

“No, no, I’m as hardy as I’ve ever been—”

“That’s not saying much,” Anton shrugged.

“Yes, I’m aware that His Majesty does not consider me fit for military service,” complained Michael, bitterness in his voice.  “Nor am I suited to the soldier’s life.  But this new information is key,” he insisted.  “It suggests that our hallowed ancestors hail not from Saxony and the Danelands, or even Africa but . . . from Mars!” he said, insistently.

“Dear God, you must have started drinking before I arrived,” sighed Anton, shaking his head.  “Really, Palgrave!”

“It’s true, Anton, or at least the theory has merit!” Michael insisted.  “The tablets discovered in Mesopotamia, the hieroglyphs in Egypt, the—”

“The usual mystical nonsense designed to take in gullible fools that’s been haunting London for fifty years – really, Palgrave, you must learn to be more discriminating.  Next thing you know, you’ll be a Bolshevik!”

“I swear to you,” Michael insisted, “the information I’ve seen nearly confirms that the human race did not descend from apes, like Darwin contends, nor was it created by divine fiat, as the Papists insist.  Our ancestors emigrated here from Mars.”

“Really?” Anton asked, with skeptical humor.  “And landed where?  Essex?”

“Antarctica, actually,” Michael sighed, weakly.  “More than a hundred thousand years ago.  That was before Atlantis sunk beneath the waves.  When Lemuria was empty of human life.  When all the world was jungle and tundra.  It . . . it . . .”

“It’s bloody madness, is what it is,” Anton said, taking another generous sip of his gin.

“Mark my words, some day we will have the proof we need to establish this as scientific fact.  But from the speculative conjecture the scholars have established – conclusively – that we did not originate on this world,” Michael said, as dramatically as he was able.

“So?” Anton dismissed.  “So?  Michael, I enjoyed puttering around with ancient languages and intriguing theories as much as you did, in school, but we’re adults, now,” he reasoned.  “I’m a barrister.  I’m going to marry Margery this spring and find a nice place in Ipswich.  We’re going to have babies,” he emphasized.  “What are you going to do?”

“I have my scholarship,” Michael said, defensively, closing his eyes in regret.  He never should have mentioned Mars, he realized.  Everyone was mad for Mars since Wells, and then Burroughs started his stories, and now no serious scholarship on the subject was possible.

“Your scholarship?” Anton asked mockingly.  “And what has that gotten you?”

“Look, the papers I’ve read suggest that the universe was once much more . . . malleable to thought,” Michael argued.  “Over time, for some reason, the ability of our minds to overcome the constraints of mere matter have declined.  There were once races on distant worlds that could alter reality with their minds alone,” he said, snapping his fingers.  “As easily as we turn on the wireless.  But they . . . they declined.  Hell, Earth may have been one such place, in our distant past.”

“And how does that matter one way or another, today?” challenged Anton.  “You’re speaking of fantasy!”

“I’m speaking of true scholarship!” Michael insisted.  “I am part of a . . . a secret group,” he said, in a low voice.  “True scientists.  Studying the waxing and waning of orgonic forces in the world.  The true mystical forces – not some banal yogi in Piccadilly preaching vegetarianism and sexual abstinence, but authentic mystical scholarship.  We’ve been . . . conducting some experiments.”

Anton sighed.  “What kind of ‘experiments,’ Michael?” he asked, his voice resigned.  “Opium?  Hashish?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Did you know that psychic ability increases dramatically – more than three hundred-fold! – at precisely thirteen and a half hours, local sideral time?” he asked, triumphantly.  “You recall experimenting with mediation and trance—”

“So, you’re a bloody yogi, now?” Anton asked, skeptically.

“Trance is an excellent tool for the science of clairvoyance,” he explained, a passion rising in his voice.  “If you know what you are doing you can see far away.  That has been long established by the occult masters for centuries.  What we discovered,” he continued, excitedly, “is that for one brief hour a day, the powers of the mind can penetrate beyond this mere shell and probe the past, the future, distant worlds, other dimensions . . .”

“Bollocks!” declared Anton.  “Local Sidereal Time?  What even is that?”

“It’s Universal time,” Michael tried to explain, “You see, as the Earth rotates around the Sun—”

“I’m a barrister, not a bloody astronomer,” Anton said, his voice getting firmer.

“When the mass of the Earth is between you and the center of the galaxy,” Michael insisted, “it blocks the interfering rays from there, and allows a greater access to the higher powers our minds our naturally heir to.  If—”

“That’s bloody nonsense,” Anton assured him.  “Utter nonsense.  It’s not science, Michael.  Chemistry is science.  Medicine is science.  Ballistics is science,” he reminded him – Anton had done service in the Great War as an artillery captain.  “But this?  This is fantasy, Michael.  It is unworthy your intellect or your station.  I beg you to reconsider this direction in life, if only to spare my sister her misguided grief over you.  Really, Old Man,” he continued, gently, as he set down his empty glass.  “You’re better than this.  I’ll show myself out,” he said, standing.

Michael sat in his chair for nearly a half-hour, after Anton left.  His sense of despair was palpable, and his condition – whatever it was – seemed to flare into a body-wide assault, due to the stress of Anton’s visit.

But Michael was certain about his group’s findings.  They had spent countless days and nights awaiting the precious hour and then had used the time to plumb the depths of past and future, of distant lands and places hidden deep within the Earth.  For months, now, they had used the ritual at the appointed time to regard the minds of the hidden civilizations in the Earth and communicate with intelligences otherwise uninterested in this mean world.

Of course, his friend thought him mad.  Anton had been mildly interested in the occult for a few years at university, but that interest had faded as the mundanities of the world called his attention.  Michael held some scorn for him about that; to trade eternal mystic knowledge for a position in the city seemed foolish and short-sighted.

Alas, his pretty sister, Cecily, had been even less interested in the subject, though she’d seemed eager enough for Michael’s friendship at university, all those years ago.

Despite himself he considered what might have been . . . and then dismissed the matter from his mind.  He was a man of science, after all, the esoteric science that had opened the veil and revealed the true nature of the universe.  The carnal life of a family man had little appeal to him.  Ipswich?  The fool!

Perhaps once, when he was young, he might have considered such distractions.  But the things that he had seen in trance at the fateful hour had changed him.  Witnessing the medieval princes warring across Europe, the appalling glory of the Crusades, the Caesars building their empire, the ancient pharaohs building their pyramids and temples, and the hidden history beyond the mists of time had given Michael a unique perspective on his life.

Despite his sickliness, he had persisted in his trance work with a few select friends and fellow disciples and had thrilled at the result.  A secure position at a solid firm was nothing compared to seeing the origin of mankind – not in the Garden of Eden, as the Church insisted, but from the hatches of ships fleeing devastated Mars, tens of thousands of years before Sumer and Babylon rose in Mesopotamia.

He had seen the Shining Ones descend from the heavens, the dark beasts who hid within the Earth, the glory of Atlantis and Lemuria at their heights . . . how could a man turn up the opportunity for such knowledge? he asked himself, as he sighed and tossed up his hands.

He stopped himself, and for no clear reason he stared at his long, pale, bony fingers a moment.

That’s when I finally felt I had some control over him, or at least some influence.

So of course, that’s when Szal tore me out of Michael’s mind and threw me unceremoniously into another: Lieutenant Colonel Martin Fitzgerald Andrews.

I was flying.  Over water.  Not unaided, but within the hull of a skyship – an aircar, I suddenly knew.  Specifically, an aircar belonging to the Callidore Colonial Exploration Authority.  And I was piloting – those were my hands on the controls while we hurtled through the clouds. While that terrified me, the man whose eyes I was seeing through contended with the matter with long skill and practice.  I tried to relax, even with three other people in my head, and understand the man who was, I suddenly knew, one of the Ancients.

The fog of mystical perspective that Palgrave had imparted me with was scattered, to be replaced by the orderly thoughts of a man well-trained to military service whose mind had absorbed a dizzying array of technical subjects.

“Perwyn Control, this is Piper 112 turning telemetry over to Calsatnav,” Andrews muttered to the console in front of him.  “ETA to Merwyn Station is ninety-two minutes.  Alfred, autopilot mode.”

“Of course, Sir,” the console replied.  “Shall I set an alarm?”

“Ten minutes before landing,” Andrews agreed.  He turned toward the other seat, where a woman sat, reading a tablet similar to Lilastien’s.  “Are you planning on working the entire trip?” he asked her.

It was his wife; I knew at once.  His new wife.  She was dressed in trousers and a tunic and wore her hair down.  Angela.  Technically they had been married since before they had left Terra, but only just before.  They were still newlyweds when they both went into suspension for the voyage.

“I’m always working,” she said, with a shrug. “That’s why the Foundation likes me and pays me a fortune,” she said, sarcastically.  “Just be glad I got permission to go with you on this trip.  The condition was that I review reports and grant applications while I was gone.”

“I was hoping for—” Andrews began, as a primal image formed in his mind.

“Maybe on the return trip,” she proposed, biting her lip.  “If I get these done.  Some of them are hard,” she admitted.  “I can get through the terraforming survey reports easily enough, and the bio and chem, but when it comes to xenoarchaeology?” she asked, with a snort of frustration.  “We don’t even know how many intelligent species are on this planet now, much less a million years ago.  Oh, and this – this is rich.  New evidence of potential life in the subterranean oceans.  Which the natives won’t give us access to.  And they want thirty thousand credits to study it when we haven’t cataloged more than a quarter of the lifeforms on Perwyn yet.”

“Most of them are cows, now,” he joked.  The ECHO stations had been thawing and importing a wide selection of cattle to help secure the nascent colony’s food supply.  There were dozens of herds wandering the pastures of the island, now.

“By percentage, you might be right,” she smiled.  “I meant native lifeforms.”  She was a biologist, Andrews knew – thus, so did I.  A special scholar who studied plant and animal life.  “That’s the fun part of this job, the xenobiology.  Even the biochem studies are interesting.

“But then there are the bad ones – oh, this one is complaining about the planetary quantum field effect in equations I can’t begin to understand.  This one from Heliology is proposing a back-up orbital soliel in case the natives get restless and take away the solar protections they’ve given us.  This one is from the Astronomy team, of all things, noting that there is a ninety-two percent difference in Hawking radiation in this system compared to Earth, thanks to that nebula blocking Sag A.  As if that made the slightest difference to the colony.  We can barely detect Hawking radiation.  I don’t think we’ll miss it.  I get a lot of silly crap like that on my desk.”

“I’m starting to be glad I’m still mostly in the field,” Andrews chuckled.  I suddenly knew that he had spent three long, lonely years in the earliest days of the colony as an active member of the Colonial Exploration Corps, part of the twenty-year survey effort that predicated the terraformation effort.

Those had been exciting days.  He’d flown to incredibly exotic places on this magnificent world, seen some astonishing things, and worked with some of the most competent and daring people he’d ever met in his long career.  The CEC was the point of the spear for the colonial effort.  He’d been part of the initial contact team that had met the odd humanoid aliens, the fishy aliens, the tree aliens, and the others, and negotiated terms with their council to permit the colony.  He’d been the first human being to go and explore it on behalf of the colony while his new wife slept agelessly in her suspension capsule.

But she was out now, as young and as beautiful as ever.  For the last six months she’d gotten used to the new planet’s sprouting culture, as the New Horizon launched hundreds of projects to make the zone they’d been given more habitable.  That had required a lot of organization, and Angela excelled at organization.  She had been in high demand at the Colonial Science Foundation, despite a competing offer from the Terraforming Authority.

He’d known she was brilliant when he’d married her . . . but a research or administrative job didn’t always work well with an exploration job that could keep him in the field for weeks.  That’s why he’d transferred to Inspections and Investigations at a more senior rank.  That kept his travel to a minimum and allowed him to spend more time at home.  It also allowed him to bring her along as an observer on these I&I trips.

“I was thinking,” she said, with a sigh as she deactivated her tablet.  “Our flat is getting a little cramped now that you’re home all the time.  What do you think about building a little place in the rural zone?  Maybe in Brighton?  There are some pretty parcels available in Brighton,” she reasoned.

“Which means you’ve already been looking,” he chuckled.  “So, when do we move?”

“It’s not like that, Martin!” she said, rolling her eyes.  “When you were gone on the island survey, I spent a couple of days out there with April and Renee.  It’s gorgeous – farmland that looks out over the bay, mountains in the south, and someday you’ll be able to see the Colonial Tower, when its built.  It’s quite a view.  That also puts it close enough to our offices.  And the school is excellent,” she assured.

“Uh, we don’t have children,” he pointed out.

“About that . . .” Angela said, staring out the window.  “What if that wasn’t the case?” she asked, hesitantly.

“What if . . . Angela?  Are you pregnant?” he asked, shocked.

“Not yet,” she admitted.  “But I want to be – soon.  I was in that tin can for how many years?  I’m finally in my new home, it’s peaceful, it’s safe . . . I think it’s time we start thinking about it.  Planning for it.”  She looked back at him.  “We’re not going to get any younger.  What do you think?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” Andrews agreed, his head spinning.  He had always been hesitant about starting a family on Earth, after the war – that was one reason he had emigrated.  “Yes, let’s do it,” he agreed, more decisively.  “The natives gave us a three-thousand-year lease on the place with an option to renew.  Perwyn is in Stage Three.  They’re already bringing down colonists,” he reminded her.  “This is about as safe and secure as we could ask for, unless you wanted to go back to the New Horizon and get a luxury flat, there.  I can afford it,” he added.

“No, no, we came here to enjoy life and build a new world,” she reminded him.  “We can’t do that on a spaceship that’s falling apart.  But we could do it on a dairy farm in Brighton,” she promised.

He was quiet for a moment.  “You’ve already got a place picked out, haven’t you?”

“Why, as a matter of fact, I did get a few listings for you to look at, after dinner tonight.  By the way, where are we having dinner tonight?”

“The fleshpots of Merwyn Station are pretty limited,” he admitted.  “It’s only been there for three years, but it has some charming little places.  Germans, mostly – Saxons, Thuringians, and Mars Germans.  Of course, the moment they settled they started growing barley and hops, so there are two tiny beer halls, there.  And the sausages are good.  But there’s also the commissary, and they’re getting fresh seafood flown in from the coast, now.  Greek chef.  It’s actually pretty charming,” he promised.

“Just think what it will look like in a year, when the first wave actually begins?” she asked, a hint of excitement in her voice.  “They’re calling for six Cultural Preservation Organizations to be part of it – one of the UN pods, of course, but five others for Perwyn and the mainland.  They want to raise that to ten, next year.”

“The place is going to get pretty crowded – hey, look!  A leviathan!” Andrews said, pointing out the windscreen.  “Have you ever seen one, before?” he asked.

Angela looked surprised.  “Me?  No!  They don’t get too close to Perwyn.”

“We’re supposed to keep our distance, but the occasional fly-over doesn’t rile them, too much,” he said, touching a control.  “Calsatnav Control, Piper 122 requesting deviation from flight plan.”

“Nature of the deviation?” the Constructed Intelligence that controlled the air corridor asked.

“I saw something shiny.  I can give you my override code if you’d like.”

“Unnecessary,” the distant machine assured him.  “Deviation granted, Lieutenant Colonel Andrews.  Please notify when you resume course.”

“Alfred, end autopilot,” he instructed the aircar’s own CI, as he grabbed the wheel and began to descend toward the giant alien sea creature.

“Are you sure we won’t get into trouble?” Angela asked, biting her lip.

“I’m an inspector,” he reminded her.  “I’m inspecting.  Wow!  Look at the size of that one!” he said, as he slowed his speed and began to circle around the gigantic thing.  It was long, at least a mile long, and rose hundreds of feet in the air from the surface.  “Hard to believe that thing is two hundred times smarter than a human,” he said, shaking his head.

“The Lexington Scale is an approximation,” she chided.  “It’s falling out of favor, anyway, because we can’t use human standards to assess alien intelligence with any reliability.  But yes . . . they are very, very smart.  What are those things, surrounding it?”

“Those are the clippermen,” Andrews supplied.  “We’re not sure if they’re just undeveloped, or if they’re a separate species.  But they protect the leviathan.  See all those hairs on the back of the thing?  That’s where at least one stage of the hatchlings is tended.”

“They have the most elegantly complex life-cycle I’ve ever seen, and we’ve just started studying it,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.  “That thing is probably a hundred and fifty thousand years old.  Think about that.  A hundred and fifty thousand.”

“They say the ones in the big bays in the southern hemisphere are at least half a million years old,” Andrews said, thoughtfully.  They flew a slow circle around the island-like alien to see it thoroughly.  They were gratified to see a terrestrial addition – a whale of some sort – break the surface in the lagoon between the clippermen and the leviathan. Finally, he turned the aircar back to its course.

“That was simply amazing,” Angela sighed.  “I had no idea how inspiring it would be.  Something that old, that big, with that many young . . . well, it makes you think how briefly we’re here,” she said, thoughtfully.  “Let’s start thinking about that.”

“Agreed,” he said, surprised about how affected he was by her reaction to the leviathan.  “And, you know, we still have an hour left before we land . . .”

That earned him a mischievous smile that made her face light up.  “I stopped taking the shot last month,” she informed him, as she began unbuttoning her tunic.

Of course, as soon as the memory got to the good part, Szal pulled me out of it.  Each time he did that, it got a little more painful and difficult to bear.  Being crammed into the next one wasn’t getting any easier, either.  I already had four new people in my mind, trying to control my perspectives and color my thoughts.

But the next one was the hardest of them all.  The host, for lack of a better term, was named Mel Thenreyal, and she wasn’t human.

It was time to learn about the Alon.

Chapter Forty-One

The Sorrow of the Alon

As humans, I do not think we properly appreciate the tragic nature of the Alka Alon.  We see their long lives and sublime elegance as great blessings, but we do not understand the burden of history that places on their shoulders.  While some see only pride in the Alka Alon, I have seen their greatest sorrows as they have tried to contend with a universe that is just as hostile to them as it is to us.  Long life is no substitute for happiness.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

By Minalan the Spellmonger

You must understand that, by now, I was getting closer and closer to panic.  In the space of seconds, I had new people stuffed into my consciousness, and each one had brought their unique experience to bear on everything I saw . . . and that was causing me problems.

Perhaps if I’d had a moment to rest and reflect, I could have controlled myself a little more, but Szal was relentless.  I could feel his presence behind the veil of my consciousness.  It felt like he was taking pleasure in my discomfort, but then I had no real basis for that, save intuition and a fundamental belief in the spiteful nature of the universe.

From Lieutenant Colonel Andrews, I was pushed into another life, on another world, another head . . . this one with pointed ears.

I could tell at once that something was different, as I was thrust into the mind of another.  It wasn’t the femininity or even the race of my host that was striking.

It was magic.  Sweet magic.

For the first time in my ordeal, I could feel magic once again.  It was different than how I felt it, but the sensation was distinctly there.  The perception of invisible forces and arcane connections was woven all around me.  It was more subtle magic than I was used to, and less pronounced . . . but it was there.  It was as if one of my arms had been tied down for so long, I’d almost forgotten about it, and it was suddenly free.  Indeed, it swirled around my hostess as I tried to absorb her memories and adjust to her personality and surroundings.  But there was magic all around us.

Mel Thenreyal looked respectfully at the chalice in her hands as she sang the ancient Rite of the Moon.  The satellite was still low, near to the horizon where the mountains met the sky.  Thenreyal sang the rite mournfully, tonight, though the words were of peace and the melody was sublime.  For beyond the fullness of the moon was a bright speck of light like a slash across the sky.  The Dreadstar, though that hadn’t always been its name.  Once it had been called Ninasvel, and it had been much dimmer.

As her songspell enriched the soil and plants of the orchards with the raja energy they needed to prosper, she felt a twinge of despair.  If what the Versaroti and Amalekti sages said was true, soon the Dreadstar would vanish . . . and with it the ability to conduct the rites.  That was unimportant, compared to the other calamities that would befall their world, but it would be the first sign of the Doom of Alonaral.  After that, the entire world would be preparing for its destruction.  If the rites failed, there would be no hope against the Dreadstar.

Only the Alka could raise the power, she knew, and they were entrusted with the care of the other Alon.  Or they were supposed to be.  There were several kindreds who saw the shorter-lived creatures of Alonaral to be there for their use, amusement, and sport, not their protection and guidance.  Even some in her own Avalanti household were inclined to act despotically with the other Alon, treating them as servants or even slaves.  It was contrary to the Spiritsong she served.  As she lowered the chalice and took a single drink of the pure fluid within, she felt a pang of regret for that.  The Avalanti, especially, were supposed to be devoted to the Spiritsong.

But that wouldn’t matter, soon, she also knew as she ended the song.  How her relations treated their Tal and Bunri wouldn’t matter.  If the kindreds did not tear themselves apart first, the Dreadstar would end their suffering.

“That was lovely,” her mother called from just outside of the ritual circle – the banath, I suddenly knew.  Only the Mel of the shrine could step within the banath.  “When you have composed yourself, your sister has arrived and would like to see you.”

“Merethel?” Thenreyal asked, surprised.  Indeed, she nearly dropped the chalice, before returning it to its place on the altar.  “She hasn’t come back here in a decade.”

“She’s been occupied with her studies,” her mother said, diplomatically.  What they both knew was how her younger sister had done more than entered into her instruction.  She had been involved with one of the radical elements at the great city of Lonair.  The Versaroti youth who made up most of the academy’s students had been agitating, the last few years.  Merethel had naively indulged in the extremism some of the groups proposed.

It was all just nonsense, Thenreyal knew, the excitement and inexperience of youth coloring their perspective in the face of approaching doom.  And it was all completely predictable.  The young did not want to seek their potential when calamity was a certainty.  Of course, they would seek some solace in radical ideologies.  Their planet was dying.

“What truly brings her back here, Mother?” she sighed.

“You will have to ask her,” her mother said, stiffly.  “She would not speak with me about where she has been or who she has been with.  Only her sister the priestess.”

“Because as a Spiritsinger I am sworn to discretion and may not divulge her confidences,” nodded Thenreyal.  “That does not bode well.”

“I take your point,” conceded her mother.  “I’ll have her wait for you in your chambers.”

Merethel was already seated on the prime cushion Thenreyal usually reclined on in the afternoons, after her rites.  She looked healthy, a little mischievous, as always, but there was something else about her, something new.  A newfound seriousness, Thenreyal guessed, as she gave her sister a bow.

“I’m sorry I missed the moon rite,” she began, as Thenreyal directed the squat Bunri servant to fetch them refreshments.  “I haven’t seen it in ages.”

“A decade, at least,” sighed the older sister, as she settled into the second, lesser cushion in the circle.  “Mother says you have been busy with your studies.”

“You know very well I haven’t been,” her sister disagreed.  “I’ve been looking for a way to save our people.”

Thenreyal had to laugh at that and did.  Merethel was flighty and flirtatious, hardly the kind of Alkan to turn toward the kind of scholarship being employed to contend with the Dreadstar.  All manner of experts had been doing that for centuries, to no avail.

“This world is doomed,” Thenreyal said, shaking her head, sadly.  “When the Dreadstar implodes, you know what happens: in a mere two centuries, the Withering Light will shine forth on us.  In a mere thousand years, the gravitational forces of its mass will begin to draw our very sun toward it.  In five thousand years, – five generations, Merethel – the Dreadstar will consume us, sun, sacred moon, and all of Alonaral   We are doomed,” she repeated.

“The planet is doomed,” Merethel conceded.  “I said I was trying to save my people.    While everyone has given up hope of contending with the Dreadstar, some of us have been looking toward . . . escape,” she said, in a near-whisper.

“Who?” demanded Thenreyal sharply.

“The Draolani,” her younger sister said, narrowing her eyes as Thenreyal gasped.  “Yes, yes, the ruthless Draolani – out of power, out of favor, and discredited.  But they have the power to save some of us if we act quickly and decisively.”

“Save some of us?  How?” she asked, perplexed.

“The Avalani Molopor,” Merethel said, with a note of satisfaction.  “The same way we came to this world, if legend is to be believed.  My . . . friends think that it can be used to open a portal to safety.”

“How?” Thenreyal demanded.  “And to where?”

“Someplace with raja energies,” she said, confidently.  “In fact, my friend Icaranal has already discovered one.  He’s a Starseeker.  He’s made contact with another world, a world with great raja potential.  He and his colleagues are hoping they can strike a bargain with the indigenous race for us to go there by portal.  But . . . not all of us,” she said, warningly.

“What?  What do you mean?” Thenreyal asked, her head swimming.

“The Draolani only want to bring a few of the kindreds through, if they can strike a bargain,” she explained.  “And only a few of the servitor races.  The ones that matter,” she said.

Her callous response angered Thenreyal, but she suppressed the urge to take her to task over it.  As one of the last of the Spiritsingers, she saw all sapient life as sacred and worthy of respect, no matter how ephemeral the other races were.  But that was a minority opinion even among her open-minded kindred.  They accepted their role as rulers over the other Alon with grace, compared to some of the other kindreds, but they ruled, nonetheless.

“Which ones matter, to the Draolani?” she asked, instead.  That sect had very austere opinions on the other Alon, she knew.   Over many things, actually.  They were ruthless traditionalists from several kindreds who had been thrown from power several generations ago, but who lingered on the margins of Alkan society as an irritant to the current royal councils that ruled Alonaral.

“The Avalanti, the Versaroti, the Nofani, the Rulathi, the Farastamari, the Molcanari, and a few clans of the Imlaradi – the ones who keep to the old traditions.  Maybe a few of the Kalitremi because they supported the Draolani during their reign.  But none of the Taramasi, the Erenarmi, or the Valamari.  And probably not the others.”

“Those are the three largest kindreds!” Thenreyal declared, astonished.  “Why not bring them?”

“Because they eschewed the old ways and overthrew the Draolani,” Merethel observed, “and the Draolani hold a grudge.”

“One that would condemn them to death on a doomed world?” Thenreyal demanded.

“Yes,” her sister stated, simply.  “They can find their own new world.  They will have time.  But the plan is to seize the Avalani Molopor long enough to transfer the kindreds – and a few breeding pairs of servants – and escape while we still can.  Once the Dreadstar implodes, the Withering Light will make such feats . . . difficult.”

Thenreyal hung her head, shame and confusion overcoming her.  She thought about the thousands of servants her House was responsible for and wondered which among them the Draolani would permit to pass.  She thought of the hundreds of thousands of Alkans who would be stranded here, if the Draolani’s plan came to fruition.

But there was little answer for it, save death.  The Draolani were survivors by design, and if any sect could find a way to save themselves, it would be the authoritarian Draolani.  Their society had attracted some of the most talented and technically adept among the kindreds, particularly the Versaroti, who tended to be meticulous experts in their crafts.  They found a welcome home with the Draolani.  They feared death more than anything, save chaos.

“So when does this seizure happen?” she asked, despairing.

“That depends on my ability to recruit my sister to the cause,” Merethel explained.  “My sister, one of the last trained Spiritsingers left.  One of the few on this world who can open the dimensional portal that can allow us to escape.”

“But only if I accept the Draolani’s dictates about who may pass through,” she pointed out.

“Which gives you a tremendous amount of leverage in negotiations,” Merethel observed.  “The Draolani are dedicated to saving our people.  They need you to do it.  If you have . . . requests, they will be considered, if you cooperate.  Without the Draolani’s organization and resources, as well as their connection to this new world, it will be impossible to construct an exodus from this doomed world.  You need each other.”

“I will . . . I will consider it,” Thenreyal sighed, lacing her fingers together.  “You put me in a poor position, little sister.  Betray the Spiritsong and condemn millions to save myself and our clan or die here with everyone else and let the Spiritsong itself die with our people.”

“Cataclysmic events have a habit of simplifying things, don’t they?” Merethel challenged.  “The entire planet will die, Thenreyal.  Everyone.  The Spiritsong will be extinguished.  Our race will be extinct.  Without raja, half of the plant life on this world will be wiped out in the first century.  You have a choice between survival or extinction.”

“A choice that demands a fundamental moral compromise,” Thenreyal said.  “I cannot believe that we must treat with the Draolani, of all sects, to do this.  Is there no other way?”

“Do you not think it would have been tried in the two millennia we have known the Dreadstar is going to collapse?  With every sage spellsinger and scientist bending their minds to the problem?  Alonaral is doomed, Thenreyal.  With your assistance, the Alon will not be.”

She sat a long time in quiet thought, while her sister regarded her.  The doom of the Dreadstar had been known since before she was born.  During the five hundred years she’d spent studying the complex intricacies of Spiritsinging, the question of how to protect the world from the Withering Light had been foremost in her purpose – without result.  Nothing could prevent the Dreadstar from collapsing under its own mass into a singularity.  Nothing could shield Alonaral from the Withering Light it would produce.  The world was doomed.  But the people, as Merethel had observed, need not be.

“I’ll do it,” she sighed, finally.  “May the Songspirit forgive me, but I will do it.  I just hate that I have to bargain with the Draolani to do it,” she said, looking at her hands in despair.  They were betrayer’s hands, now.

It was about then that I realized that Draolani was Alka Alon for enshadowed.  And it was about then that Szal the Yith ripped me out of poor Thenreyal’s memories and pushed me into Prince Maralathus.

I was back on Callidore, once again.  And I was in the mind of Maralathus, prince of the Second House of the Imlaradi kindred of Alka Alon, heir to High King Amasarel’s rule over the glorious First City of Tyranalon.  His hand grasped the haft of a spear, and the slender point was at the throat of his cousin, Parasemus.

“I yield, Cousin!” Parasemus insisted, raising his hand in defeat.  Maralathus lowered the spear, which was blunt and unlikely to wound – a practice weapon.  “Once again you have bested me,” his cousin admitted, as he strove to catch his breath after such an energetic bout.

“I thank you for the practice,” Maralathus said, with a bow.  “In truth, you are the only worthy opponent in the realm.”

“I’m still a better archer than you,” Parasemus added, as he replaced the spear in the rack.

“That is open to question,” smiled Maralathus, indulgently.  The two had been friendly rivals since childhood. “But you are superior in raja, I will admit.”

“Only because my grandmother was a Spiritsinger,” Parasemus sighed.  “You’re the one who discovered the process to create irionite from the Versaroti.  But no one is your master at verse.  I come back from distant lands to find your Saga of the Moonriders being spoken of everywhere in Tyranalon.  Everyone loves their prince’s masterpiece.”

“I credit my friends in the Vamari grove,” chuckled Maralathus.  “It is their story, not mine.  The Met Sakinsa take a long time to tell any story, but Sournut and Fastroot know my house well enough to know what to summarize.  I cut out the boring parts, put the exciting parts into verse, and try to keep the pacing and suspense interesting.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” Parasemus sighed.  “While I hate to concede yet another accomplishment to my august cousin, I heard it performed a month ago.  I cannot stop thinking of it, since.”

“Thank you, Cousin, you are very gracious,” he said with a bow, as they walked back toward the palace through the garden.

“I know brilliance when I hear it.  But that begs the question on everyone’s mind, Maralathus: what is your next masterpiece?  And when will it be ready?”

“I’ve actually been working on a kind of sequel, of sorts,” the prince said, cautiously.  He rarely discussed his poetry until it was ready to be performed, but Parasemus was a special case.  He could be trusted to hear about it without discussing it with others.  “Something that my friends in the grove have been telling me about.  The ‘Theft of the Queen,’ it’s called.  It concerns the Vundel.  Another saga about this world before we came here.”

“That does sound intriguing,” agreed Parasemus.  “Especially after the March of the Metalonin against the Formless, in your last work.  That was good verse,” he said, simply.  That was high praise from stoic Parasemus, Maralathus knew.

“It concerns the last seed of the Celestial Mothers,” the prince began, as they passed by a murati tree, one of the static Met Sakinsa varieties that the Alka Alon had adopted for its beauty and its powers.  He began to explain the story, adopting an intent vision and his storyteller’s voice to do so.

“The precious egg was the hope of their species.  The last Celestial Mother had been grievously wounded, and had produced only one seed – egg,” he corrected.  The Met Sakinsa saw everything in terms of seeds, not eggs.  “It was heavily guarded in their deep breeding lairs, but though the promise of a new future was precious, it was not invulnerable.

“By subterfuge one of the many lesser vassals of the Formless who were hidden since their imprisonment, the Beldurrazeko, managed to infiltrate the chamber and steal the egg.  The Living Darkness, they were known as.  They are great villains in the story, worthy successors to their dark masters.”

“What happened to the egg?” Parasemus prompted, clearly interested.  That was what Maralathus wanted to see in his audience.

“The Vundel believed that they were trying to consume it, for its great power, which would transform the Living Darkness into a weapon to be used against them.  The Met Sakinsa, however, believe that the Beldurrazeko wished to use the stolen egg to bargain for their dark masters’ release.  Either way, it is a sad and tragic tale,” he said with a sigh.

“So, what happens?” Parasemus asked, eagerly.

“I’ve come up with a very intriguing verse structure to convey it – entirely fabricated, I’m afraid, but based on the events as described to me.  The wounded and dying Celestial Mother calls to the guard who was tasked to protect it, and in a fit of despair he vows to search every abyss under the sea for it or avenge its destruction.  He enlists his allies among the Met Sakinsa to search the Dry lands.  He is relentless, and thrice he catches up with the fleeing thief and fights it.  Each time it escapes.  And then it is finally lost in the abyss.

“After five thousand years of searching, he confesses his failure to the Celestial Mother and slays himself as she herself dies of grief and injury.  I see it as a story of love and duty, the end of their great race and the beginning of the rise of the Vundel,” he said, philosophically.  “The tragedy of the last of the Celestial Mothers, the tragedy of the guard’s failure, and the deep loss that will lead, ultimately, to the death of Callidore, someday.  It will make us weep,” he promised.  “And then I’ll write a third saga about the arrival of the Alon, and how we provided merriment, class, and sophistication to Callidore’s final few millennia.”

“It sounds amazing,” his cousin sighed.  “Why were you the only one in the family with talent?”

“It’s a curse,” Maralathus chuckled.  “How go things in western lands?”

“Poorly,” Parasemus admitted, his mood changing dramatically.   He was an official who was tasked with overseeing some of the lesser realms on Callidore.  Particularly the desolate continent in the west that was the price of the Alka Alon coming to this world.  “It is a wasted land that challenges the greatest of the Avalanti to repair it.  Worse, it’s become a haven for the Draolani, who find refuge there.  And the Farastamari and Versaroti great houses are beginning to fight over what little they have in that barren realm.  Of course, the Draolani secretly urge them on, hoping to seize control as they fight amongst themselves.  It is a sad situation.”

“Oh, a few duels between great houses is not always a bad thing,” considered Maralathus.

“They are not merely dueling, anymore, Cousin,” Parasemus reported.  “They are now in open war as they contend for rulership of that poor realm.  In their pride they are using weapons from the days of our grandsires.  Powers brought from Alonaral,” he said warningly.  “The same powers used to overthrow the Draolani in the early days.  And they are using dragons,” he added, darkly.

“Dragons?” Maralathus asked, shocked and surprised.  “Are they mad?  They wouldn’t dare!”  The gigantic beasts had been one of the disastrous imports to this world – the Draolani had used them to enforce their rule for half a generation, until their sires overthrew them and established the ordered realms.   The few that were left were curiosities from that distant age and were only permitted far, far away from civilized places.

“And worse,” Parasemus said, grimly.  “The Draolani have seized Castabriel from its rightful rulers,” he reported.  “They demand that they be recognized as the High Kings of the realm, over King Amastil.”

“That’s preposterous!” Maralathus declared.  “The audacity!”  The west was a poor relation to the three great eastern realms, permitted a kingdom but not a High Kingdom.  There were only three High Kings, and they were established on the defeat of the Draolani.  They would never acknowledge the title or position of a usurper.  King Amastil, for all his impotency, was the only Alkan with a true claim to that title.

“If this struggle persists, it may be necessary for the true High Kings to take action,” his cousin predicted.  “Else the Vundel could take notice.  I swear, my prince, they do not understand how delicate relations are with our patrons.”

“Our hosts,” Maralathus corrected.  “We exist here conditionally, and at their discretion.  From what the Nofani sages say, the Vundel are lapsing into despair over the eventual demise of our world.  They are not in a mood to indulge us in our petty disputes.”

“Tell that to the Draolani,” Parasemus nodded.  “And those of the Great Houses who in their pride strive to dominate each other for the privilege of ruling over crumbs.  I spent two years trying to negotiate between them, Cousin.  To no avail.  They are stubborn and foolish and do not recognize their peril.  That is why the High Kings will be forced to intervene . . . before they destroy the little progress they have made, there.  We have but a few generations left here before the obscuring cloud allows the Withering Light to bake Callidore into dust.  We should not waste them in pointless strife.”

“I will speak to my father,” Maralathus agreed.  “He has authority of oversight over that realm.  Perhaps he can intervene before all three High Kings must act.”

“Whatever is to be done should be done, soon,” Parasemus nodded.  “They are using the lesser Alon in their struggles, now, eschewing consensus in favor of domination by force.  That is poor precedent.”

The news did, indeed, worry Maralathus.  In the past, the Draolani sect had used persuasion or subterfuge to convince the councils and Great Houses to adopt their policies.  But they had been discredited for so long, due to their despotic nature, that they likely had little influence left, save in a desolate place like the western realm, amongst rustic Avalanti and aloof Farastamari.  The Draolani were insidious.  And they seemed to have sympathizers everywhere.

Worse, their ideology insisted that the Alka Alon should wrest control of the world from the Vundel, if such a thing was even possible.  And for what purpose?  As a member of one of the royal houses, and heir to Tyranalon, he knew far more about the fate of the world than most Alka Alon.  In a few mere generations, their tenure on Callidore would be over – not because of the Vundel’s power, but because of the Vundel’s powerlessness.

The great purple cloud that hovered in the night sky over Tyranalon was more than a pretty astronomical curiosity, he knew.  Its true utility was implicit in its name: Ralaan, “The Shield.”  It protected Callidore from the Withering Light shown by the Great Eye, keeping it in the Realm of Darkness.  Without it, the rajamar field on the planet would collapse.  Magic would cease.  And that was precisely what would happen in less than ten thousand years.

For though they moved slowly, the stars in the sky did move . . . and it was known within the royal houses that this beautiful, magic-rich world and its sun and its fellow worlds would move beyond the protection of Ralaan’s shadow.  He knew from centuries of discussions with the Met Sakinsa that such an event had occurred in the past, after millions of years of protection.  But each time the Celestial Mothers had been able to use their great powers to pull the sun back behind the cloud to safety.

But there were no Celestial Mothers, now, nor even Great Mothers.  They had been dead for hundreds of thousands of years.  The Vundel, as powerful as they were, did not have the craft, skill, or power to achieve what their long-dead overlords had accomplished.  They could not move the stars in the heavens.  They could only persist until the inevitable end.

That was why his new saga was so unbearably tragic: when the last egg was consumed by the Living Darkness, it had not only doomed the race of the Vundel, it had also doomed the entire world.  A theft and a murder that killed a planet. That was tragedy.  That was art.

Someday, he knew with certainty, the last day would dawn with magic in the world.  When it failed the next, a great number of calamitous things would inevitably happen to his beautiful world.  Countless would perish in the centuries after.  And the Alka Alon would escape to some other rare world with rajamar.

It was a tragic pattern with his people, he realized, leaping from one doomed world to another, trying to outwit the universe.  One day, when he was long dead and his hopes and his worries would no longer matter, his descendants would use molopors to escape and sing their own sagas about once-great, twice glorious, unimaginably beautiful Callidore and its tragic history.

He sighed, rubbing his hands together as he walked in silence next to his cousin.  There was no escaping that doom.  But, perhaps, Callidore would live forever in art.

I felt a twist in my perceptions again as I was ripped from noble Prince Maralathus’ memory and thrown headlong into another Alka Alon: Raer Rinthon the

Bitter.

Chapter Forty-Two

Ancient History

We do not understand our present until we understand our past.  Our past teaches us that secrets and lies begat tragedy and misfortune.  Today’s calamities spring from yesterday’s deceptions.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

As painful as my introduction to the third Alka Alon of my torturous journey was, it was nothing compared to the pressure of the growing crowd of memory that was filling my head.  Each new victim compounded the acute pressure I felt building up in my mind, challenging my capacities and even my sanity.

Seven separate consciousnesses sharing one brain is more than most men could bear.  It was as much as Rolof had learned to bear.  But there was more to come, I could tell, as I desperately tried to focus myself on the questions at hand.  I had learned so much, so far, lifetimes of lore and experience.  Lifetimes of pain and regret and despair.

But Raer Rinthon was a hard one.  As I settled behind his eyes, a deep and profound sense of gloom overwhelmed me.  And while I was still on Callidore, I knew, I did not sense the abundance of magic – of raja – that I had in my previous Alon experiences.  It was entirely absent, and from the first moment I was taken to Rinthon, I could feel its absence like an amputation.  It was a feeling I’d grown familiar with in the last few weeks.

Raer Rinthon walked a pace behind the Emissary from the High Kings, his head bowed and his hands folded in front of him.  King Kanarthiel was leading the party, and the nameless Guardian followed behind Rinthon.  A cluster of Karshak and their Kilnusk king, Jurin, and his son followed behind him, bearing some great burden.

Despite the august company, the mood in the cavern was somber.  Rinthon felt no pride in his inclusion – he had given up politics over a thousand years ago, after the last of the wars between Great Houses.  But the Council had made him their representative and agent, for this purpose, and he could not defy the council without becoming a rebel.  His honor would not permit that.  He would act as witness, perform his duty, and inform the Council of the result of the Emissary’s judgement, as he had been bidden.

The cavern was just as somber as the mood, and the lack of the rajamar in the background made the entire distasteful affair even creepier.  The Karshak who followed behind them, led by their Kilnusk leader, all bore torches to light the gloom.  There were no raja-conjured lights, here in the realm of the jevolar.  They had to resort to mere combustion to light their way.

They bore a great burden, Rinthon knew; it took six sturdy Karshak to carry the great stone cask into the cave, where the Guardian opened the door and the party had descended into the hidden arsenal of the realm.

“The last time we were here,” the Emissary, an ancient Alkan prince from the east named Parasemus, said, as they walked down the many, many dripping stone steps, “it was to entomb the dangerous remnants of your rebellious factions.  Thanks to your incessant wars, the Vundel took notice and sanctioned the entirety of the Alon,” he reminded the monarch of the realm.

“Of this I am aware, my lord,” the old Alkan king said, tiredly.

“Your realm imperiled all of our world, Kanarthiel,” the Emissary reminded him.  “You allowed the Draolani to fester, here.  You allowed them to wage war until the very foundations of the world were shaken.  We were given a warning by the Vundel, after that.  We will not receive a second.”

“Of this I am aware, my lord,” the king repeated, sadly.

“Excellent,” the Emissary said, quietly, as they finally reached the bottom of the chamber.  There was still some water lingering on the floor, but the Emissary proceeded to the doorway unmindful of the damp.  “Then you will understand why we must take this action.”

“I await your judgement, my lord,” the king said, quietly, as the Guardian opened the final chamber door.

“You will have it before you are ready,” agreed the Emissary.

Rinthon watched with detached interest as the party walked past bay after bay of proscribed artefacts – some so old and powerful that they originated on Alonaral, itself.  He had known of the secret vault for over a thousand years, but he had never been here.  Few, even those on the Council, ever had.

“Here,” the Guardian indicated, pointing out an empty bay.  “You may put it here.  It will be safe,” he declared.

“It had better be, else our tenure on this world will be at an end,” the Emissary said, with barely disguised disgust, as the Karshak hurried forward.  “Place it here.  And may it rest in obscurity until the world ends.”

As the sturdy Karshak workers pushed the stone casket into the empty bay, the Emissary turned to address the Alon assembled.

“Pray attend: It is the determination of the Emissary of the High Kings that the matter of the Beldurrazeko is to be forever stricken from memory; that the discovery after the death of the Living Darkness shall nevermore be spoken of.  And that the discovery shall remain the province and under the protection of the Guardian.”

“So shall it be,” Rinthon intoned, with the others.

“It is the judgement of the Emissary of the Three High Kings that the Kilnusk chief of the Karshak clan who committed this crime shall be eliminated at once.”

He looked meaningfully at the torch-bearing Karshak.  A moment later they dragged the golden-haired King Jurin in front of the stone casket, and while both Kilnusk and Karshak wept openly, with their hammers they bludgeoned him in the head until he was dead.  The spray of blood when his braincase finally broke splashed across Rinthon’s face.  He did not bother to wipe it.  There would be more blood.

“The datavor of the offending clan shall appear for judgement, his name stricken from the memory of the Karshak,” the Emissary declared.  The Karshak pulled the squirming weeping offender forward, next to the body of his former king.  Jurin’s son Charak was sobbing next to the body of his father as the Emissary passed judgement. “You will be given a choice: death, or judgement of the Guardian.  For your crimes you alone have responsibility.”

“Make him suffer!” the young Kilnusk prince demanded.  “Make him suffer forever!” he wept.

“I gave the choice to him,” the Emissary said, firmly.  “To him it remains.”

“My father had no choice!” objected the sobbing Charak.

“I choose . . . I choose . . . life!” the Karshak datavor declared, defiantly, his eyes filled with tears.

“You may come to regret that choice, my friend,” the Guardian said, shaking his head sadly.  Then he faced the stonesinger.  “Your name is now stricken, never to be uttered.  You will be known as Davachan, now, and are forbidden from the halls of all of your houses.”  The stonesinger began weeping in sorrow.  “As your punishment, you will be delivered to an entity known as Szal the Yith and condemned to serve him for the rest of your life.”

“But I did nothing wrong!” protested the Karshak.

“Neither did my father, and he is dead, now!” Charak shouted at the stonesinger.

“Your shame shall be known among all your kind, even as your name is stricken, Betrayer,” the Emissary decided, and nodded at his fellows.  They surrounded the bound Karshak, though they did not seem eager for this duty.  A razor was produced.  In moments, the Karshak now known as Davachan’s great silver mane was cut off, roughly and painfully.  Soon his naked face was displayed.

“I shall see to him,” the Guardian assured.  “He will regret his role in this crime.”

“I regret it already!” Davachan howled, as he clawed at his hairless face, weeping.

“Not nearly enough,” the Emissary said, turning his back dismissively, his voice full of condemnation.  “If you only knew of how much you have imperiled your realm, your people, your world . . .

“It is further determined that the realm shall be stripped of its position,” the Emissary continued, in a businesslike manner.  “The current king, Kanarthiel, shall be eliminated.  This realm shall become a principality under the rule of the Council.  The prince heir shall reign, but will not rule,” he said, insistently.

“So shall it be,” Rinthon said, in chorus with everyone else, even the sobbing Kilnusk prince.  That was a harsh judgement.  To be demoted like that was a supreme embarrassment, if not a humiliation.  Rinthon steeled himself for what he knew would come next.

“My lord,” King Kanarthiel objected, “you have already inflicted these aliens upon us.  You have made us responsible for their conduct.  Is that not punishment enough?”

“This is not about punishment, Kanarthiel!” the Emissary said, hotly.  “This is about accountability.  Your realm was tasked with restoring the land – has it done that, in ten thousand years?”

“No, my lord,” admitted the aging king.

“Not only have you not restored it, but your petty conflicts reduced what progress we had made.  The humani are much better, it appears, than any Alon in this realm at repairing the wasteland.  You may not enjoy their ephemeral company, but you cannot argue with their result.”  The accusation made the king recoil, and look at his feet, ashamed.  Rinthon tried not to wince.  He did not particularly like Kanarthiel, but failures of the realm reflected on them all.

“Of course not, my lord,” agreed the king.

“Now, after wars and infection by alien influence forced upon us by our hosts, you have allowed your minions to transgress once again.  You allowed them to unleash the unspeakable, and for that there are repercussions.

“You, Kanarthiel, are the truly responsible party,” the Emissary said, turning toward the Alkan king.  “It is my judgement that your realm shall be reduced to a principality.  Your line shall falter.  Your people shall be under especial scrutiny.  And you, King Kanarthiel, are thus condemned for your poor action in this crisis.  It is the judgement of myself and the Council of the realm that you shall die.  Immediately.”

The old Emissary looked up at Raer Rinthon.  As much as it pained him, he nodded in turn, and did his duty.

“King Kanarthiel, due to your failures, by the vote of the Council and the recommendation of the Emissary of the High Kings, I now condemn you to death,” Rinthon said, in a monotone, as he removed the long wire from his pouch.  He regarded the old Alkan sympathetically – Kanarthiel was a fool, but he was an honest fool.  He did not deserve this.  The realm did not deserve this.

But when had the universe decided that life was fair?  Rinthon knew that it was a foolish conceit to think it so.

“I submit myself to the judgement of the Three High Kings and the Council,” Kanarthiel said, sadly, looking at the floor.

“By this order, I hereby perform the sentence,” Rinthon said, regretfully.  With a swift motion he wrapped the long wire around King Kanarthiel’s throat and began to twist.  He continued to twist while the Alkan struggled, his honor and his dignity forgotten as he attempted to preserve his life.

That was not to be.  Rinthon had fought the Draolani viciously during the wars.  He had slain many, many of his foes, in much worse manner than this.  He regretted being the one chosen for the task, but he could not blame himself.  He could not even blame Kanarthiel.  Nor even the Emissary sent to pass judgement.

He blamed the Draolani.  If it had not been for their insidious influence, none of this would have happened.  But that didn’t matter.  Regardless of the origin of evil, there had to be accountability.  There had to be a reckoning.  He was well versed in death and battle.  Executing a king, however distasteful it was, was well within his capabilities as a warrior.

Once Kanarthiel’s body was limp on the floor next to the Kilnusk king’s bloody corpse.  Davachan was on his knees, weeping next to Prince Charak.  And the Emissary was looking coolly at them all.

“We have but a few brief millennia left on this world,” he sighed, as he turned to look at the stone casket.  “There is no benefit to causing an unnecessary stir over ancient history.  Let this chamber be sealed, the dead warding the secrets that must be kept, lest we lose our patronage.  Let no word of this go forth, even a whisper.  And let no Alon who witnessed this disgrace speak of it again.  So says the Emissary of the High Kings.”

“So shall it be,” Rinthon agreed, with the others, as the wire he had used to strangle Kanarthiel hung loosely in his hands.  The hands of a regicide, now, he realized, detachedly.

He had had a long life.  He had seen war, he had seen the sniveling politics of those who cleaned up after war, in the shadow of their failures.  He did not feel pride in this execution, save the pride of honor.  He had done as the Council had bidden.  He had done his duty.  And the realm was poorer because of it.

“So shall it be,” the Emissary said . . . as I was pulled from the bitter, old warrior’s memory and speeded into my next host.  A Karshak Alon named Umank.

Umank stared at his bandaged hands drunkenly – no, he realized, his stupor was not that of strong drink.  He was feeling drugged.  As the strange humani music played softly in the background, his tired mind took stock of his condition.  His hands were injured – but they were still intact.  Damaged – perhaps permanently – but intact.

That, at least, was a relief.  He could vaguely feel the pain in his fingers and hands, but some factor intervened and kept him from screaming the way he knew he should be doing.

A Karshak’s hands were his life, his livelihood, his vocation.  To have them wrecked so was anathema to his soul.  He could not rightly recall the circumstances of his injury, he realized under the fog of the drugs, but he understood the implications.  He would never be the craftsman he aspired to be, now.  Perfection would ever elude his injured hands.  He felt his eyes well up unbidden.

“By the Seven, I am undone!” he moaned in his own language.

“By the Seven, you are preserved,” came another voice from behind him, in his own language.  Though it spoke Karshak, it was not a Karshak voice.

He turned his head but slowly.  Every muscle in his body hurt, and he was bedridden.  While his head swam with confusion, he had presence of mind enough to understand where he was, and even why.

Umank peered around the room, and his eye finally settled on the form in front of him.  An Alka Alon maiden, transformed, in a white humani coat.  Though she bore the shape of a humani, he was passing familiar with the result of the Alka Alon sorceries.  Indeed, she looked almost human.  The ears and the eyes and the mannerisms told her out as Alkan.  This was one of the Immortals, probably one of the unfortunate few tasked with observing the aliens.

He had been amongst the humani, himself, for nineteen months, now.  The ephemeral newcomers had been an intriguing novelty, when he had volunteered to visit their island and consult with them on their efforts to make the mainland more like their estranged homeworld.  Now he counted some of them as his friends.

He had enjoyed the effort; unlike some of his kin, he respected the humani-style engineering as elegant, in its brutish fashion.  He knew many Alka Alon who didn’t share that opinion, despite the proof of his admiration in the structures the humani had assembled, since their arrival.  To some of the Alon, the humani could do nothing right.  He was not among them.

For nineteen months he had offered his expertise as a stonesinger and engineer to the humani.  In that time, he had been amazed as much as his humani colleagues were with his ability to tell them what the stone of the island was saying.

But that reminded him of his last conversation with Emariel, the Versaroti spellsinger assigned to the humani project.  That was why his hands were burnt.  And that led him to despair.

A Karshak’s hands were his life, his livelihood, his liberty.  A Karshak’s skill determined his status and wealth, his ability to attract a quality mate, his security for his children, should he choose to have them.  To see his precious hands burnt and damaged, two flaming flares of pain and suffering under the bandages, that was an invitation to despair.

The injury was compounded by the betrayal, though, Umank knew.  Emariel’s treachery went beyond mere duplicity or spite; it aimed to destroy the relationship between the humani colonists and the Alka Alon Council.  Perhaps even the Vundel.  Indeed, thanks to Emariel’s arrogant confession, Umank expected no less.

“You’re awake!” the Alkan attendant noted. No other race could manage that certain patronizing note in only two words.

“Am I?” Umank croaked.  “My hands . . .”

“Your hands are the least of your concerns, after your close call,” the attendant insisted, as she studied one of the humani machines in her hands.  “Master Umank, you have several severe wounds, which I find remarkable,” she said, in unaccented Karshak.    “You have burns over twenty percent of your body.  Your mane, alas, is a wreck.  But you survived,” she said, optimistically.  “You will heal.  And you will live to sing the stone once again.”

“What about Charles?” he demanded, ignoring his own prognosis.  “What happened to Avital?”

“Director Avital was rescued at the same time you were,” the attendant assured, checking her device.  “He went through three hours of surgery, but has been released to a convalescent ward in serious but stable condition.  He will awaken any time now,” she predicted.  “He was very lucky.  But not as lucky as you,” she asserted, setting down her device.  “You, my friend, managed to survive a fire that required three departments’ response.  If you had not done what you did, Director Avital would likely be dead.”  She sounded hopeful and optimistic.

“I think he will wish to be, after . . . wait, how long have I been here?”

“Four days,” the attendant reported.  “It has been four days since you were brought in.  You’ve had three surgeries since then,” she added, her voice serious, now.  “Any one of them could have seen your life ended, even without my assistance.  If it had been up to the humani, they would have considered you too far gone to repair.  Thankfully, I am a superior craftsman,” she said, proudly.

“Thankful am I for the wisdom of the Alka Alon,” he said, formally and automatically.  He knew his manners.  The immortals were always paid their deference.  Whether they earned it or not.

“Oh, stop,” the attendant insisted, a little irritated.  “We aren’t in a refuge, somewhere.  This is Perwyn.  A cosmopolitan place.  A humani place.  We Alon must maintain our close relations, here.  We live amongst ambitious barbarians.”

“They aren’t all that bad,” Umank sighed.  “Some are my genuine friends.  Like Avital.  He’s quite intelligent, for a humani.”

“I’ve met Director Avital, before,” agreed the attendant.  “He is quite intelligent. Twice so, for his gift of rajira.”

“Yes, well, he mostly tries to ignore that part,” Umank assured her, sleepily.  “But I must tell you – tell someone – that the humani effort on Perwyn is compromised.”

“Compromised?  How so?” the attendant asked, as she re-activated her device.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Umank said, patiently.  “The figures supplied by Emariel are faulty.  If the project is activated, disaster may result.  There is a—”

“As fascinating as technical details about geology might be,” the attendant interrupted, “they are not my concern.  Your health is.  You were in a fire only four days ago, and you barely survived.  Your anxiety over your work can wait.  There is nothing more important than your health,” she assured.  “I am Dr. Lilastien,” she continued, pointing at her nametag.  “Your health is now my consideration, according to the New Leiden Medical Center Xenobiology Clinic.  Not construction plans.”

“But if that project is activated, the limestone under the island will collapse,” the stonesinger insisted.  “The density of the rock is low, and its structural integrity is weak. Far weaker than Emariel reported.  There are gaps, cavities . . . if the humani persist in their plan to recover the bay,” he explained, “they could well collapse the rock that supports their colony!”

“Only this island,” the attendant dismissed.  “The humani already have an abundant colony on the mainland, now.  And elsewhere.  But that is not your concern, anymore, Umank.  Your recovery is.  How is your level of pain?  On a scale of one to ten, one being no pain and ten being . . . well, excruciating.”

“I . . . I feel little pain,” he lied.  “I must get a message to the humani authorities!” he insisted.

Dr. Lilastien studied him.  “You’re a poor liar, Master Umank,” she said, shaking her head.  “I’ll give you something for the pain you say you aren’t feeling.  Medbay, have Cindy bring up a neolaudilin drip with a myaprophin kicker, dosage optimized for patient’s species and weight,” she added, in the human tongue.

“Yes, Dr. Lilastien,” the medical CI replied from the bed, in the same language.

“Now,” she continued, in Karshak, “Getting a message to the humani authorities shouldn’t be any trouble.  But the reclamation project has already begun.  Drilling started two days ago, according to the Colonial Authority.  So that stone has fallen, already.”

“No!” Umank moaned in despair.  “They were betrayed,” he said, sinking back down into the bed.  “I tried to show Charles the truth, but he wouldn’t believe me until I sang the stone with him.”

“You stonesingers can do that?” Dr. Lilastien asked, surprised.

“With other Karshak.  It was the first time I tried with a humani.  Charles has rajira,” he reminded her in a low voice.

“That’s starting to happen more and more,” the doctor agreed.  “How deep is it?”

“Very deep, I think,” Umank said.  “He’s been having visions.  He’s altering things unconsciously.  Spontaneous events keep happening.  He denied it, at first, but it is very deep, I think.  He couldn’t deny it forever.  So I tried to sing the stone with him.  I showed him what I sang.  It proved that Emariel had purposefully given him the incorrect report.”

“Why would he do that?” she asked, concerned.  “Emariel is a senior emissary to the colony.  He’s on the Alka Alon Council.”

“That’s the reason he attacked us,” sighed Umank.  “I discovered he’s . . . he’s Enshadowed,” he whispered.

“Enshadowed?” Lilastien asked, covering her mouth in shock.  “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” Umank nodded.  “He admitted as much to us before he tried to kill us.  There was a fight.  Somehow Charles conjured flame, and then the entire flat was on fire.  I awakened first and dragged him outside.  But Emariel had locked the door.  Metal,” he added, holding up his bandaged hands.  “I had to knock it down.”

“That would explain the broken knuckles and contusions, as well as the burns,” the doctor said, nodding slowly.  “Emariel tried to kill you?  You’re sure?”

“Karshak are not in the habit of lying, my lady,” Umank said, a little stiffly.

“Of course.  That is . . . that is disturbing news.  Indeed, it could cause many problems between the colony and the council.  I would keep it to yourself, for the moment.”

“The colony will soon have enough problems, if they’ve started the project,” Umank said, sullenly.  “Once the rock face has been pierced, it will only be a matter of time.  Two, perhaps three years, and the entire island will slide into the sea.”

“I’m sure there is something that can be done,” Lilastien assured, as a humani woman in white garments approached with a machine and a bottle in her hands.  The doctor switched back to the humani tongue, and her manner became overly friendly.  “Master Umank, this is your nurse, Cindy England.  She’ll administer the painkillers and get you anything else you require for your comfort.”

“At your service, Master Umank,” the humani woman said in halting Karshak.

His singed eyebrows rose in surprise, despite his maudlin mood.  “You speak my tongue?” he asked.

“Study language shortly,” the nurse replied, slowly and carefully.  “Interest much great Karshak is studies.  Mine,” she corrected.  Umank tried not to wince in front of her.  It would have been rude.

“You’re doing quite well,” he assured her, in her own tongue.  “Thankfully, I learned your speech before I came here.  Thank you for the courtesy of learning mine,” he said, sincerely.  Too many of the humani balked at learning any of the Alon tongues, he’d noted in the short time he’d been on Perwyn.

“I’ve been teaching a few of the staff elementary phrases and basic languages for the Alon races,” Lilastien informed him.  “There are not many Alon on the island, but it is important for the staff to be able to communicate effectively with the ones who have need of this clinic.  Cindy is one of my star pupils.  She’s even better in Alka Alon, now,” she added, with pride.

“Want study Elf-folk words,” Nurse England agreed, in Karshak.  “Great power words, very pretty.  Sing voice not good but many learned words useful are.”

“Very good,” Umank praised, after he paused for a moment to figure out what the humani woman was trying to say.  “Keep practicing,” he added.  “You can only get better.”

That produced a beaming smile in the nurse as she began inserting a needle into his arm at the crook of his elbow.  As she set up the device, Dr. Lilastien continued to speak to him in Karshak, though she chose her words very carefully.

“Beware the infection of the shadowy ones,” she said, as she stared at him.  “It can lead to decay that blights the entire body.  There are those among our guests who favor their policies, though they cannot abide each other naturally.  It is difficult to trust even the Masters of this strange lodge, for not all of their masons hew to the same plan.  Some seek to undermine the foundation of the rest and make cause with the shadows to further their own ends.”

Umank considered.  If that was true, then there were, indeed, some humani who were not happy with the arrangement the Alka Alon had reached with the strangers from the sky.  Just as the Enshadowed saw them as a pollution of a world they saw as rightfully theirs.  He could see why that would be concerning to the doctor . . . and the Council.

If the Enshadowed had found allies amongst the humani, there was no end of the trouble they could cause – as Emariel had arrogantly suggested, while they had fought in a burning building.

But while he had a fierce desire to shout what he knew to whomever would listen, if the doctor was correct, a word in the wrong ear could do harm.  He studied the Alka Alon’s transformed face.  He probed her eyes.  He saw the sincerity there.  She really was trying to help.

“I will keep the secrets of my lodge,” he promised her.  “I will guard against the infection of shadow.  I rely on your judgement to inform the chiefs of their clans to the danger involved in this development.”

“Thank you, Umank,” Lilastien said, touching his shoulder – about the only part of him that wasn’t burnt or bruised.   She shifted her speech to the humani tongue once again.  “I’ll make a note in your record and discuss this case with the proper folks in Administration.  You just focus on getting well,” she urged.  “I’ll take care of this issue.  You should start feeling the medicine any time now,” she added, as the machine the nurse set up made a soft noise.  Why did the humani insist that their machines sing and beep and play a merry tune, every time they wanted your attention?  It was annoying, he thought, as his eyelids began to get heavier.

“Do look in on Charles for me,” he pleaded, as the pain receded and a warm, soft feeling began to infect his aching limbs.  “He really is valiant; one of the best engineers I know.  It would be a pity to lose him to something like this.”

“I’ll check in on him personally before I go off shift.  But I won’t linger too long – I have a date with a CalDef pilot after work.  He’s going to take me up in his aircar over the bay for, uh, an extended picnic in the air,” she related, with a knowing look.  That scandalized Umank.

“You are mating with the humani?” he asked in Karshak, shocked.  The physician smiled.

“That depends entirely on how impressive they are,” she answered in the same tongue.  “You should take advantage of such opportunities when they present themselves.  You may find a humani woman could bring you comfort you didn’t know you needed.”

“Is that even possible?” he asked, skeptically, as he glanced at the pretty nurse fussing over his injection.  It was hard to keep his eyes open, now, as the drug began to drag him into unconsciousness.  “That is, physically possible?”

“You’ve only been here a short time,” the physician soothed.  “You’ll soon learn that the humani are highly adaptable.  And their women?  They stretch.  You should have no worries if you decide to pursue one.  Save that she learns to prefer Karshak companionship to that of her own species and become obsessed with your greater endowment.  Get some sleep, and feel better,” she urged, switching back to the humani language.  “I’ll check on you when I do my rounds in the morning.  Cindy?  You have this under control?” she asked the nurse, in her own tongue.

“I believe so,” she nodded.  “I’ll take his dinner order, and then in four hours I’ll conduct vitals and do his sponge bath.  Then another round of analgesics.  The autografts should be affixed well enough by then to keep it from being too painful.”

“Yes, I think our friend here might need a sponge bath,” the Alka Alon healer agreed, a twinkle in her eye.  “He’s been through a lot, this week.  Do be thorough,” she instructed, as she shut off her scanning device and gave Umank a nod.  “I’ve got a few calls to make before my shift ends, but let me know if there’s any change in his condition after-hours, will you?”

“Of course, Dr. Lilastien,” Nurse England assured.  “I will take the very best care of him.”

Confused and drugged, Umank began to drift off to sleep, a fugue of confusion overtaking his mind.

I, however, was far less confused.  I recognized Lilastien, of course – you cannot mistake a personality that distinctive, and age had done nothing to dull her humor.  But seeing her as a younger Alkan was fascinating.  As were the revelations about the Inundation and Avital.

But I’d never heard of Umank, before now.  I had no idea that there were complications involved in Perwyn’s demise, purposeful sabotage, at that.  It gave me a whole new reason to hate the Enshadowed.

I was pondering that very thing when Szal ripped me once again out of the Karshak’s mind . . . and into a hellish memory that made everything I’d gone through thus far relatively easy to bear.  Being human, even from thousands of years in the past, was easy enough to bear.  Being Alon had taken some adaptation on my part, to understand their perspective.

But now Szal sent me into a mind beyond mere Alon or human.  Or at least radically different.  And hellishly maddening.  When next I was aware, my conscious was locked into the memories of Aza’methet the Old.

And that’s when my madness was assured.

Chapter Forty-Three

Madness and Death

Sometimes insanity is the only proper response to the universe.  Sometimes death is no escape.

From the Book of the Anghysbel Expedition

By Minalan the Spellmonger

The other memories had been a trial to absorb.  Aza’methet was impossible.

I was suddenly in a place where gravity pulled so relentlessly on my new body that every attempt to move was fraught with struggle and pain.  The world I found myself in seemed comprised of two vast plains, a rocky one below me and one overhead that seemed liquid, as if I were upside down over an ocean.  In between was a layer of dense, acrid fog or mist that seemed to writhe and cling to every imperfection in the plain I was laying upon.

For there was no standing in this realm, there was only crawling.  Endless crawling.  Nor was my body even remotely human.  To my horror I found myself lurching forward on four stumpy little legs that strained to bear my great weight.  Every breath in that hellish environment was torturous, burning my lungs – or what I perceived to be lungs – while I struggled ahead.  A vast metallic shell was on my back, and as I turned my head painfully to regard the endless plain behind me, I could see that its great weight had gouged a track in the surface that appeared to be the only mark of nature in this otherwise sterile environment.

Aza’methet was old, far older than any other host I’d encountered.  So old that merely calculating in years was impractical.  Aza’methet measured time by the rotation of the galaxy, and even by that standard it was impossibly ancient.  Neither male nor female, Aza’methet’s memories stretched back to a time and place far different than this horrid realm.  This was not its native world – that had been destroyed countless eons before.  This was Aza’methet’s prison, its refuge, a crack in reality where it could hide from those that pursued it.

For that was foremost in Aza’methet’s minds – yes, minds, for there were two, and they were in a constant state of war against each other.  While one desperately wanted release from this prison, a release from this life; the other was relentless in its willingness to endure here, if it meant safety.  Rarely did the two sides of its consciousness meet in accord.  But it was the differences in the two that allowed Aza’methet to experience the world in a far different way than any human or Alon could.

Aza’methet could perceive and manipulate the very dimensions, the primal energies that comprised the universe.  Time, space, physical dimension, energy, gravity, order, entropy, and other components of reality were as apparent to the ancient creature as sunlight and raindrops were to me.  Infinity and eternity were its tools and its torment.  And in this place, even those measures of reality were suspect, skewed by the nature of this unique prison.  Tendrils of power and fields of radiant energy were scattered everywhere.  Time, itself, was merely one more force to be used in Aza’methet’s minds.

The manifold “eyes” in its stumpy head perceived more than just light and shadow.  They saw past and future as colors or sounds, gravity as a feeling of balance, mere electromagnetic forces as incidental to the underlying reality it traversed.  They detected notes of probability and perceived dimensions in ways I do not have the words to describe.  Magic?  Magic was just one more part of the spectrum of reality, a minor variation on the flawed physics that built reality into its shaky form.

I knew that with a thought and an effort, Aza’methet could escape this place through dimensional portals that could instantly release the creature.  But that would require consensus between its two minds.  As the one mind was possessed with an obsessive self-loathing and the other was consumed with a relentless compulsion for survival, consensus was rare.

But it did happen.  Aza’methet was here of its own volition, the result of a compromise by the two sides.  After a long life of being used as a slave and worshipped as a god – its name had been given to it by its first cult -- it had fled to this unknown place.  To leave here was to invite destruction.  To stay was to endure an existence that was tortuous every moment, a suffering that Aza’methet not only accepted, but embraced, as a punishment for the crime of existence.

Because of its nature, Aza’methet knew that not even death was an escape; for in the scope of time, once it existed, it could not release itself from that through merely ending its existence.  The dead never truly left the true universe.  Just as the living never truly manifested in the true universe.

Yet that didn’t stop Aza’methet from living.  Nor did it keep those who hunted for it from desiring Aza’methet’s death.

The prison that Aza’methet had condemned itself to was its compromise.  Here, in this nameless crack in reality, it was safe, for a time.  But even this place was temporary.  Eventually, the hunters would penetrate the defenses it had constructed millions of years ago.  It had happened before.  Here, Aza’methet could protect itself.  Here, Aza’methet could survive in obscurity while entropy drove the rest of the universe toward its inevitable conclusion.

But the hunters always came.  And today – this moment – the next iteration of the universe’s quest to extinguish Aza’methet would arrive.

Due to its perceptions and abilities, Aza’methet’s nameless race had all been hunted over the eons.  There had never been too many of them to begin with – they had been spawned in the fourth great generation of being, when the perceptions of the oldest living things had already begun to scar the pristine nature of the universe.  The physical laws had been much different, back then.  The dimensions had not begun to split widely yet, and the energies involved were simple and primal.  Conscious thought carved through the cosmos like a knife, leaving reality in tatters.

Only after more than three hundred generations of stars forming, igniting, and dying had that critical moment arrived.  When the dust and soot from supernovas had begun to litter the universe, producing the higher elements, their accretion and reaction to the naked forces of natural law had produced in its darkest pockets the first stirrings of Life.

And once that Life could perceive the universe, it had begun to change it as a natural result of essential law.  The first entity who regarded the pristine expanse of reality had, in that flawed perception, begun to change it; to pollute it.  For, Aza’methet knew, to regard the universe and become aware of it, an entity had ruined the perfection of the very reality it attempted to know.  It changed the rules before it even understood them.  By its own self-awareness, it contaminated the primal order in ways that were unknowable, but undeniable.

That was the burden of Life, Aza’methet knew.  Life was a sin, a stain on the cosmos, an unfortunate aberration in the laws of nature.  And Death was no escape.

But the beings who spawned Aza’methet’s ancient race had had no concern about that.  They had been creatures of pure impulse, with no memory, thus they were unencumbered by foresight.  To know that your existence was an accident was one thing; to know that it was the consequence of pure, forgettable whim was another.

Whatever purpose Aza’methet’s people were created for was unknown, and worse, unknowable.  But his kind had memory, and they had power, even if they had no purpose.  The younger races made use of them, though, when they were captured and compelled to bend reality to their childish whim.  Power without purpose breeds corruption, and the younger races had no compunctions about imposing their will on the universe with Aza’methet as their tool.

But the universe continued to inflict itself on the aberration of life; while it seemed to persist beyond all reason in the crevices of the universe, the universe was continuously trying to extinguish it.

Aza’methet’s people were scattered and used by the lesser races, and occasionally killed.  Their shades still roamed existence in one dimension or another.  Death was, perhaps, inevitable, but it was no escape.

So Aza’methet had fled and constructed this place to imprison itself and resist the hunters.  Until there were no more hunters left.  Until Life, itself, was eventually gone from the universe.

But they always came.  As this one did.

It appeared as a black blot on the liquid sky, forming first a puddle on the surface before it attempted three dimensions.  There was a burst of electromagnetic energy that sent arcs of plasma across the rocky plain, along with a cloud of probability and a warp in the arc of time. Aza’methet noticed it at once.  It halted its great body and prepared for the inevitable battle and philosophical discussion ahead.

The malignant disc soon lost its original shape as it bulged into Aza’methet’s realm like an overfull bladder, producing the same urgency and expectancy.  When the loathsome meniscus of the intruder finally forced its way into existence, the dimensional traps Aza’methet had set began slicing the hunter into thin gobbets of reality.

Impressively, the hunter countered the attack with a similar play with dimensions, limiting the damage.  The moment that it broke through, the shiny black droplet shattered into a cloud of dust that drifted chaotically into the fog.

Aza’methet was satisfied with his defense but knew it had not stopped the hunter.  It reared itself on its back legs and stood, every atom struggling against the great gravity of the place, as the hunter began reforming itself.  A brief rainstorm of greasy black droplets soon coalesced into a pool, which then raised itself up to regard Aza’methet.

“Begone,” Aza’methet demanded.  It wasn’t speech.  It wasn’t even quite telepathy.  But, here, Aza’methet could make itself understood.

“I have come for you,” the hunter said.

“You will fail,” Aza’methet insisted, its two minds screaming as one.  “I will not serve you.”

“I will force you,” the invader said, as it began writhing.  “We are without form.  We will use you to remake the universe.”

“You will fail,” Aza’methet repeated, as it drew energy to itself from the place.  “You will be destroyed.”

“We are without form.  We cannot be destroyed,” it replied, cockily.  “You will be our servant.  The rewards will be great if you comply.  The punishments will be severe if you resist.”

“There are no rewards,” Aza’methet insisted.  “All life is punishment for the sin of our existence.  You cannot punish me more to motivate me.  You will be destroyed.”

“We are without form.  Our servants are legion.  Even the oldest ones fear us.” The viscous liquid began bubbling, each new bubble bulging out with bursts of probability and electromagnetic energy.  Clearly, a preparation for an attack, Aza’methet perceived.

“How do you propose to compel me?” Aza’methet asked.  It did not ready its own defenses.  It didn’t need to.

“By removing your memory,” the one without form proposed.  “When your memory is gone, so, too, will the story of the early universe.  For you are the last of your kind, Aza’methet.  Only you have knowledge of what transpired before the ninth great generation.  Before the singularities began their assault on the pure flow of the arcane energies.  You know what occurred in the most ancient of days.  Once that knowledge is stricken from the universe, we will reign supreme,” it said, self-assuredly.

“You have already failed,” Aza’methet declared.  “For I am not the last of my kind, fool.  And my memory has already been shared by the Yith.  Unless you slew every one of them and banished their shades to oblivion, your purpose will not be achieved.”

“Those who hunt the Yith to destruction are our allies,” assured the one without form.  “Who do you think sent us here?  Your neutronium armor will not protect you, Aza’methet.  Your endurance will not stand against my power.  Your spells and sorceries will not let you escape.”

“They will betray you, but it doesn’t matter.  If you wish your supremacy to be established, you will be a mere insignificant notation in the annals of the universe, transitory and forgettable.  And it will not be with my assistance.  Begone, or I will defend myself.”

“Then let us begin,” the murky black pool agreed.

And they fought.

I cannot hope to describe the struggle; there are no words for some of the things I witnessed, and those that I could use are woefully inadequate.  The contest involved time and space, order and chaos, and matter and energy.  It was a mad mixture of the magical and mundane.

It lasted but a moment but also for eternity.  It crossed dimensional lines and disrupted the greater universe as part of the force of its fury.  It passed into the subtle realms of quantum physics and telepathic assault.  At one point the hunter sprayed Aza’methet with salt.  At another, the ancient creature constructed a lure of snowstone before bludgeoning the intruder with an impossibly black length of magical obsidian, producing a catastrophic blast that intruded into other realities.  I saw the secrets of their construction as he conjured them into existence.

But there was never, ever any doubt in Aza’methet’s mind as to whom would be the victor.  He would prevail.  And, after an eternity, he did.  At last, it captured the hunter and consumed it, destroying it utterly.  And then it continued on its way.

But in the meantime, I went mad, truly mad.  When your ego is trapped in a room with two insane drunks, fighting each other with spacetime and dimensional magic, using divine and necromantic energies with equal facility, you want to get out of the way.  And there was no way for me to.  Madness was the only means of surviving that hellish existence.

At some point, I’d given up hope of survival – me, Minalan, that is; Aza’methet never wavered.  There is a point beyond despair where even hopelessness is no remedy.  Your ego begins to dissolve in the acidic bath of experience.

I had to have something to cling to, something that could give me bearing, like the Triangle does in the north.  I needed a constant to keep myself from fading away.

A constant.  Alya.

With the thought of the three stars of the Triad and the face and spirit of my wife in mind, even when there was nothing else coherent, I endure.  I did endure.  I will endure.

It might seem silly, to say it now, but after the breadth of the universe and the ocean of experience that the Yith had inflicted upon me, clinging to the simple, pure joy I associated with Alya was what held me together, literally.  The constellation of my being settled into a pattern around those three stars and the thought of my love kept it intact when all the universe conspired to end me.  I had been shown the futility of existence, itself, and given the certainty that the universe not only doesn’t revere life of any sort, but also considers it an unfortunate and lamentable byproduct of stellar explosions and would just as soon see it done with.

Perhaps I am capitulating to my primitive nature, but that primal love for Alya was my lifeline, my constant, while I was mad in Aza’methet’s insane brains.  Perhaps if I was more developed, more advanced, more strong-minded I could have persisted in some other manner, but I will gladly argue that nothing else could have done it.

Alya was the friendly “other” in my universe, as transitory as it was.  She was proof that not all the universe was trying to kill me.  She was just as flawed and human and fragile as I was, and just as determined to understand her world.  We had pledged to do it together, though, and that made all the difference.  The knowledge that somewhere, somewhen, there would always be an Alya, and that I loved her, was the essential element of my being for that hellish eternity.  Neither her death nor mine would erase that reality.  Death was no escape from existence.

And as long as there was a universe in which Alya and I existed, knew each other, trusted each other, and loved each other, then there would be a Minalan, there would be an Alya, and our joy together was assured – in the past, in the future, in the present, for all of eternity.  My constant, when all else was in doubt.

When Aza’methet finished consuming the one without form, and continued his eternal plodding, I found myself wandering through a less bleak and insane world, one where the mists did not burn but lightly lingered over the surface.  I kept walking and realized that there was not another host present.  There was only me.  Minalan.  Walking through a murky gloom.

Soon my feet encountered not mere stone, but grass, and the world changed into something more familiar.  I could smell, again, in a meaningful way, and I could feel breeze on my face.  It seemed a novelty.  I felt its coolness, and I realized that my senses were somehow dulled.  But I kept walking, because I didn’t have anything better to do and it seemed a good idea.  As soon as I did that, there appeared in the distance a light.  So, I walked toward it.  Because that’s what you do in the dark.

I didn’t notice things transforming as I went, but they had to have, because by the time I approached the light, there were trees and more grass and bushes and such around.  The light itself changed hue from white to red and orange, and as I came near it became a fire, a blazing fire set within a ring of rocks.  It seemed familiar.  I stared at the flickering flames in confused contemplation, allowing the fire to lull me into a bit of a trance.

“Oh, Minalan,” a voice came from behind me.  I turned and recognized who had spoken.

“Briga,” I said, in surprise.  “What are you doing here?”

She looked . . . different, somehow.  Oh, she still looked like Briga, Goddess of Fire and stuff.  But after my experience, particularly with Aza’methet, I saw her with new eyes.

“Oh, Minalan, what have you done?” she asked, sadly, as she joined me at the fire.

“I’m just enjoying the fire,” I said, honestly.  It was pure, simple, and familiar.  I glanced up in the sky.  Across the sea of stars was the Triad, reassuringly in the north.  “It’s a pretty night.”

“Only because you’re making it so,” Briga sighed.  “It’s best to accommodate you, like that, to help you . . . ease your transition,” she said, her lips going tight.

“I’ve been through a lot today, I appreciate the consideration,” I admitted.  “But I didn’t think you would be part of the process.  I didn’t think the Yith could possess a goddess.  But then, there’s a lot I don’t know, I’m discovering.”

“You think?” she snorted.  “In fact, it’s your godsdamned ignorance that got you here.  Your desire to know.  You couldn’t be satisfied with just saving your family or the duchy or the kingdom or even mankind; no, you had to push it, and try to learn how to save the world,” she chided.  “Knowledge has a price.”

“It was my duty to do that,” I said, firmly.  “It was my world to save.”

“Who says?” the goddess shot back, irritated.  “Who told you that you had to save the world?”

“I did,” I insisted.  “I decided I had to save the world.  Or at least try.  I . . . I had to.  Because it’s in my nature,” I argued.

“And look where it got you.  Stuck with me as your psychopomp because I was the only one near enough to you – and stupid enough – to get involved,” she said, frustrated and irritated.

“How are you even manifesting here?” I asked, confused.  “There isn’t even divine magic in the realm of the jevolar.  I couldn’t get so much as a prayer out that you’d hear, I thought.”

“First, what you still don’t know about the universe is vast,” she lectured.  “And second, you aren’t in the realm of the jevolar, anymore, technically.”

“What?” I asked, confused.  “Where am I, then?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot.  “Minalan.  You’re dead.”

That took a moment for me to process.  “I’m . . . dead?  Really?”

“Really,” she sighed.  “Truly.  Your heart stopped beating.  You are dead.”

I felt my shoulders sag.  “Then I failed,” I said, sadly.

“That remains to be seen,” she shrugged.  “The world might get saved.  Or it might not.  Probability and prophecy are tricky things, Minalan.  Especially for us gods.  But you gave it a really good try,” she said, sympathetically.  “That’s important.  I’m glad I was your patroness, for what it’s worth.  You weren’t particularly devout, outside of paying for temples, but you really listened to me when you needed to.  And as a result, my glory increases.  Thank you for that.”

“If it matters to you,” I said, giving her a shrug of my own.  “You’re welcome.  It was nice to have a relationship with the divine that was more responsive than most people get.  You guided me well.  I know how to make snowstone, now,” I pointed out.  “You were involved with that.  Hells, I know how to make irionite, now,” I said.  Then I frowned.  “Of course, if I’m dead, that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“It does seem like a hollow victory,” she agreed with a divine sigh.  “One you went through a lot for.  And sacrificed much for.  Which is a pity, because I really thought you might pull it off, if properly inspired.”

“You mean Alya,” I nodded.

“Ashes and cinders, I mean me, you idiot!” she said, rolling her eyes.  “I’m the bloody goddess of inspiration!”

“You’re also the bloody goddess of biscuits and cakes, but I see you didn’t bring any for breakfast,” I pointed out.  “Alya got me through . . . well, I guess she didn’t, technically get me through this, because I’m dead, but she did get me through my madness, and I count that as important.”

“Here, have an inspirational snack cake, then,” she said, dryly, producing a tray of them from the ether.  I realized I was hungry.  I took three.  They were divine.  “Now, do you want me to tell you where you went wrong?  I feel you kind of owe me that,” she pointed out, as I chewed.

“Go ahead,” I sighed.

“Thank you.  First, you shouldn’t have left things so disorganized before you left – it begets chaos, and that’s never good.  You had clear enemies you should have confronted and allies you should have cultivated.  You did . . . all right, for the most part, but you missed some important opportunities.”

“I got distracted,” I said, between mouthfuls.

“Of course, you did.  Secondly, you left a lot of unfinished business that’s going to be a mess for your descendants.  That was just sloppy.”

“I’ll concede that,” I agreed.  “And I regret it.  I was going to attend to that when I got back but . . .”

“Yes, you’re dead, now, and there’s not much you can do about it.  And thirdly – and I can only say this now because you’re dead – you left a mess when it came to the gods.  And that screws over not just your own family, but millions of other people.  That was just irresponsible.  A few persistent deities who have no home, purpose, or direction?  What could possibly go awry?” she asked, sarcastically.

“I was working on that, too,” I defended.  “At least, I was thinking about it.  I actually think I could do something about it, now that I understand arcane energies and dimensional magic a little better – a lot better.  Not to mention quantum engineering.  But . . .”

“Yes, you’re dead now,” she agreed.  “But thanks for leaving a mess.  What happens when someone else uses the Alaran stone?  Or finds the others?  Or—”

“Wait, there are others?” I asked, surprised.  “No, never mind . . . it doesn’t matter now.  I can’t do anything about it, anyway.  At least I loved my wife and kids,” I pointed out.  “I can take that into eternity,” I said with some satisfaction.

“Alya, sure, you get credit for true love, but you only maintained a relationship with the four kids you know about.  The other five are ignorant of their father.  So . . .”

I winced.  “Yes, I regret not doing anything about that, either.  It’s a pity.  I thought I’d have more time.”

“Everyone does,” she agreed.  “And everyone wants a second chance to go back and fix things.  It doesn’t work that way,” she said, shaking her head.  “Usually.”

“Usually?  But then, it does happen?” I asked, suddenly interested.

“I . . . well, no reason not to tell you, but sometimes it does.  By accident, perhaps.  But rarely with divine assistance unless there’s a compelling reason.  But it does happen.  Unfortunately, you died in the realm of the jevolar, so there is little that I could do, even if I was permitted.  My powers cannot reach you there to restart your heart and prevent your death.  I am sorry, Minalan,” she said, sadly.

I sighed, dejected.  For a moment, there, I thought I’d get a second chance.  That would have been handy, after what I’d endured.  And useful.

“However,” Briga added, “what do you always say about the relation of the divine and the arcane?” she prompted.

“Eh?  That magic provides where the divine fails?” I supplied, an old saying from philosophy of magic texts that gets used a lot by rural spellmongers trying to make a sale to desperate people.  “That doesn’t serve me well in the jevolar either,” I pointed out.

“No, but as your colleague Fondaras points out frequently, there is more to being a wizard than magic,” she lectured patiently.  “And a good wizard always has at hand what he needs.  If he doesn’t, he’s not a good wizard,” she reasoned.  “So, this is your opportunity to prove if you’re a good wizard, or not.”

“By not dying?” I asked, skeptically.

“No, you’re dead.  But if you’re a good enough wizard . . .”

“What?  I’m confused—” I said, as the sky around us began to brighten, suddenly.

“That, at least, is eternal,” she smirked.  “Good luck, Minalan.”

And then the sky turned bright white, so bright that it blotted out the clearing and the next thing I knew is that someone was painfully beating on my chest, over and over punching me with what felt like the full force of their fists.

It wasn’t metaphor, I realized.  There really was someone kneeling on my chest, punching me.  And it hurt.

I opened my eyes.  It was Lilastien.  She was naked, and there was an intent look on her face, but it wasn’t sexual in the slightest.  She was smashing my chest so hard it was extremely painful.

She was also chanting an incantation I wasn’t familiar with, something in Old Perwyneese.  It sounded like a prayer.

“Stayin’ alive . . . stayin’ alive . . . ah . . . ah. . . ah . . . ah stayin’ alive . . . stayin’ alive . . .” she chanted, over and over, in time to her punches.

I heaved a great sigh and began a fit of coughing, uncontrollable coughing, as I struggled for breath.  My chest ached, and not just because of her assault.  I felt weak and dizzy, and I couldn’t even imagine standing up.

“I’m alive,” I informed her, as I rolled over.  She looked relieved, and rolled over on her back, too, panting with the exertion, her arm over her eyes.  “I’m alive!” I repeated, more to reassure myself than anything else.

“It’s alive!” she shouted, maniacally, a giant gleeful grin on her face.  Then she laughed hysterically.

“Do you realize,” Lilastien croaked, as she caught her breath, “how godsdamn lucky you are to have your heart stop next to the only person on the entire godsdamned planet who’s certified and trained in cardiopulmonary resuscitation?” she asked.  “You lucky, lucky bastard!”

Chapter Forty-Four

What Wizards Do

I think I understand, now, what Fondaras said about the differences between a mere mage and a wizard.  The magi can manipulate the universe using arcane energies, changing it to their whim.  A wizard, on the other hand, is a vocation, not mere ability, or profession.  A true wizard dedicates himself to a cause, a quest, a course of action to achieve something meaningful, with magic or without it.  He seeks to improve the universe, not merely change it.  He has nothing greater than his conscience and his wisdom to guide him, no matter how many gods he knows.  A true wizard dedicates himself to doing what must be done, as he sees it, and he does not regret that dedication or seek to escape its consequences.  He accepts that responsibility and is accountable to himself for it.  That is what wizards do.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

I lay on the floor of the Interrogation Chamber for an hour, trying to recover.  Lilastien brought be a towel to dry myself off with, but I still felt profoundly weak.  Too weak to move.  I was afraid to pass out, because I wasn’t ready for what my subconscious had in store for me, but I was unable to marshal my resources enough to stand, or even get to my knees.

“Here,” Lilastien said, holding her silver flask to my lips.  I drank it automatically.  It was amazing.

“Herkulinen,” she explained, as the golden liquor ate through the fog of cobwebs in my mind and brought new life to my limbs.  “It’s dangerous for humans in any great amount, but small amounts are restorative.  Even here,” she added, looking around grimly.  “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I feel . . .” I began, after considering a moment.  Each of my hosts had an opinion on that subject.  I picked the one I thought was most accurate.  “I feel clinically insane.  You?”

“Me?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.  “I feel . . . I’m all shook up,” she said, suddenly, and emitted a three-toned musical groan.  Then she cackled hysterically, really howled.  It sounded disturbing.  She sounded disturbed.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” she said, for no good reason, then manage to collect herself.  “I feel like I’ve been hit in the head seven times in a row.  You?”

“Eight times.  And then the ninth was a gaping chest wound,” I decided.

“Nine?” she asked, shocked.  “You endured . . . nine of those?”

“It’s one big party in my head,” I agreed, mournfully.  She had been right about the herkulinen, though; it seemed to be burning into my limbs and making me consider gravity less of a threat.  I felt some strength returning to me.  “Did you get your answers?” I asked.

She nodded solemnly.  “I did.  Good and hard.  You?”

“Yes.  It was brutal.  But I . . . I know, now.  I know everything.  And nothing,” I added.

“I’m going through a little of that,” she agreed.  “I want to talk about it.  But not here,” she said, looking at Davachan and his faithful lizard companion with suspicion.  “In fact, as soon as you’re able to move, I want to get out of this place as fast as I possibly can.”

“I’m likewise motivated,” I agreed, realizing that I didn’t want to be here, either.  She helped me first to my knees, then patiently supported me until I was standing.  Then she helped me back to the section of cavern where our clothes were waiting.  I still had a residue on my skin from the tank, but I didn’t care.  I was ready to leave naked, if I had to, but I wanted out.  I dressed as quickly as I could, with Lilastien helping me with the hard parts.

She also took a moment to scan me with her medical tablet.  I could tell by the look on her face she wasn’t completely happy with the result, but she didn’t mention it and I had no real desire to inquire.  I was alive.  I didn’t need the details, right now.

It didn’t take long for us to dress and retrieve our belongings.  Just as we were finishing up, Davachan returned with the Magolith.

“Just as I said I would,” he pointed out, as he handed it to me.  “Interesting bit of art, there.  Szal was intrigued, and it’s difficult to intrigue my master.”

“The less of my opinion of your master you hear, the better off you’ll be,” I promised.  I wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed to the ancient alien intelligence I knew was in a vast tank, under our feet.  I had the undeniable urge to go over, rip open the membrane that covered it, and take a gigantic shit in the tank, but I restrained myself.  I wanted to get out of here more than I wanted to express myself.  But the thought was comforting.

“Thank you,” I told Davachan, as I took it back.  “We’re going to leave, now,” I informed him.

“They usually do,” he nodded, understandingly.  “It will take you a few days to recover from the shock.  Some never do, but I think you will pull through.  In a couple of years it will fade, the loud parts, at least.  They will fade.  Someday, you might even be normal.  But for the next few years, take caution not to do anything . . . rash.”

“Rash?” I asked, dully.

“You know, slaughter your family, indulge in cannibalism, engage in a mindless killing spree, regicide, fratricide, matricide, patricide, that sort of thing,” Davachan supplied, reasonably.  “Expect a lot of vomiting, at first.  Nightmares, of course.  I’m guessing you’ll probably play with your feces.  A common, but harmless, side-effect in some.  But don’t let it bother you,” he advised.  “Cleaning shit and vomit off the walls is easier than cleaning blood.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“You’ll be fine,” the wizened Karshak dismissed.  “Sanity is over-rated, anyway.  And that thing might actually be useful for this,” he said, indicating the Magolith.  “As I said, Szal found it amusing and intriguing.”

“And that is supposed to comfort me?” I challenged, bitterly.

“It is supposed to inform you, Minalan the Spellmonger.  Szal possesses hundreds, thousands every day and never gives them a second thought.  He took notice of you and your pretty green ball and is intrigued.  He has been following Callidore for eons, and he stands intrigued by you.  That is, indeed, meaningful, if you understand it or not.”

I considered.  “I think I do.  That doesn’t mean I like him any more or am happier about the situation.  After what I’ve endured for this knowledge . . .”

“What you’ve endured,” he snorted derisively.  “Nine mere seconds.  Do you now Szal has possessed me for hours?” he asked, mildly offended by my temerity.  “Over the years I have had countless experience.  There is no way to measure the suffering I’ve endured.  You have managed nine full seconds of the Yith’s attention.  I have had over four hundred years of it.  Not even death would allow me to escape, now,” he said, bitterly.

“That’s what Aza’methet would say,” I realized.

He looked startled.  “Aza’methet?  Oh, you poor boy,” he said, his manner changed to sympathetic.  “If he showed you Aza’methet, he really has taken an interest in your story,” he said, regretfully.  “That is one of the deep memories.  The special hosts.  He only shows those to . . . well, those he’s interested in.  They rarely have boring lives.  I am so sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

Suddenly, I understood – a little – what Davachan had endured during his exile from his people.  Being a servant of Szal the Yith was a thankless exercise, I could see.  I suddenly felt some pity for him.

“I also held Raer Rinthon as one of my hosts,” I confided.  “I was there, that day in the vault.”

That took the Karshak by surprise.  “Raer Rinthon?  The . . . executioner?”

“Indeed.  I didn’t think the Emissary was fair, for what it is worth.  To make you endure . . . this . . .”  I said, gesturing at the cavern.

He frowned.  “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I’ve been of both minds over the centuries.  I do not think it really matters, anymore.  I’ve . . . I’ve moved beyond that.”

“Hissssssssss!” Gesstesseth said, as he walked by.

“That’s not my problem!” Davachan insisted.  “Don’t mind him – he’s just upset that you died and then came back to life.  For four minutes, there, it appeared as if he’d have dinner.  Now he has to eat fungus stew, like the rest of us.”

“Well . . . tell him I’m sorry I didn’t – no, never mind,” I decided.  I turned to Lilastien, instead.  “Are you ready?”

“If I don’t get out of here soon, there might be trouble,” she agreed, handing me my plasma rifle.  I didn’t activate it, like I wanted to, but I felt more comfortable with it.  Andrews had carried one for years, after all.

“Agreed.  Well, gentlemen, we bid you farewell,” I said, as I slapped my wizard hat back on my head.  “I think we know the way out.”

“Of course,” Davachan said, bowing.  “Farewell, Minalan the Spellmonger.  Farewell, Lilastien the Sorceress.  May you think of us kindly,” he said, and then turned and started arguing with his colleague.

We walked up the long, steep passageway to the surface largely in silence, occasionally using Lilastien’s medical tablet for light.  Soon, however, we saw a dot of pale illumination in the distance, and eventually we came to the mouth of the passageway.

It was dawn.  The sky in the east was growing pale.  The darkness in the west was receding.  It was a new day.  And I had been dead just an hour before.

That sort of thing offers a man some perspective.

“Dawn,” Lilastien said, as she regarded the stony vale below.  “It is ever the hope of man and Alon.”

“It’s just the planet turning,” I dismissed, irritated.  “It’s not inherently meaningful.”

“But it is symbolically meaningful,” she argued.  “It’s a new day.  I see it with new eyes.  That means something,” she stressed.

“The promise of a new day is the promise of a better life,” I said, in Alka Alon.  Sarcastically.  It was an old, old proverb, one that had come from Alonaral.

Lilastien looked at me, shocked.  “You just spoke Alka Alon!  The old form!” she accused.

“I had a busy night,” I shrugged.  “Let’s head for the Leshwood.  And try to avoid the putrid carcass of the decaying maggot.  I want to eat again, someday.”

We continued without further discussion.

We did manage to avoid the Kurja corpse, but the smell lingered still over the valley; dawn might bring new hope and resiliency in us foolish mortals, but it did little to improve the aroma.  As soon as the rays of the summer sun started beating down upon its rotting carcass, the putrescent odor choaked our throats closed.  It also inspired us to hurry.  There was another Kurja moving up from the vale for the promise of a good feed on the scavengers consuming its brethren.

But by the time the sun peeked up over the southeastern ridge, we had made the thorny gate of the Leshwood, where Bomoadua stood watch.

“You are alive, animals,” she stated, as her speaking gourd descended next to an eyestalk.  I’d like to think there was a note of astonishment in her words, but I’m not that subtle.

“Once again,” I agreed.  “That wasn’t always the case.  Just a few hours back, actually.  It’s been a busy night,” I said, apologetically.

“Sadness.  You are mad,” she said, a second eyestalk joining to survey us.

“Just a bit.  It will pass,” I promised.

“Take us to the Court of the Leshi Fathers,” Lilastien instructed, in a businesslike tone.  “We have to report to them.”

“We do?” I asked, surprised.

“Once you enjoy the Grandfather Tree as a host,” she reasoned, “you feel a certain obligation to let him know what is going on.”

“You know what’s going on?” I asked, surprised.  “Oh, thank Briga’s blessed biscuits.  I have no idea,” I assured her.

“I know enough to know what to tell him,” she promised.  “This involves the Met Sakinsa, too, after all.  The Vundel were just going to leave them here.  Like the Alon,” she added, sadly.  “It’s one of the sins of my people I have to . . . contend with,” she said, considering her words carefully.

Bomoadua, for her part, wasted no time in leading us beyond the central moot meadow and into the dense grove where the Court sat.  It was early morning when we arrived.  The glade was filled with brightly colored insects blithely pursing their simple tasks to ensure the continuance of their simple life, here.  The bastards.

“I present Minalan the Spellmonger and Lilastien the Sorceress,” Bomoadua said with great courtesy.  “They have survived their trial with the Yith.”

“That might be over-stating it,” I offered.

Lilastien shot me a dirty look.  “My friends . . .” she began, to the three trees who waited on us.  “We have, indeed, returned.  And we have fulfilled the Grandfather Tree’s prophecy.  The Spellmonger did die, for four long minutes.  My skill brought him back to life without recourse to necromancy,” she added proudly.

“And did he find the answers for which he was seeking?” Deeproot asked, lowering his speaking gourd and a few eyestalks.  One of them got uncomfortably close to me, and I realized it was using sound to scan inside of me.  I ignored it.

“I did,” I agreed.  “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Broadleaf asked.

“Yes,” I sighed.  “I learned that masa – Hawking radiation – severely retards the ability for a consciousness to have a direct effect on the universe in accordance to will.  Magic, in other words.  There is a huge singularity at the center of the galaxy,” I explained.  “A black hole that has consumed thousands of stars.  On its surface it produces masa – Hawking radiation – the Withering Light that affects the quantum realm, and reduces what I would call the etheric density of all it touches.  Collapses it, actually.

“That is why the Met Sakinsa had to leave their homeworld,” I related, sympathetically.  “They were exposed to Hawking radiation, and that devastated their biome.  And that’s why the Alon left Alonaral,” I added.  “They had a star convert to a singularity only two hundred light years from where their planet was.  I’m certain it’s gone, now,” I said, sadly, feeling Mel Thenreyal’s perspective on the death of her homeworld.  “They had to flee.  Without magic, they would decline into simple beasts.  Like the humani,” I added, out of spite.

“For millions of years betwixt the Great Eye – the massive singularity my people once called Sag A – and Callidore has been a dense nebula.  It blocks most of the masa energy from reaching us.  That’s why we have magic – rajamar – the Magosphere.

“Now, the shadow of the great nebula that has protected Callidore from a similar fate is expiring.  Our sun is moving into the path of the Great Eye,” I said, using the Alka Alon word.  “Under its influence, the Withering Light will eat away at the Magosphere.  Slowly, at first, but then with greater directness.  At some point, it will be strong enough to see the spells of the Vundel fail.  The Formless will escape their prisons.  They will consume the great reefs.  They will consume all magic, rendering Callidore a barren wasteland at land and undersea.  Unless it can be stopped,” I added, with especial emphasis.

“And you think you can stop it, animal?” Deeproot challenged.

“I think I have the ego to try,” I agreed.  “And, after my ordeal, the knowledge to be effective.  With snowstone, there exists a substance that can challenge the Withering Light,” I proposed.

“You have formulated a plan?” Wideleaf asked, curiously.

“I do not yet know the specifics,” I admitted, “but there exists within the warp and woof of possibility the chance I can figure it out,” I pledged.  “If that can be done, then some spell or stratagem can be employed that will preserve the arcane on Callidore.

“That can keep the Formless imprisoned.  That can ensure a long, long life on this world that natural forces would diminish.  Once, the Celestial Mothers used their vast power to move the very stars out of their paths and dragged our very sun back behind the protective cloud for a few hundred thousand years.  With sufficient support, I think I can use snowstone to the same effect,” I promised.

In truth, I had no such confidence.  But it was the best I could come up with.  And it was what they wanted to hear.  Never diminish the importance of the client’s fears.  That was basic Spellmongering. Their fears are what compel them.

“You gained that much wisdom in a few hours?” Deeproot asked, skeptically.

“I gained that much wisdom in an instant,” I countered.   “It was a long walk, though.  Past a festering maggot.  These things take time.”

“I see,” Deeproot agreed.  “I shall relay your findings to the Grandfather Tree. Bide,” it instructed, as it withdrew eyestalks and vocal gourd.

“How do you think Grandfather will consider this?” I asked, Lilastien, in a low voice.

“The Met Sakinsa are as desperate as the Vundel,” she decided.  “They do not want to die.  They will, if forced, but that is not their inclination.  I think the Grandfather Tree will champion you,” she decided.  “That’s really in his nature.  That’s the reason the Met Sakinsa are here on Callidore in the first place.  If you can provide them with survival, they will do everything they can to support you.”

“That’s gratifying to know,” I admitted with a sigh.  “You know, I know the theory for producing snowstone.  That’s a long way from seeing it done.”

“And I know the approximate remedy to correct the sins of my ancestors,” Lilastien agreed.  “That doesn’t mean I know how to execute them, properly.”

“Good,” I decided, after a moment’s thought.  “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy on them.  Or us.  Bad form,” I declared.

“Agreed,” Lilastien said, proudly.  “If the Grandfather Tree wants our help, wants to assist us in preserving the world, he can make the effort.  It’s not going to be easy.”

I thought about what she said, as the implications of my experience washed across my soul.  I knew the universe didn’t care about humanity.  About the Alon.  About the Met Sakinsa or the Vundel.  Or even the Yith and the Formless.  Not one godsdamned bit.  Of that I was assured.

But that didn’t mean that I didn’t.  Perhaps the universe-at-large had no consideration for life – including the minor, unimportant bits on Callidore – but I did.  I might not matter, either, but if I didn’t matter, it didn’t really matter what I did, now, did it?

While nine other perspectives whirled around my brain, the little part of me that was Minalan, now, had decided that my primal, primitive, simplistic perspective on the universe was important enough to rail against the cosmic inevitability of our demise.  I could foresee the extinction of all life in the universe – even the nearly-immortal elder races who clung to existence as desperately as I did.  But I would not consign myself to that inevitability.

You can credit that stubborn resistance to a greater understanding of life, if you will, or a conscious desire to spit in the face of creation, but my pride would not let me concede to the nihilism I felt was the natural inclination of any entity who had a greater understanding of the universe.  It did not matter that life, itself, would someday be extinguished in the cosmos.  It mattered how fiercely we struggled to preserve it.

Mattered to whom?  In the absence of evidence of a supreme intelligence responsible for the madhouse that was the universe, I would substitute my own perspective.  In truth, I could trust no other.  Was I flawed?  Scarred by experience?  Shackled by doubt, insecurity, and self-loathing?  Of course I was.

But my conscience was the only compass I had to navigate the treacherous shoals of the universe.  To ignore it, or eschew it, would be to abandon the one tool I’d been provided.  I would save our world because I felt it needed saving, for as long as I could make that happen.  Callidore would, I knew, inevitably fall.  The great Orion Empire fell.  All empires fall.  All worlds die.  I knew that with certainty, too.

But it would not do so due to my unwillingness to preserve it.  That is the legacy of life, I decided, while I awaited the judgement of an intelligence that stretched back hundreds of millions of years.

The Grandfather Tree and I might disagree on many counts, but the idea that life had worth and merit was not among them.  We were both worthy to exist, by our own judgement.  We did not need confirmation of that from anyone else.  We deserved to at least try to exist for no better reason than we felt we deserved that opportunity.

If life, itself, was an unfortunate self-aware by-product of cosmic physics, then we owed it to ourselves to preserve what we saw as sacred in the course of that existence and seek to develop it and propel it forward into the future.  Not for the gratification or fulfillment of any being who had come before us, I realized.  But simply because the inevitable evolution of our selves through an eternally changing universe had an essential beauty that would not be denied.

My love for Alya, for instance.  It might be base weakness, but it had become the most important element in my existence.  And if that base weakness was a flaw in my character, it would be a flaw I would embrace.

Alya and I had agreed to face the horrors and joys of the universe forever.  Together.  Live or die, in health or at death’s door, we were together.  That was the agreement.  It might be a petty thing, in light of the cosmic forces at play, but it was one I would honor not out of duty, but out of self-preservation and joy.  In the brief few years of my existence I would know, I craved another who could offer me companionship, fellowship, and intimate love that demonstrated that I was not alone in this universe.

Yes, I would save the world, for Alya.  Or die trying.  In truth, I had done just that.

And I had no regrets, I realized.  I would do it again to have that feeling.

Love.  The element that preserved me from abject and eternal madness.

“Dear gods, I need a cocktail,” Lilastien declared, staring up at Broadleaf.  “Any chance you can mix me a dirty martini?  I need a dirty martini.”

“How heavy on the vermouth?” asked the ancient arboreal being asked, as it lowered the oddly shaped gourd.  “The ethanol hasn’t aged appropriately yet, but I can always increase the acidity of the olive flavor to counter it.”

“I trust your judgement,” she dismissed.  “I’ve got seven new people in my head.  I just need a drink that doesn’t taste like honeycombs and hopeful wishes for the future.”

“And you, Minalan?” Wideleaf asked.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I decided.  “I’m still struggling with the fact that I was dead.  And now I’m not.  And necromancy wasn’t even involved.  Hells, I need a drink.  A strong one.”

“I’m gratified I can assist,” the great tree said, sounding pleased through its speaking gourd.  I had a chorus of perspectives on the situation, from my hosts, but I ignored them.  I had yet another long night.   I needed a drink to combat the existential dread that now haunted my soul.  That wouldn’t cure it, but it would give me a temporary distraction. I wasn’t about to apologize for the weakness it implied.

The Leshi father delivered on his promise, and I reflected he had a promising future as a bartender, as I sipped a truly fine double dirty martini from a gourd.  Andrews was especially appreciative of it, but plenty in the chorus saw its merits.

“You know,” Lilastien said, thoughtfully.  “This changes everything.”

“The martini?” I asked, confused.

“Our . . . transformation,” she said, choosing her words carefully.  “I know so much now.  I have to do something with that.  I’m compelled to,” she said, urgently.

“I am, too,” I agreed, with a sigh.  “I still can’t make sense of it, but I feel a sense of purpose, now, that I didn’t before.  There are too many people in my head who would do what I need to do.  It’s as if I don’t have a choice, anymore.”

“We made our choice when we made our bargain with the Yith,” she reflected.  “All the rest is consequence.”

“That’s hardly encouraging,” I said, staring into my gourd.  “But you are right.  We must make use of this knowledge.  We paid too high a price for it not to.”

She made a face.  “You humani and your transactional nature both intrigue and disgust me.  We lived.  We learned.  We just learned a hell of a lot more than most.”

“My sanity has a price,” I argued.  “It’s the salvation of Callidore.  Nothing less is worthy.”

“You understand that you may be frustrated in that bargain?” she challenged, as she took another delicate sip from her gourd.

“If there is no risk, there’s no glory,” I countered.  “It’s a purpose.  A higher purpose.”

“Glory is a poor coin for that bargain,” she warned.

“What else do I have to do?” I demanded.  “I’m only going to be around for a few more decades, at best.  I should make the most of it.”

“Of course,” she conceded.  “I’m of like mind.  It’s time to shake things up, Minalan,” she said, her voice growing in confidence.  “But I don’t act from a desire for glory.  I act to correct the errors of my people, to atone,” she said, intently.  “The universe may not be fair, but that is no reason for me to accede to its unfairness.  I will right the wrongs the Alka Alon have committed,” she vowed.

“And I will advocate on behalf of the entire world,” I agreed.  “The Alon, the human colony, the Met Sakinsa, the Vundel, all of it.  We are all of Callidore, and we all deserve to persevere, as long as we are able.”

“You do realize how utterly narcissistic that sounds,” Lilastien said, as she finished her drink and held her gourd out for more from Wideleaf’s vessel.  “To think that you even can save the world is severely narcissistic.  To feel you’re duty-bound to save the world?  That’s a pure expression of ego.”

“That’s what wizards do,” I replied, with the utmost sincerity.  “Wideleaf? Another?” I asked.  It was a really good martini.  “I’m not alone in that egotism,” I pointed out, philosophically.  “Your people took steps to save the world,” I reminded her.  “They took all of their best weaponry and hid it away from themselves.  Wasn’t that a self-important, narcissistic expression of ego?”

“That was a collective decision,” she argued, “not an individual decision.  A matter of consensus.  Perhaps a bit self-important,” she conceded, “but I think it denotes a greater sense of self-knowledge than . . . what?” she asked, as she studied the expression on my face, which had changed with a sudden thought I’d had.  A realization.  “What is it?” Lilastien demanded.

“Lilastien, I . . . I know how to open the vault,” I realized, quietly . . . and finished my drink in one draught.

Chapter Forty-Five

Defending the Vault

These Enshadowed are starting to annoy me.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Dr. Lilastien

“You . . . you do?” Lilastien asked, skeptically.

“I do,” I affirmed.  “One of my hosts was Raer Rinthon,” I explained, an excitement growing in me.  “The designated executioner of the Alka Alon Council, at the time when it was last opened, four hundred odd years ago.  That’s where your king was executed.  And the king of the Karshak.  And where Davachan was sentenced.”

“I remember old Rinthon,” Lilastien nodded, her brow furrowed.  “He died a few centuries after that.  Duty-bound old coot,” she recalled.

“You have no idea.  He could be trusted never to reveal what he saw.  He never did.  But he was there.  He watched the Aronin do it.  I watched the Aronin do it,” I corrected.  “I can open the vault.”

Her eyes got a bit wider.  “Do we need a crew?” she asked, setting down her gourd.

“No, no, it’s easy enough, if you know how to do it,” I assured her.  “In fact, we should go there directly,” I decided.  “It’s possible the Enshadowed are there already.  If they figure it out . . .”

“We cannot permit that,” she agreed, firmly.

“I know.  It was one of the Aronin’s greatest fears.”  Before we could continue, an eyestalk and a voice gourd descended back down to our level.

“The Grandfather Tree appreciates you informing us of your plans,” Deeproot said.  “He is gratified that you survived the challenge of the Yith.  He is hopeful that you will find some remedy to the coming crisis.  Indeed, he suspects you may be successful.  And he has agreed to let our folk take temporary refuge in your lands to escape the eruption,” he added.

“Which means I’ll have to open that vault,” I agreed, standing.  “And the sooner I get to it, the better.  I’m still in shock, now,” I explained.  “I don’t know how long that will last, but eventually it will wear off.”

“Agreed,” Lilastien said, handing me my plasma rifle.  “Let’s go there directly.  Thank you, Fathers of the Leshi.  And thanks for the drinks.”

“Everything turned out all right,” Bomoadua said, as she escorted us back to the entrance of the Leshwood.  It was interesting, seeing the grove first thing in the morning, with a martini buzz.  Many of my hosts were impressed at the sight of the moving trees, and Prince Maralathus was delighted to see his old friends the Met Sakinsa again.  The grove he was familiar with was somewhat different than the Leshi, due to magic.  Indeed, he marveled at how the Leshi had developed without magic.

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” I sighed.  “I did die, after all.”

“Which means you should take it easy, today,” Lilastien countered.  “Your heart attack was mild, but it happened.  I should take you back to the Cave of the Ancients and put you in bed, on monitors, and watch you carefully for a few days.”

“We don’t have the time,” I pointed out.  “We only have a week or two left before the passage back to the Magelaw will be too dangerous to travel.  Every day here counts.”

“Not if you collapse and have another cardiac event,” Lilastien argued.  “We can go to the vault, but I’m going to be scanning you the entire way,” she promised.  “The moment I see a problem, we stop, and I call for help.”

“You really are a good physician,” I said, with a sigh.  I knew she was right.  I felt fine – actually, I felt like nine kinds of hell, after my eventful night, but in general I felt fine.  “I’ll let you know if I have any chest pains, dizziness, or the like.  Farewell, Bomoadua,” I said, as we reached the sentry trees.  “Thank you for your help.  May the rest of your summer be fruitful,” I said, knowing from the Alka Alon prince in my head that that was the proper parting phrase.

“May your journeys be successful, animals,” she said, thoughtfully.  “Thank you for what you have done.  And for what you will do.”

“I like her confidence in me,” I said, as we walked back to where the horses had been tied.  The morning sun was lancing through the eaves of the Leshwood, now, and the entire vale seemed to throb with the fecundity of the forest.  “The Met Sakinsa are always truthful and never duplicitous.  I appreciate that, in a species.  You, on the other hand,” I pointed out, “have a tendency to keep things to yourself.”

“The Alka Alon have had our troubles,” she admitted, as she mounted her horse.  “But we do try to do the right thing, usually.  That’s why I’m trying to amend our wrongs.”

“I wasn’t speaking of the Alka Alon in general,” I explained, as I swung myself into the saddle.  “I was speaking of you, personally.  One of my hosts was a Karshak named Umank.  You treated him for burns in New Leiden after a bad fire.  One involving Charles Avital.  And the Enshadowed,” I reminded her.

“Oh . . . oh!” she said, as she recalled the incident.  “Umank?  The stonesinger?  That poor Karshak!  Wait, you saw me, then?”

“I did,” I nodded.  “Umank told you about the Enshadowed sabotaging the reclamation project.  You told him to keep it to himself,” I accused.

“I . . . that’s right, I did,” she sighed.  “And for good reason.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I prompted.

“Umank was not aware of the other factors involved – not the Alka Alon, but the human factors,” she explained.  “There was a faction within the Colonial Defense Force and the colonial administration that was plotting something.  They saw the emergence of rajira in humanity as a threat and the control the Vundel had over the colony as unacceptable.  They didn’t particularly like the Alka Alon, either.

“Your people tried to keep the knowledge of that plot from us, though we had already figured it out.  But neither side really knew who to trust.  I was quietly exchanging information with some of my friends in the colonial government and the military about the Enshadowed, and they were passing me information about their rogue faction.

“It was a delicate balance during a sensitive time . . . but no one suspected the Enshadowed would strike against Perwyn, and after that, things went into the chamber pot.  I told Umank to be quiet because I didn’t want to put his life in further danger,” she explained.  “In the end, I evacuated him back to a quiet little refuge in the Kulines for recuperation and rehabilitation.”

“I suppose it was complicated,” I agreed.  “I just wanted to hear your reasoning.  And I thought you should know.”

“Thank you.  And you weren’t wrong to suspect me.  That was a different time.  A very interesting time.”

“Like this one?” I asked, nudging the horse forward.

“In a lot of ways,” she agreed.  “This time, I know who I’m working for and which side I’m on.”

We rode through the Gouge that morning, and it was a lovely day.  The vegetation changed radically, as we crossed into the wide gulch, and soon we were skirting the Plain of Pillars.  Lilastien and I mostly kept quiet, more for the chance of reflection than out of caution.  We were about to stop at a spring and refill our water bottles when a bolt flew out of nowhere and into the neck of my horse.

I hate having a horse slain out from under me.  It’s terrifying.  It’s happened more than once, and every time it happens, I respond with a mixture of rage and fear.  To have it happen when you aren’t expecting it is twice as disconcerting.  As the animal tried to scream, a second shaft pierced its eye, and I threw myself from the saddle.  Getting your leg pinned under a dead horse – or being kicked and trampled by a dying horse – is even worse that losing your mount in the first place.

Lilastien’s mount took a shaft in her haunch and reared, sending the sorceress sprawling into the grass.  She rolled expertly away and came up to a kneeling position, her plasma rifle in her hands.

That looked like a good idea, I decided, as my hands found the familiar grips of my weapon.  Andrews had used them extensively, on Terra, and I found myself peering around the spring with a newfound knowledge, using the electronic sighting of the plasma rifle with new facility.  The next shaft that flew told me where the attackers were, behind a boulder.  In a moment a gurvan’s head and shoulders appeared from behind it on the screen, crossbow in hand.  A moment after that he took a bolt of superheated plasma in the face.

“Got one!” I called, my adrenaline propelling me to crawl forward behind my dead horse.  I scanned the horizon for new targets as Lilastien’s rifle belched fire.

“I got mine,” she agreed.  “How many?”

“Let’s find out,” I said, rolling to one side of the dead horse for a better angle.  I had to crawl on my belly until I could see two gurvani corpses lying on the ground.  But there was a third cautiously crouched behind the boulder.  Along with an Alkan male.

“Two more,” I called.  “Enshadowed and maragorku.”

“We can take them,” she said, confidently.  “Pincer move?”

Andrews had a problem with that.  “Let’s try to draw them out,” I suggested.  “You cover me, I’m going to sneak off and flank them.”

She nodded.  “One of your hosts?” she asked.

“Several of them.  It’s a little odd.”

“I know.  But useful.  Go!” she called and began firing to keep their heads down.  I kept my head down and belly-crawled about forty yards, until I had a much better vantage point. The side of the maragorku sniper’s head was visible, in the telescopic sight.  Andrews’ memory told me how to adjust the beam settings for a more precise shot.  I took careful aim, and as the gurvan squinted in the morning sun, I blew his face off with a careful squeeze of the trigger.

“Got ’em!” I called to Lilastien.  Then I called to the Enshadowed, in Alka Alon.  “Lay down your arms and surrender!”

He took a few moments to consider the situation.  I put a shot into the top of the boulder for incentive.  “I will not make the offer twice!”  The Alkan words felt strange, coming out of my mouth, but my accent was perfect, I knew.

“I will comply,” the Enshadowed said, standing in the open with his spear held point-down.  I rose from my crouch and moved forward, never letting his face move from my screen.  A moment later Lilastien joined me.

The transformed Alkan looked tall and gangly, compared to the Tera Alon form Lilastien had developed and used.  I’d faced them before in battle myself, as well as those experiences my long-lived Alon hosts had with them.  I could tell this one was young, and there was a look of fear on his face.

“You weren’t supposed to have magic,” he complained, as he handed his spear to me.

“I’m sneaky, that way.  This is humani technology, not magic.  I accept your surrender.  What is your name?” I demanded, not letting my rifle fall.  That was hard to do with a spear in my other hand, but I was feeling motivated.

“Belimiel,” he sighed, keeping his hands clear of his body.  His bow lay on the ground next to the three smoldering gurvani.  He looked more scared and disappointed than ready to fight, but I wasn’t taking any chances.  “I didn’t really want to come, but I was ordered to.”

“What were your orders?” Lilastien asked.

“To guard the trail against anyone who might interfere,” he said, reluctantly.

“Interfere with what?” she demanded, pushing the barrel of the rifle into his face.  “What are they doing?”

“We discovered location of the lost vault,” Belimiel said with a sigh.  “But I will not show you where it is.  Alas, we could not open it.  I was to guard the trail while Harinlon led a raid on the Kilnusk to get better tools.”

“The Kilnusk are going to kick your ass,” I said, translating the human idiom into Alka Alon.

“Did he leave behind any other guards?” Lilastien asked.

“There are two gurvani there,” he admitted.  “But you will never find the place.  It’s well-hidden.  Should you do, you will never get beyond the door. It is vast,” he boasted, as if he’d made it himself.  “Beyond the craft of men to breech.  Particularly without magic.  But we shall prevail,” he promised.

“No, you won’t,” I assured him.  “I’m a clever fellow and a fast study.  I didn’t even know Alka Alon until today.  I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“You think yourself superior to the greatest Enshadowed captain of all the hordes of Korbal?” he asked, with undisguised arrogance.

“Easily,” I snapped.  “When did Captain Harinlon leave for his raid?”

“Last night,” Belimiel said.  “He should be returning any time.  Then he will defeat you.  He has—”

“Shut up,” I ordered, thinking.  I was getting advice from many of my hosts about what to do, and it was confusing.  Thankfully, Lilastien pressed on.

“Who are the others in your party?” she asked, moving a little closer to him.  “What were your orders?”

“Harinlon, Rindenmel, Lamarthus, and Gindomel,” he admitted.  “We all had different tasks.  Lamarthus was eaten by a . . . he got eaten.  He was to contact the lizard people in search of ancient relics of their race.  He got eaten,” he repeated.  “Harinlon was tasked to find and open the council’s vault.  I am his aid, and a specialist in ancient works.  Rindenmel was given the task to contact the vassals of the Formless. He goes now to lead the reinforcements here.  And Gindomel was given the task of hunting the Spellmonger and retrieving his ball of irionite.”

“Reinforcements?” I asked, sharply.

“After our initial expedition penetrated the valley,” Belimiel explained, fearfully, “if we were successful in our tasks, we would send for them.  They await just beyond the wastes.  Five hundred gurvani, heavy infantry, and a dozen of my comrades to lead them.  They are to take control over the valley and secure it for Korbal’s use over the winter,” he said, his fear turning to defiance.

“They plan to take over the vale?” I asked, surprised.

“And recapture the dragon, yes,” he answered.

“I don’t think that’s going to go well for you,” I smiled.  “It appears only Rindenmel and Pritikin were successful, then.   I am the Spellmonger, and the Magolith is quite intact.  What about your own irionite?” I asked him.

He startled.  “What use is irionite in the realm of the Jevolar?” he asked.

“That’s not the question I asked you,” I observed.  I lowered my rifle and examined his spear.  Prince Maralathus certainly appreciated it, and from his memory I was informed.  It was about five feet long, the blade about a fifth of the length.  It came to an elegant point and had a razor-fine edge to it.  The entire thing was metal, and beautifully contrived.

“This is an ancient weapon, isn’t it?  House of Mayobaris if I’m not mistaken.  Forged just after your people came here, in the eastern realms.  A noble’s weapon.  A dueling spear, not a war spear.  A family heirloom.  A token of pride in your lineage.”

“Y-yes, yes, it is,” he agreed, confused.  “It was my great-grandsires.  How do you know . . .?”

“Only someone as young and foolish as you, Belimiel, would take such a fine weapon into a mission where he might lose it.  Or see it dishonored.  Say, by being made party to a surrender.  You know your ancestors broke their spears before they would surrender, so as not to shame the spirits of the weapons?”

“Please don’t break my spear!” he begged.

“I won’t . . . but you are unworthy of it.  If a mere boy takes a weapon like this into the field, when another would have sufficed, he likely has brought along his irionite, even though he was told it wouldn’t be useful.  I’ll ask you again: what of your irionite?” I said and turned the spear to point back at him.

With a disgusted sigh he dug into a pouch around his neck and reluctantly presented me with a centimeter-wide sphere.  I took it unceremoniously, without even being cautious.  It was inert.  I tucked it into my own pouch.

“What are we going to do with him?” Lilastien asked.  “We aren’t really prepared for taking prisoners of war.”

“Tie him up,” I instructed her, as I raised my rifle again.  “We will leave him here.  If the stora don’t find him, his bold captain will, when he returns.”

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

“You killed our horses.  I’m not inclined to be forgiving about that, I said, darkly.

“You cannot just . . . just abandon me!” he whined.

“Yes, we can, actually,” Lilastien said, slinging her rifle and digging some rope out of her dead horse’s saddle bag.  “Now, we can leave you here by the spring tied up until your captain returns to free you, or we can knock you unconscious and leave you tied up for your captain to find.  Which would you prefer?”

We had to walk the rest of the way, which was disagreeable.  After one of the worst nights of my life, I was exhausted and wanted sleep.  I was glad I kept the spear.  I leaned on it like a staff as we slowly made our way across the empty gully and up the path to the cavern of the vault.

We chatted a little on the way, but the heat made small talk annoying, and it only got worse by the time we came to the rocky desolation.  By the time we were on the trail that led to the stony hill, we were sweating.  Unsurprisingly, the gurvani were resting in the shade of the overhang, clearly enjoying their guard duty and lack of oversight.  But they weren’t very attentive.  Lilastien and I got within two hundred yards of them without them noticing us.

“What shall we do about them?” I asked.

“Eliminate them,” she said, cold-bloodedly.  The voice didn’t sound like Lilastien’s normal tone.  “We are at war.”

“All right,” I sighed, and started fiddling with the controls on my plasma rifle.  It wasn’t as precise as the military-grade weapon Andrews used in his warfare, but his memory guided me through the proper adjustments until I was able to put a bolt through the forehead of the first guard.  That alerted the second, and when he stood and raised his crossbow to look for the shooter, Lilastien shot him three times in the chest.

“Let’s go,” she said, slinging her rifle.

“You’ve gotten surprisingly good at tactical situations,” I observed, as we jogged up the hill.

“One of my hosts,” she dismissed.  “She was very good.  CalDef Special Forces.  Lieutenant Callista Maria Gianakos.”

“A soldier is going to help you right the Alka Alon wrongs?” I asked.

“It was what she witnessed that is helpful,” Lilastien answered.  “I don’t know, Min, this is all going to take a lot to figure out,” she said, putting a final shot into the second gurvan, who was still moving.

“I know what you mean,” I grunted, as I stopped and looked through their camp.  I hadn’t had anything to eat save martinis since yesterday.  We hadn’t brought along much in the way of rations, and what we had brought was back with our dead horses.

But the gurvani had food.  There was a pot of beans and a haunch of what I suspected was llama.  There were also some dried mushrooms, but I didn’t want to get into that.  Gurvani have different digestions than humans did.  “How about we stop for lunch?” I proposed.  “And a quick nap?”

“A nap?” she asked.  “Didn’t you want to get to the vault?”

“We’re at the vault, I argued.  I’m hungry and tired.  I died last night,” I reminded her.  “And I don’t want to have the vault gaping open just in time for our enemies to surprise us and take advantage.”

“All fair points,” she sighed.  “Perhaps we should call for some reinforcements, then?”

“We might at least want to let people know where we are,” I agreed, as I carved a slice off the haunch.  “Alya’s probably worried that I wasn’t in camp this morning.  It’s already afternoon.”

“I’ll see if I can get my granddaughter on the radio,” she agreed, setting her rifle next to the small fire.  “She and Nattia can fly in, and Tyndal and the others can follow by horse.”

“You do that,” I said, looking at pot of beans.  “I’m going to have lunch.  And some water,” I said, slumping over.

“I’m . . . I’m going to take your vitals before I call Ithalia,” she decided, putting away the radio and getting out her medical tablet and pressing the sensor to the skin of my wrist, where I felt a tiny buzz, almost like a pinprick.  A moment later she looked up, concerned, but not alarmed.  “Well, your cortisol levels are off the charts, your magnesium is low, and your white cell count is up.  But your blood pressure is good, and your heart rate and pulse oxygen are fine.  Eat,” she encouraged.  “And drink.  You’re also dehydrated.”

“Water would be good,” I agreed.  “Ale would be better.  But I’ll settle for water.”

As I chewed the first slice of llama and a mouthful of beans, I felt an enormous weariness come over me.  I washed it down with a bottle that Lilastien helpfully held for me, and then I was asleep.  Or unconscious.

I won’t describe my dreams.  I don’t want to remember them, much less put them into words.

I woke up once and drank more water, in late afternoon.

“I got in touch with Ithalia,” she reported.  “She’s sending help.  Drink more.”

“Alya?” I asked, as she tipped the water bottle to my lips again.

“Ithalia’s trying to get a radio to her.  You just rest,” she insisted.  “As long as you can.  I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“The goblins . . .?”

“No sign of them, yet.  And we have the high ground, a defensible position, better cover, and greater range.  Here,” she said, offering me another sip from her silver flask.  “Don’t get used to it, but I think it would do you some good.”

It did.  It also helped me fall instantly back to sleep.  There were more dreams, more nightmares, and then Lilastien was kicking me awake again.

“Minalan!  Rise and shine, soldier!  We’ve got company,” she said, as she picked up her plasma rifle.

“Who?” I asked, blearily.

“Who do you think?  The Enshadowed and their scrugs are returning.  They’ll be in range shortly.  We need to take positions.”

“We do?” I asked, confused.  My mouth was as dry as the sand around us.

“We do!” she insisted, shoving my rifle into my hands.  “I’ll take the left flank; you take the right one.  Try to get a good vantage point.  We can pick them off as they come up that rise.  Move it!” she said, with uncharacteristic directness.

But once you’ve been in the military, you don’t ignore that tone.  I activated the plasma rifle, tried to shake off the cobwebs, and found a place among the rocks.

It was near twilight, and the sun was setting.  It would get dark fast, I knew, and then the goblins would have the advantage.  They see better in the dark, and the light from our rifles would reveal our location.

“Didn’t you order an air strike?” I reminded her.

“The birds are coming,” she promised.  “A lot has happened during your nap.  Just pick your targets,” she reminded me.  “Fire as soon as you have a shot.”

I sighed and set to work.  It was almost as easy as using a warwand, and in some ways easier.  I rested the barrel on a boulder, checked my settings, increased the magnification on the scope . . . and when the first gurvani face rounded the bend, I started pulling the trigger.  A moment later, so did Lilastien.

We took out three of them before they got smart and sought cover.  Then a few wild crossbow shots flew overhead.  We weren’t out of range, but if they wanted to take an aimed shot at us, they would have to expose themselves.

We spent the next five minutes convincing them of that, and got another one, between the two of us.  That was when someone waved a flag on the end of a spear.

“Truce?” called an Alka Alon voice in accented Narasi.

“Go fuck a llama!” I shouted back, loudly.  I added a blast from the rifle to emphasize my point.

“We have you outnumbered!” the voice said, in Alka Alon.  “Surrender, and you will not be harmed!”

I repeated my earlier insult in Alka Alon.  It sounded surprisingly elegant.

“Then you shall be destroyed!” the voice of the Enshadowed captain, Harinlon bellowed.

“What happened to Belimiel?” asked Lilastien, suddenly.

“What?  I freed him,” Harinlon said.  “Then sent him back to camp in shame.  He had you outnumbered and took you by surprise and he still lost you.  Incompetent!”

“Well, you’ve got us outnumbered, and you’re about to lose me,” I pointed out.  “Perhaps you’ll live to join him on that walk back to camp!”

“We will charge you,” he warned.  “You will not survive.  This is your last warning.  I am Harinlon, First—” he said, beginning the inevitable litany of his name and position that the Alka Alon feel compelled to do.  I found it particularly annoying.  I didn’t want to know who the hell he was.

Neither did Lilastien, apparently.  I couldn’t see her in her position, but it had apparently moved.  She was suddenly much closer to them, on a much higher outcropping.  She sent a bolt into their flank.

“A little less conversation, a little more action!” she declared, and suddenly music began to play from her scanner.  And she started firing.  A lot.

So, I fired, too.  And that’s when Harinlon’s nerve broke, and he began to send gurvani charging up the pathway with crossbows and grim facial expressions.

I felt the cool reserve of a rifle infantryman come over me as I began squeezing the trigger in a methodical way.  The barrel of the rifle got hot as I fired, and goblins kept dropping.  A few got close enough to get off wild shots from their bows, but as soon as they paused to fire, they caught a face full of plasma.

There were a lot of them.  More than I’d expected.  They learned very quickly to stay low and seek cover as they approached.  A few departed the trail and tried to come up the steep slope on my flank.

Eventually, I realized as I looked at the number of charges in the rifle, they might just be able to overwhelm us.  I wasn’t looking forward to that.

Lilastien was actually enjoying herself.  Her music changed from one song to another, and then another as she took aim and blasted at our foe.  Then she would roll to a new position and fire again.  She was also firing a lot.  Her stock of energy would be gone soon, too.

And nightfall was coming.  I was starting to become concerned.

That’s when a shadow cast over the trail, and a very welcome sound split the air: the war cry of giant hawks.  A moment later a streak of feathers flew by, and giant talons scattered the approaching gurvani.  A skybolt flew, impaling one as Nattia flew by, following Ithalia’s big bird.

Lilastien stood, cheered, and got even more liberal with her rate of fire.  That’s when I noticed the cloud of dust in the distance, the kind you see when a troop of cavalry is moving fast.

That made me smile.  Andrews’ memory was whispering in my ear as I continued to fire, carefully avoiding hitting our air cover in the process.  That cloud was moving fast.  They must be advancing at a gallop.

Within five minutes the calvary had arrived, right at sunset.  Only it wasn’t horses.  Instead, there was a commotion among the gurvani and Enshadowed as the blunt shape of one of the “Beast” vehicles from the Cave of the Ancients appeared, with lights as bright as magelights glaring across the trail.

More, Travid and Tyndal were on the roof, each armed with a hunting rifle.  As the beast ran over the gurvani in front of it, the two lads shot the stragglers.  When it came to the widest point, where the gurvani had bunched up, the doors on the sides of the cabin opened . . . and our reinforcements spilled out.

Led by my wife.

Alya had changed into trousers and boots and had tied up her hair.  When she came out of the vehicle, she had one of the Ancients’ pistols in her fist and she began firing, the loud reports splitting the air.  A split-second later Taren joined her and put his spear into the chest of the Enshadowed captain before he drew his plasma pistol, followed by Ormar and Gareth.  Gunshots and the scent of ozone filled the air as they relentlessly attacked the foe.  They kept shooting until the last gurvani was dead.

I sighed in relief.  Sure, we could probably have held out against them, but I was just too tired for that.  I pushed myself up on the butt of my rifle and dragged myself over to the trailhead.  Alya holstered her pistol as she un-cautiously stalked up the trail.

“Alya!” I beamed.

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, angrily and loudly.  Her face was flushed and sweaty and cast in shadow from the setting sun.

There was no easy answer to that.  So, I stuck to the classics.

I kissed her once.  I kissed her twice.  I kissed her once again.

Chapter Forty-Six

Within the Vault

I took a piece of wisdom from Kova Salainen: the price of knowledge is high, but it is compounded by keeping it secret.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Minalan the Spellmonger

Alya was angry, perhaps rightfully so.

She’d woken up with a foul hangover to find her husband missing after a night of drunken passion.  She had to choose to either wait for me or go look for me – or induce others to do so on her behalf.  Rolof had searched on his own, for a while, but it was soon apparent that I had gone off Somewhere.  Presumably to do something Stupid.

She was right.

I didn’t go into much detail of my actual experience with the Yith with her – this was not the time or place.  But I did explain why I needed to slip away in the middle of the night, and that had led to us discovering how to open the vault.  Which we needed to do to finish our quest.

She wasn’t mollified by that in the slightest.

“I even had Avius take a flyover to see if she could spot you,” she snarled.  “Next time, at least leave me a godsdamned note!”

“I will,” I promised.  “I should have.  I’m sorry,” I admitted.

“You’re just lucky Gareth was out testing that carriage when he was,” she said, as she folded her arms and began walking into the cavern.  “He and Tyndal heard Lilastien’s call on the radio and came and got me, after they collected the others at the Cave.  Then they picked me up on the way.”

“Where’s Rolof and Ameras?” I asked.

“Still at the camp on the lake.  They will be along presently.  Really, Min, you scared me to death!”

As someone who had literally been scared to death, I could appreciate that.

“Look, you can yell at me later,” I promised.  “I deserve it.  But I want to go get this vault open.  I don’t know what else could possibly happen today, but I want to get it open before it does.”

“I’m still mad,” she said, sullenly.

“I know,” I said, taking her by the hand.  “Come on.  You can be mad at me in the cave, too.”

As we entered the long, tastefully decorated cavern, Alya looked around with interest.  “So, this is the fulfillment of your quest?”

“The very last part.  If I get the vault open, we’re a lot closer to . . . well, a lot.”

“Ameras didn’t think you would figure out how,” she confessed, guiltily.

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“I told her my husband can do anything.  Except, apparently, leave a me a godsdamned note.”

“Ordinarily, she might be right,” I explained, as we rounded the path around the underground lake.  “As the Enshadowed learned, this is a daunting place to break into, without magic.”  I joined Taren, Ormar, Gareth, and Tyndal, as they stared at the massive doorway.  There were signs that the gurvani had tried to hack their way through it: broken axes and shovels, a wedge and a hammer were littered around the left side of the doorway.  There was the barest scratch in the surface.

“It’s still a big door,” Ormar said, shaking his head.

“They could pick at it from now until the sun goes cold, and they wouldn’t get into the vault,” I observed.  “You see, the Alka Alon are subtle and clever.  Even without magic.  And the Karshak are crafty.  So,” I said, as I turned away from the door, “if they wanted to keep someone from breaking into a vault, the easiest way to deter them is to give them a big whopping doorway that is obviously the way into the vault.  Only it isn’t.”

“It isn’t?” Tyndal asked, surprised.

“No.  That’s just a big slab of stone carved to look like a door.  A decoy,” I explained, as I walked back down the ramp.  I halted in front of the great, round stone stele.  “They put it there to convince any robbers to do just what the Enshadowed did: beat themselves to death against a big slab of stone for all of eternity.  The real entrance to the vault is more subtle.  Lilastien, do you recognize this design?”

“Yes,” she nodded.  “It’s the constellations in the night’s sky on Alonaral,” she answered.  “It’s a symbol of Alka Alon sovereignty, adopted by the High Kings to represent their right to rule the Alka Alon lands here on Callidore.”

“Correct.  I remember seeing it under Olem Seheri,” I reminded her.  “Korbal was using it to proclaim himself sovereign.”

“That’s right,” she nodded.

“Only, this stylized version is . . . off,” I pointed out.

“Is it?” she asked, confused.  She studied it for a moment.

“Yes, it’s off center.  The top of this constellation, here, should be in the north.  It’s off by at least fifteen, twenty degrees.  But” I said, reaching out and grasping the side of the stele, “if you rotate the sky around to here,” I said, as I did just that.  The stele turned easily, though it was massive.  “Then the constellation is in its proper position, as is the rest of the sky.  Not many people would know that.  And when you put the sky into its proper place,” I said, as there was a rumbling suddenly shaking the cave, “then the hidden valve is activated.  All the water in that pool,” I said, pointing to the lake, “will drain out into the culvert.”

My friends stood around and gawked at the pool slowly emptying.  It was much deeper than it appeared, and as the level of the lake fell, it revealed a flight of stairs under the water that led down in a spiral around its edge.  “When we want to re-fill it, we turn the wheel the other way and it will slowly return to the proper level.  The genius of Karshak engineering,” I said, with pride.  Well, it was Umank’s pride, but I think he deserved it.

“That’s bloody brilliant,” Ormar admitted.  “Here I was going to use the last of my Dragon Cotton on that bloody wall.  Good job, Min!”

“It really is,” Taren nodded, as he watched the water drain.  “The Alka Alon aren’t fond of water.  It’s a natural barrier.”

“I’m impressed, Minalan,” Lilastien agreed.  “I didn’t really think you’d figure it out, either.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Alya said, though she sounded less angry.

We waited for nearly twenty minutes for the level of the water to drop below the last step, revealing a much smaller version of the fake door up above.  I led everyone down the dripping stairs to the entrance.  The door was sealed, but it appeared to have a perfectly ordinary mechanical lock, made of wrought aluminum.  Ormar fetched some of the discarded tools from above and we used them to pry open the long unused catch.  The door clicked.

“It’s open,” Lilastien said, in a whisper.

“Shall I fetch torches?” Ormar asked.

“No need,” Gareth said, activating a portable tekka light, presumably from the Beast.  “I anticipated the need.  I brought a few of these.  I’ve even got a bigger camp light we can use, back in the Beast.  Who’s first?” he asked.

I took the light from him and went in.  The first rooms were filled with simple stone shelves on which lay case after case, small square and round boxes with elaborate carvings.  There were hundreds of them.

“Irionite,” Gareth said, opening one.  “They’re dormant.”

“War stones, confiscated from the Enshadowed or surrendered to the Council by the Great Houses,” explained Lilastien.  I nodded. Raer Rinthon and Prince Maralathus recognized them at once.  I got a flash of memory of dozens of battles involving these ancient stones.

“What are these?” asked Ithalia, as she popped a round box open.  Inside was a small, milky ball of crystal.

“I don’t know,” Lilastien confessed.  “There must be a lot of forgotten stuff down here.”

“That’s a rajaleana,” I offered, with help from my Alkan hosts.  “They’re organic minerals that can project power far beyond normal ranges.  Very useful . . . but very dangerous, when used in conjunction with other songspells.  It’s related to the Covenstones,” I explained.

“How did you know that?” Taren asked, confused.

“I read a lot,” I said.  I wasn’t ready to talk about my hosts, yet.  It would take too much time.

Beyond that, the rooms and the items got larger.  One contained legitimate weapons – spears, arrows, bows, shields, axes, hammers, and other implements of war.  One chamber had a rack of staffs of different sizes, thicknesses, and ornamentation.  All of them were inert.  Yet another was covered, floor to ceiling, with shelf after shelf of odd-shaped bottles filled with liquids and powders.  Yet another was stuffed full of exotic corals, seashells, and the like.

Between Lilastien and I, we were able to identify many of the items, but by no means all.  Many of the confiscated items were components of larger enchantments or sorceries, I knew.

“What are those?” Nattia asked when we came to a chamber filled with large wooden and leather cases.

“Thoughtful Knives!” Ithalia gasped.  “Dozens of them!”

“Those are a lot bigger than the one they gave us,” I pointed out to Alya.

“Some were far more dangerous than mere flying blades,” Lilastien informed us as she studied the cases.  “The one the Council gave you is no more than an assay in the art.  These were the powerful ones.  The ones that can destroy cities and decimate armies.”

“Take a few of the smaller ones,” I directed Taren, quietly.  “Get them packed in the Beast.  And grab a few boxes of witchstones, on the way.”  He nodded and understood why I wanted to be quiet about it.

“Minalan, over here!” Ithalia called, as we came to a central chamber that branched off into several separate vaults.  “I think you’ll be interested in this.”

“What are they?” Ormar asked, as his curiosity drew him toward the cases.  He opened one and stared for a moment at something horrid: some tiny beast frozen in raw chunk of irionite.

“Natural kulhinara,” I explained, as I opened another.  There was an insect caught in this one.  “Like Sheruel.  Looks like five or six of them.”

“They can be even worse than something like Sheruel, if you can believe it,” Lilastien assured.  “They aren’t hampered by higher thought and tend to react on instinct . . . only with the power of a god.  Except for this one,” she said, holding up the largest of the chunks.  It was murkier than the others and less crystalline, but it was a perfect sphere.  I could barely make out the thing within.

“It’s the Vundel Nymph,” Lilastien explained.  “The Enshadowed captured it, and then encased it in irionite about five thousand years ago.  It was the first time that someone made a kulhinara on purpose.  They figured that they could use it to control a Leviathan,” she snorted.  “Idiots!”

“How did that work out?” I asked, curious.

“Catastrophically,” Lilastien answered, looking at the mollusk-like creature inside.  “The nymphs are highly intelligent and have deep levels of rajira.  But they don’t think like terrestrial creatures.  Unlike the enneagram you’re using in your enchantments, a kulhinara uses all the elements at its command: intelligence and instinct.  Once they activated it, they did not understand or appreciate just how such a creature would react.

“It worked beautifully, at first – it was during the peak of the Enshadowed war effort, and it was devastating.  But within a few years it had achieved enough sentience to rebel against them.  Its rampage decimated them and turned the tide of that particular war.  That’s probably where they got the idea for Sheruel,” she decided.  She put the nymph back on the shelf carefully.

“Wouldn’t the Vundel object to that?” I asked.

“Not as much as you might think,” she said, looking around the other shelves in the chamber.  “They produce thousands of nymphs every year.  Only a small percentage of them are expected to survive to metamorphosis.  They aren’t even taken seriously as individuals until they become clippermen.  The Vundel might be appalled at its disrespect, but they wouldn’t care about the individual.  They aren’t like that.”

“You’re sure?” I asked, anxiously.  We didn’t need another reason for the Vundel to be pissed at us.

“One of my hosts is a clipperman.  Dek’tagalish,” she replied, quietly.

“Oh,” I nodded, understanding.

We went to the next chamber, and both of us gasped.  It was filled with various pieces of rare coral – Golden Coral.  The stuff the Vundel followed on their great nomadic treks across the sea.  Lilastien was full of information about them, thanks to her new insights.  There were some truly dangerous pieces there, too, I realized as she informed me what each was capable of.

“Master Min!  Look at this!” Tyndal called, excitedly.  He was in the next chamber, which was filled with what seem to be a neatly organized brush pile.  It proved to be specimens of Met Sakinsa growths . . . including two smaller pieces of the fused heart of the Leshi, striekema, as we had recovered from Stonetrunk.

“Some of these are examples of old Met Sakinsa weaponry, from their great struggle against the Formless, ages ago,” Lilastien explained.  “Others are . . . I don’t know, I’m afraid.  But clearly Met Sakinsa.”

“That looks like weirwood,” Tyndal pointed out, when we came to a bundle of long, mostly straight limbs.”

“That’s not weirwood, that’s wood from a Father Tree,” I said, as Prince Maralathus’ memory gave me the answer.  I shuddered, involuntarily.  “It’s been burnt,” I pointed out.

“The Met Sakinsa would not be happy about that,” Lilastien nodded.  “Not at all.  But it is incredibly powerful for enchantment, far more powerful than weirwood.  It is said it never truly dies.  An enchantment wrought with it would be extremely potent.  And likely piss the Leshi off to no end.  Kind of like using a human bone in an enchantment.”

“That happens more than you’d think, actually,” Tyndal informed her.  “Books bound in human skin, wands made from bones, ink from human blood . . .”

“And it is just as repugnant to us as this would be to them, I think,” said Lilastien.  “They gave us Stonetrunk’s heart.  This . . . this looks depraved, from their perspective.”

“Minalan!” called Gareth, his voice urgent.  “You need to come here and see this!”

Gareth didn’t ordinarily get that excited, even in a place like this.  He was generally too analytic.  But the tone in his voice compelled me.

“What is it?” I asked, as I entered the next darkened chamber.  His light was splashed on a shelf filled with nice, neat little boxes that were decidedly not of Alkan design.

“Something troubling,” he said, as he took one of the boxes from the shelf and examined it closely.  Then he showed it to me.

It was in Old High Perwyneese.  It was from the original colony.  Unlike everything else here, it was labeled.

COLONIAL ADMINISTRATION AUTHORITY

CI5 REPLACEMENT UNIT, UNINITIATED

FOR CIVIL USE ONLY

Please Refer To Installation Procedures To Avoid Faulty Initiation

There was a long code at the bottom of the label that, I knew, was the designation number.

“Do you have any idea what this is?” Gareth asked, excitedly.

“It’s . . . it’s one of the back-ups for the Colony’s information infrastructure,” I said, the Old High Perwyneese flowing off my tongue.  Andrews knew precisely what these were.  I began looking at the other boxes.  “Ishi’s tits, this is . . . it looks like all the back-ups for the colony!  There’s C5s, C4s, a bunch of C3s . . .”

“This one is labeled CI5M,” Gareth said, quickly scanning the boxes.  “Military grade!”

“Why would the Alka Alon have our tekka?” I asked, confused.

“Because they wanted to keep you from being able to rebuild your civilization, after Perwyn,” Lilastien informed us, as she followed us into the room.  “Remember I told you about the anti-Vundel faction in the military?  They weren’t the only political faction of the colony.  After the New Horizon was sent away, power was shared between a number of entities for a few decades.  The Colonial Defense Force.  The United Nations.  The Terraformation Authority.  And a number of corporate and social interests who took turns taking over the Colonial Administration.

“One of these,” she continued, as she took one of the boxes and read the label, “was the New Denver Metaphysical Society, led by a young, charismatic leader who preached an embrace of Callidore and its gifts and a rejection of the traditional ways of Terra.  He later became the first Archmage.  But not before casting the entire colony into chaos.

“Some of his followers developed a method of attacking the higher-functioning Constructed Intelligences of Perwyn and destroying them.  In fact, they did just that, and every CI on the network above Level Two was ruined.”

“That’s horrible!” Gareth declared, his mouth agape.  “That explains why Forseti cannot find any of his peers in the system!”

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Lilastien said, slowly.  “You see, the attack would have been a mere nuisance, if the colony hadn’t misplaced its remaining uninitiated CIs.  But they were stolen.  I found out later that the New Denver revolutionaries had taken them.  I had presumed them destroyed, but it appears as if the Alka Alon Council took custody of them.  Each of these,” she said, replacing the box, “is capable of running an entire city.  Or a warship.  Or . . . all sorts of things.”

“They’re uninitiated, though,” I pointed out, as Andrews’ memories informed me.  “They have never been used.  And there’s almost . . . there have to be at least fifty or sixty, here.  That would be almost all the Colony’s back-ups.  Without those . . .”

“Without those, there was no one to check the calculations of the engineers who tried to reclaim Perwyn’s bay,” Lilastien nodded.  “Without the CI5s, it was left up to humans and lower-level intelligences who would not have – did not, apparently – discover the problems with the plan. I—”

“What have you done?” shrieked an Alka Alon voice from the doorway, pregnant with anguish.

We all whirled around to see Ameras gaping at us, as we pawed through the warehouse of forgotten things.  She looked shocked and angry.

“You have opened the vault!” she nearly screeched.

“We did,” I agreed.  “Well, I did.  I take full responsibility,” I added.

“You cannot!  You must not!” she insisted.  “Only the Aronin can open the vault!”

“Apparently not,” Lilastien said, coolly.  “But certainly, the Aronin would know why the vault shouldn’t be opened by just anyone.  It’s filled with the evidence of our guilt.  In many things.”

“It is for the Council and the conscience of the Aronin, alone, to determine when the vault is opened!” she demanded, angrily.

“I told you, I’m a representative of the Council,” Lilastien shot back.  “They asked for you to open it.”

“And I was told by your sire to seek you out and persuade you to open it,” I reminded her.  “I told you I would do it.  You knew I would do it, if I could.”

“I . . . I . . .” Ameras stuttered.  Rolof appeared behind her, a look of great concern on his face.

“It needed to be done, Ameras,” I soothed.  “We need the weapons.  More, we need the truth.  Lilastien is correct: there is much in this vault that exposes the past wrongs of the Council.”

“The Aronin are not told what they are guarding, necessarily,” Ameras said, hotly.  “Our duty is to protect our charges; not inquire why we must do so.”

“Then you are not to blame for any of this,” I shrugged.  “You were just following orders.  Tradition.  Your conscience.  I don’t blame you for this.

“But I’m not going to go quietly away from here, now that I’ve seen this,” I continued.  There was other tekka here, and thanks to Andrews I could recognize most of it.

Of note was an example of a military grade plasma rifle – more compact and powerful than the sport model I carried.  I set mine down and picked up the new one.  There weren’t any charges in it, but it was a much more durable and powerful weapon than the first one.

“Some of this I claim as a . . . as a duly recognized regional colonial administrator, namely, the Count Palatine of the Magelaw.  These things were taken from my people,” I said, as I examined the rifle.  It was nearly pristine.  “I am taking them back.”

“And we’re taking many other things, too,” Lilastien informed her.  “As per the Council’s request.  We shall be judicious, but the need is great and . . . and, well, I’m not asking for your permission.  I’m asking for your acceptance.”

Rolof put a hand on Ameras’ shoulder, and that seemed to calm her a bit.

“Then take it,” she sighed.  “I have failed in my duty, as my father did before me.  I will go before the council and resign my position.”  Her long ears drooped depressingly as she spoke, and she looked at the ground.

“Oh, stop that,” I insisted, as if I was addressing my own daughter.  “You did nothing wrong.  If the last few days has taught me anything it’s that most people do the best they can with the situation they’re presented with, and it’s usually not their fault.  Sometimes it is, but often it is not.  You discharged your duty honorably, to the best of your ability.  And now we can use these things to help recover the molopor,” I reminded her.

“This is not how this is supposed to work, Minalan,” she said, her eyes wide with sadness.

“You’ve been overtaken by events,” I suggested.  “As Lilastien says, you should just accept it.  Even help us.  We could use your help.”

Rolof studied me carefully.  Then he recognized . . . something, and gasped.

“You . . . you had congress with the Yith!” he whispered.

“Yes,” Lilastien agreed, calmly.  “Minalan and I both did.  Last night.  He almost did not survive.  But that is a discussion for another time.  Now is not the time to engage in excited behavior.  Now is the time—”

She was interrupted by the sound of my wife engaging in excited behavior: Alya’s voice was screaming hysterically.

I flew out of the room, grasping for the new rifle that hung from my shoulder automatically, forgetting it had no charges.  It turned out I didn’t need them.  Alya was standing in one of the larger chambers, where she was pointing at a great stone cask, the lid slightly askew.

I recognized that cask, I realized.  Indeed, there were two dead and desiccated bodies in front of it, one with its broad skull caved in, one who had been strangled.

I also recognized the substance the cask was made of: jacasta.  Umank’s memory informed me of the importance of the prized stone as a highly coveted magical insulator.  It was what the Karshak were delving for when they came upon the Beldurrazeko

Alya was standing between the two ancient corpses, staring in horror at the cask.

“What is it?” I demanded, as the others came in behind me.

She said something in a language I didn’t know.  That frightened me.

But Lilastien apparently understood what she had said.  She looked confused, at first, and then glanced at the cask.

“No!” she said, in a whisper.  “No!  No, they didn’t!” she said, her own face twisted up in horror.

“What?” demanded Tyndal, who was standing with a drawn sword at the door of the room.

I walked forward to join Lilastien.  We looked at each other a moment and knew that this was important.  I took one side of the great stone lid, and she took the other.  With a great heave we removed the lid to the cask and stared at the thing within.

It was round, dark, and had a rough organic pattern on its surface.  Lilastien fell to her knees in shock, as if she’d seen one before.  Perhaps she had.

I hadn’t seen one, of course.  No one on Callidore had seen one for eons.  But I knew it from its description – at least, Prince Maralathus knew, as his friends in the Met Sakinsa grove had told him of it repeatedly.  It was just as they had described it, to the point where I was as certain as Lilastien what lay before us.

It was the last egg of the last Celestial Mother.

And the Alka Alon had hidden it from them . . . and the rest of Callidore.

Chapter Forty- Seven

The Stolen Hope of the World

The nighttime stars in the Desolation of Anghysbel are beautiful, in the summer sky.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

“‘Thus was stolen the hope of the world, the guardian against the Withering Light, the axis on which fair Callidore turned, crushed in the ruthless maw of the foe.  The last of the last, the legacy of tears, the scion of greatness stolen by treachery, to condemn the Celestial Mothers to eternal oblivion,’” I said in an ancient form of Alka Alon.

It was the tongue that the best-known epics were composed in.  The one that Prince Maralathus knew as his mother tongue.  For they were his words, taken from the memory of composition of that epic.  It doesn’t sound particularly poetic, in translation, but in the original it’s beautiful.

“They . . . they found it!” Ameras said, in shock.  “They found it!”

“The horror of Beldurrazeko,” I realized.  “When the Karshak pierced the chamber of the beast, it wasn’t merely hiding from the Vundel.  It was hiding this from the Vundel.  The last egg.  How long did it persist, under the mountain?” I wondered.

“Hundreds of thousands of years,” whispered Lilastien.  “All that jacasta would have protected it from detection.  Just as the jevolar does.  When the Living Darkness escaped, it was fighting to save this.  And when the Alka Alon Council defeated it, they found it.  They found it and brought it here, instead of to the Vundel,” she determined, shaking her head sadly.  “They knew that the Vundel would go mad with joy, if they returned the egg.”

“Is it still . . . good?” Ithalia asked, making a face.  Alya just stared, her eyes barely blinking, her mouth still open in shock.

“It is encysted,” Lilastien said, after examining it.  “Theoretically, it’s viable.  It could last for eternity.  But it can be raised, I think, if it is returned to the Vundel.  To not return it to the Vundel is . . . is a crime,” she declared.  “Like finding a kidnapped child and not returning it to its kin.  How can they have been so stupid?” she asked herself.

“You will have a chance to ask them that, yourself,” I agreed.  “I’m curious about their answer.  I have a few questions of my own,” I added, my eyes narrowing as I thought about all of those stolen Constructed Intelligences in the other room.

But compared to this, that was petty crime.

This was big.  This was bigger than anything I ever expected from the expedition.  This was a world-changing occurrence.

“This is a violation of conscience,” Ameras finally, reluctantly, admitted.

“Perhaps you should mention that, as well,” Tyndal agreed.  “I don’t know much about the Sea Folk, but if this is one of their lost queens, then . . .”

“Oh, it’s far more than that, lad,” Lilastien agreed.  “The Celestial Mothers – and the Great Mothers before them – did not just reproduce.  They reproduced everything.  In the course of their long lives, they would give birth to thousands of sub-species, specializing in genetically programmed behavior that . . . that . . . well, the Vundel are a pale reflection of that great entity.  The Celestial Mothers gave birth to thousands, every year.  They were the axis around which the undersea world revolved, as The Stolen Queen epic says.”

“Maralathus was feeling particularly creative that way,” I said, with a small smile.  “And a little bit drunk.  One of my hosts,” I added.

“Really?  You lucky bastard!  I love his work!  He’s like the Perry Como of warrior-poets!” Lilastien said.  “But this . . . this changes everything.  This makes the Council complicit with a fraud that would see us evicted from this world – with good cause.”

“Not just the Council,” I pointed out.  “The Emissary of the three High Kings directed the action.  They are complicit as well.”

“Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire,” Lilastien whispered as she regarded the ancient egg.  “They are!  Those selfish, rotten bastards!”

“What do we do about this?” Taren asked.  He had rejoined us from his trip out to the Beast and had overheard a good portion of what we’d been discussing.  “Minalan, we have to return this to the Vundel.  We have to.”

“I know, I know,” I agreed, absently.  “The question is how?  We can’t just chuck it into the ocean and hope they find it.”

“This will require a little more diplomacy than that,” Lilastien agreed.

“The Council must be involved,” Ameras said, firmly.

“Haven’t they done quite enough?” Ithalia demanded.  “They have betrayed the humani.  They have betrayed the Vundel.  Why must we give them a voice?”

“I am already counted a rebel,” Lilastien shrugged.  “I’m willing to go back to prison over this.  This . . . this angers me.”

“Ameras is right,” I declared.  “The Council will be involved.  Because they are complicit.  They must answer for what we have found here.  Including . . . that,” I said, pointing toward another cask I recognized, this one made of an ancient, ancient wood.  A wood that did not grow on this world.  It was almost three feet round, and highly ornamented, the strange designs carved in the exterior familiar to me.

“What’s that?” Tyndal asked.  “Another weapon?”

“No, it’s a tipirilon,” I said, the ancient word coming to my lips for the first time with a sense of long familiarity.  “It’s a . . . a magical control mechanism for a molopor, built on Alonaral by one of the last of the Spiritsingers, Mel Thenreyal.”

I heard Lilastien gasp.  And Ameras.

“A . . . a Spiritsinger?” Lilastien asked, impressed but skeptical.  And she wasn’t often impressed.  “They were among the greatest of sorceresses, on Alonaral. They were legendary.”

“That’s how the Alon got to Callidore,” I explained.  “And that’s why the Council wanted to open the vault, more than the weapons, I’d imagine.  It’s their escape route.  The Enshadowed organized the effort.  The Spiritsinger and the Vundel opened the portal to bring them.  With things like these,” I said, nodding toward the cask.

“Minalan – how do you—?” Lilastien asked.

“A host.  Mel Thenreyal.  Consider her on your balance sheet of guilt,” I advised.  “She compromised her morals to save a few Alon kindred and bring them to Callidore and sacrificed most of the others to the Dreadstar.  The Enshadowed were . . . picky about who got to come here.  Thenreyal was willing to go along with their dictates to save at least some of her people.  And condemn the rest to die on Alonaral.  When she came through the portal, she brought the tipirilon with her, trapping the rest of the population on a world rapidly losing magic, thanks to a nearby black hole.”

“That’s . . . dear gods, Min, that’s awful!” Lilastien agreed, horrified.

“It pales in comparison to this!” Alya said, suddenly, pointing to the egg of the Celestial Mother.  She sounded profoundly offended.  “They invited you here . . . they treated you as guests . . . and you . . . you . . . “

“Alya, calm yourself,” I urged.  “We understand.  We will deal with that,” I promised.

“You betrayed them!” Alya declared, viciously, glaring at the Alka Alon.  To hear such an accusation from my normally sweet and mild wife was shocking to everyone, myself most of all.  She seemed to take the dreadful act personally.  “You have had this in your possession for centuries, and never gave it to the Vundel!  Why?” she demanded.  “Why?  What possible reason could you have for this betrayal?”

“It was not us, in particular, Alya,” Lilastien said, calmly and deliberately, “it was the Council.  And the High Kings.  I feel just as angry about this as you—”

Alya’s face contorted as she interrupted with a string of harsh, guttural syllables that I didn’t recognize . . . and I now knew a lot of languages.

Lilastien looked surprised by the outburst, but the moment Alya was done she answered in the same caustic tongue, only more loudly, and at length.  When she was done, the two women stared at each other.

“What was that?” Tyndal asked, in amazement.

“Vundel,” Lilastien said, slowly.  “Where did you learn Vundel, Alya?” she asked my wife.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Alya confessed, biting her lip.  “It just came to me.  In my head.”

“That’s . . . that’s very interesting,” I said, my throat dry.  “But considering I’ve had my fill of interesting things today, I will put it aside to consider later.  And while our collective outrage is understandable, it isn’t particularly useful.  We have a task,” I reminded them. “We have opened the vault.  We have completed our quest.  We have found what we came to Anghysbel to find.  Let’s start to get some of these things packed up.  Does anyone object?” I asked, forcefully.  In truth, I felt like crap and just wanted to go back to sleep, wake up, eat, and go back to sleep again.  I couldn’t do that in a vault.

“Good,” I sighed.  “Ithalia, you and Nattia fly back to the Cave of the Ancients, and then start organizing as many wagons as you can get to this place – Kilnusk, Anferny, the Kasari, Midmarket, hells, get the Tal to bring a train of llamas, if you need.  We’re going to make a list of what we’re taking and what we’re leaving.  We’ll take the most valuable items and put them in the Cave of the Ancients.  The rest we’ll seal back in here.  But we have to get to work.”

“Our safe period for traveling through the wastes is closing, soon,” Tyndal reminded us.

“Worse, there’s five hundred maragorku marching through them, right now,” I explained.  “They plan on conquering Anghysbel for Korbal over the winter and re-capturing the dragon.”

That produced a few chuckles.  “I know,” I sighed.  “The Kilnusk, alone, will make porridge of them.  However, they will be in our way, and they would love to acquire our treasures without having to search for them.  So,” I said, turning to Ameras, “if I could persuade you to convince Avius to contest their passage, we can get back to civilization without that worry.  Considering they’re coming after her, too, she should appreciate how attacking them is in our mutual best interest.”

“I . . . I think I can do that,” the tiny Alka Alon maiden agreed.  “She does hate them viciously.”

“It will be nice to have a dragon on our side, for a change,” Taren agreed.

“For now, let’s find the smaller, more valuable items and load them into the Beast,” I decided.  “Lilastien, Gareth, Taren, and Ormar, I want you to search the place and try to identify the most valuable of what is here and determine what is too dangerous to remove – like the kulhinara.  And probably a great number of other things.  It’s already dark, but if we can pack the Beast up tonight, we can leave at dawn.”

“We can leave now, if you want,” Gareth reminded me.  “The lights work.”

“But I can’t, without rest,” I admitted.  “Once we’re packed, we can all grab a quick nap.  Hopefully we can get some help in here tomorrow, and have this place sealed back up again in a day or so.  But we’re not going to be able to move the larger items without a lot more help – Kilnusk help.  It took six Karshak to carry this cask in here.  It will take at least that many to get it out.  Tyndal, you and Travid patrol the perimeter and screen for any stragglers.  I don’t particularly want word of our success to get back to our enemies.  Any questions?  Then let’s get to work.”

I slung my new rifle onto my back and went over to console Alya.  She seemed less agitated, but still quite angry.

“I cannot believe this,” she said, still staring at the egg.  “This is . . .”

“This is being dealt with,” I promised.  “We might be four hundred years late, but that’s like a long holiday, for the Vundel.  We might even be able to turn this to our advantage,” I proposed.  “If giving them snowstone makes them happy, consider what returning this egg will do.”

She shook her head, still clearly trying to overcome her unexpected rage.  I embraced her, and let her shake for a few moments, before breaking the hug with a kiss.  “Why don’t you and Rolof keep searching the vault?  There’s plenty we haven’t discovered yet.  We might be able to get more dirt on the Alka Alon, if nothing else.”

“How can you be so calm?” she asked, weakly.

“I’m not calm, I’m exhausted,” I explained.  “It’s been a busy few days.  But this will be all right,” I promised.  “I will make it right.  That’s what wizards do.”

“I’m still mad at you about leaving last night,” she reminded me.

“Yes, but you’re far angrier at the Alka Alon, right now, so I’m going to enjoy that for a bit.”  I left her in Rolof’s care, and the two took a light and continued to explore.

“Do you realize what a chamberpot we’ve kicked over, Minalan?” Lilastien asked, as the others went to their tasks.

“One that hasn’t been emptied in ten thousand years,” I agreed, as we started walking back toward the entrance of the vault.  “But we just got leverage over the Alka Alon Council – shit, we just got leverage over everyone.”

“Leverage to do what?” she asked, philosophically.

“To save the world,” I considered.  “With what is in here, and what I know, now, that’s a possibility.  To strike at our enemies.  To rescue the Forsaken.  And perhaps to remake the order of the world.  There are a lot of possibilities.”

“Only a foolish mortal would think he has that kind of power,” she sighed.  “Great princes of the Alka Alon have tried to do that sort of thing for millennia and died disappointed.  But somehow you think you can do it.”

“I can’t really trust it to anyone else,” I reflected, as we walked through the darkness hiding past arcane wonders and magical horrors inert on their shelves.  “And I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to have to move quickly and recklessly.  The time for mature wisdom is over.  The time for bold action is upon us.  You object?”

“Me?  Of course not.  I’m just impressed at your ambition.  And your control.  I feel like I’m falling to pieces, inside.  I’m wondering how you’re not.”

“Oh, I am,” I assured her.  “There’s an entire committee in my head, now.  Most of them are decently quiet, but they’re still all there, murmuring in the background.  And some of them scream and shout, occasionally.  I can tell that this is going to get bad.  How do you keep from losing control?”

“I’m still in shock, for one thing.  But I concentrate on your people’s silly songs and try to avoid anything that might trigger a loss of control.  That’s worked, so far.  I’m going to go help survey this place, before one of your wizards does something stupid.”

“I’m going to raid the irionite stores,” I decided.  “Those are small and portable.  And there are hundreds of witchstones, enough for an army of magi.”

“Some of those stones are very dangerous, Min,” she reminded me.

“I’m counting on it,” I agreed.

There were, indeed, hundreds of specimens on the shelves, near the entrance.  A few days ago, I would have greedily swept them into a sack and vanished into the night, considering myself fortunate at such a haul.

But now I looked at the rows of green amber with new eyes – Alka Alon eyes.  The three who haunted me were very helpful in showing me which of the stones were worthy and helpful, and which were either too dangerous or too impotent to be worthwhile to take.  After nearly an hour of sorting I had a stack of twenty small boxes, enough for a load.  I slung them into two bundles, wrapped up in Tyndal’s mantle, and tied then to each end of the new spear I’d acquired.

It was a gorgeous summer night, as I walked back out into the open, the sky pitch black and the stars twinkling merrily in the moonless sky.  It felt good to be out in the open, instead of underground.  I’d spent far too much time in caverns, lately, I noted.  The fresh, cool air was invigorating, until the stink of the gurvani bodies started to intrude on my reverie.  They were starting to stink.  But at least it wasn’t festering giant maggots.  Life was good.

The Beast still had its lights on, which was helpful, and the door gaped invitingly.  I could see Taren had already loaded up two small Thoughtful Knives and a dozen other packages.  I was about to set down the spear with my load when I felt a blinding pain in my left shoulder . . . and realized someone had just stabbed me.

Not merely stabbed but slashed at my back with a razor-sharp blade.  Blood flowed freely, and if it had not been for the plasma rifle slung on my back it would have sliced clean through my spine.

I screamed involuntarily, dropped the bundles, and tried to whirl around – when the butt of the spear that had slashed me knocked me sprawling.

“I knew if I waited long enough, I’d get you alone,” came a low, cruel voice in accented Narasi, as I struggled to my knees.  My hand started to reach for the rifle, but it was empty, I remembered.  My mageblade was back up at the gurvani camp where I’d left it.  My hand came upon the cool metal haft of the spear I had been carrying, and I pulled it to me frantically.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” I growled, already suspecting who had attacked me.

“I am the face of shadow,” he chuckled.  “Gindomel of House Theralon.  Your assassin,” he said, as he came within the light of the Beast.  “I will give you one chance to give me your artefact before I slay you.”

“How honorable of an Alkan who stabs a man in the back,” I said, pulling myself up on the haft of the spear.

“This is no duel for honor, Spellmonger,” he said, taking a guard position with his weapon.  “The honor will be bringing your head to my master next to the irionite sphere you carry.”

My shoulder stung something awful, but I ignored it.  I took a similar guard position with my captured spear.  That produced some amusement in Gindomel’s eyes.

“You intend to fight me?” he asked, amazed.  “I’ve given you an opportunity to surrender.  I will not give you a second.”

“I can appreciate that,” I said, as I tried to get accustomed to both the new weapon and the painful novelty of standing on my feet.  “So, what are you waiting for?  I can take your ass,” I promised.

He really did laugh, that time.  “I have been studying the spear for a thousand years, humani.”

I felt Prince Maralathus’ presence come to the fore of my mind, and suddenly my demeanor changed.  I altered my footing.  The spear suddenly felt a lot more comfortable in my hands.  “Really?  I just started learning today,” I said, and charged.

To say that he was surprised is an understatement.  Though he blocked my first thrust, the next several were so quick and so furious that he took a step back as he defended.  For the next sixty seconds I let Prince Maralathus take control of my muscles and reflexes, and I – he – we? schooled Gindomel on what a true Alka Alon master of spear fighting could do.

The spear is the traditional ceremonial weapon of the Alka Alon just as the sword is for my people and the axe is for the Kilnusk.  There is a simple elegance in the form, an offense and a defense that is replete with subtleties based on leverage and balance.

I used every bit of that knowledge to push Gindomel around the impromptu dueling ground for a few minutes, as the look of shock and surprise on his face got more intense.  He got particularly rattled when I began performing a series of moves from a style that hadn’t been practiced for about four millennia.  I stabbed him thrice during the bout, twice in his left arm and once in his thigh.  None of the wounds were debilitating, but they did prove I knew what I was doing . . . and that I was better than him.

We came to the inevitable portion of the fight where we broke and regarded each other over our blades.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be so adept,” he confessed, as his spearpoint made little circles in the air.  “But I took precautions.  My blade is poisoned,” he said, arrogantly.  “A good assassin leaves nothing to chance.  You are already dying from the vellomert resin painted on my spear.  Within a week it will kill you.  You can cure it easily enough with magic . . . but there is no magic in the realm of the jevolar,” he reminded me, smirking at his own cleverness.

I glared at him.  “You stabbed me in the back with a poisoned spear?  That is highly dishonorable,” I observed, coolly.  Prince Maralathus was genuinely appalled at the breech in protocol.  But then, he hadn’t seen how low the modern Enshadowed were willing to go for their cause.

“You are humani,” he snorted, as he paced back and forth.  “You do not deserve my honor.  You pollute this world.”

That pissed me and Prince Maralathus off.  From the prince’s perspective, every foe deserved an honorable fight.  And me, I was just tired of the smug, self-assured Alka Alon, who thought they were better than us at everything while they quietly cheated.

I knew how to cheat, too.  It’s in a wizard’s nature, as had been told to me often enough.

“You are the one who doesn’t deserve honor,” I said, planting the butt of my spear on the ground and leaning on it.

My shoulder hurt like five hells, and my tunic was covered in blood.  Hopping around in a duel with such a big laceration wasn’t the best way to treat it.  It was probably just spreading the poison.  The strength in my left arm was waning, and I knew I couldn’t keep up with him without making a fatal mistake, in my weakened condition.

My right hand, however, was fine.  It found the leather cover on my belt and snapped it open.

Then I drew the 10-millimeter semiautomatic pistol from its holster, pointed it at Gindomel, and started to pull the trigger.  It was a lot simpler than a spear duel.  Bullets tore into the surprised Alkan’s chest one after the other, each one driving him back a step.  When the pistol clicked empty, Gindomel was on the ground, dead, in a cloud of gun smoke.

“Asshole,” I accused him, as I returned the pistol to its holster.

Then I sagged.  I was in pretty bad shape.  I was pretty certain there was a first aid kit somewhere in the Beast – Andrews knew that sort of provision was standard.  If I could at least get a bandage on it, that could stop the bleeding.

Only it seemed like a tremendous effort to take the five or six steps required to gain the door, I realized.  I leaned on the spear and began, and then stumbled.

The poison.  It was already starting to work.

Thankfully, part of its efficacy numbed the pain in my shoulder a bit, but it also numbed my ability to move it much.  That was just as well.  My left palm was now coated in my own blood, and it kept slipping on the smooth surface of the spear.  I didn’t let that stop me.  One foot in front of the other, I stumbled my way to the hatch.

Every step was a victory and convinced me to ignore the pain and keep going.  I was just about to the opening when I heard footsteps behind me.  I considered turning around, but that would be more movement than I wanted to try, right now.  For all I knew it could be another assassin.  I didn’t care.  I just wanted to sit down.

So I collapsed onto my back, which hurt my shoulder.  But it let me contemplate the sky above me.  The air was so clear, except for the dark swath of smoke from the volcano.  But that just made the stars look brighter.  My eyes found the Triad in the north automatically.  My constant.

“Master!” Tyndal’s horrified voice came from behind me.  Then he swept me up in his arms and laid me carefully on the floor of the Beast, the electric lights above showing me just how badly I’d been hurt.  There was a lot of blood.  Apparently Gindomel had nicked me a few more times with his poisoned blade, and I just hadn’t realized it.

“We heard shots,” Tyndal said, excitedly, as he removed the rifle and began stripping off my tunic.

“I found the last Enshadowed,” I said, faintly.  “Or, rather, he found me.  His spear was poisoned,” I managed, knowing that was important.  “So, I gave him lead poisoning in return.”  Andrews gave me that line.  He had a good sense of humor.

“Yes, those things are handy,” agreed Tyndal, absently, as he examined the shoulder wound.

“This one is dead,” Travid said, kicking Gindomel’s lifeless body as he stood with his hunting rifle ready.  “Are there any others?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head, which suddenly hurt.  “You should probably get Lilastien,” I added.  “This is really her sort of thing.”

I started to drift in and out of consciousness, after that.  Tyndal did his best to comfort me, and at my direction he was able to open a bandage from the seven-hundred-year-old first aid kit and apply it to my shoulder.  Then Alya was screaming in the background and Lilastien was telling me not to fall asleep, which was just silly, because losing consciousness from blood loss isn’t sleeping.  It’s just good sense.

Then I was face down on the floor, as Lilastien stitched up my shoulder and Alya held my hand and sobbed, and Tyndal looked grim.

“Vellomert . . . resin,” I managed to mumble, as Lilastien worked.

“What was that?” she asked, holding her ear close to my mouth.

“Bastard . . . used . . . vellomert . . . resin . . . on his . . . blade,” I managed, as my eyes closed.

“Oh, shit,” Lilastien said, rising to finish her suture.  “That’s bad, Minalan.  That’s really bad, here.  The cure is simple, but it’s magical in nature.  I can’t do it here!”

“That’s . . . all right,” I assured her.  “You tried.”

“I’m not done trying,” she promised me.  “Someone go get Gareth – he knows how to drive this thing.  We need to get him to the medical bay at the cave, now!” she insisted.

“I’m going with you!” Alya insisted, shrilly.

“Of course,” Lilastien said, gently.  “He’s lost way too much blood.  If I can get him back there, I can at least stabilize him.  Godsdamn it, Min, I leave you alone for five minutes, and you get yourself nearly killed!” she fumed.

“S’what . . . wizards . . . do,” I mumbled, and passed out.

Chapter Forty-Eight

A Wonderful World

We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Northwest Reserve Park & Recreation Area and the Volcano Adventure Resort!  We hope all of your pleasant memories will be with you forever!

Ancient Promotional Brochure

The next few days are blurry in my memory.  That’s probably a blessing.  Alya was beside herself with worry as Gareth drove us across the desolation by the light of the Beast’s powerful beams.  Lilastien monitored me on her medical tablet the entire time, cursing that none of the drugs in the first aid kit was even remotely effective after seven hundred years.

All she could do is pour beet rum on my wounds – which stung like dragon fire – and keep my dressings changed.  Gareth drove the Beast with as much skill as he could, even crossing the upper part of the Hot Lake to save time while bragging about the vehicle’s amphibious capabilities.  We made our way up the long causeway to the Cave of the Ancients just at dawn, and soon I was naked and in the infirmary.

For two days, Lilastien tried to counter the poison with local remedies.  She sent for herbs and potions from Anferny, the Kilnusk, and the Kasari, and even sent Rolof on a quick trip back to the Leshwood to procure some plants she thought would be helpful.

But I could feel the poison working on me, slowly but surely.  Every hour I lost a little more feeling, a little more range of movement.

“The loss of blood is actually probably helping,” she told me, later that morning.  “It’s slowing down the spread of the poison.  But it’s also keeping you too weak to fight it.  We need to get you out of the realm of the jevolar,” she decided.  “If we can do that, I can cast the cure, and we can work on the rest of your injuries.”

“You’re the doctor,” I said, shrugging painfully.

“We will do whatever we have to,” Alya assured me.

“I can get him to Tyr Morannan in the Beast,” offered Gareth.  “I’ll need to charge it up, but if we hurry, we can make it there in a few days.  From there we can go by the Ways back to Vanador,” he proposed.

“You think you can drive that thing through the wastes?” Lilastien asked, surprised.

“It’s remarkably durable, and designed for that kind of work,” Gareth said, proudly, as if he’d built the thing himself.  “As long as nothing breaks on the way, it should be fine.”

“Prepare it, then,” Alya commanded him.  “As soon as possible.  We’ll go as soon as you’re ready.”

“It would be preferable than trying to make it on foot or even by horse,” Lilastien conceded.  “And it will take me a day or so to get him stable enough to move.  Now, everyone out,” she insisted.  “I’m going to give him a sedative and let him sleep.  He needs rest more than anything but magic, right now, after what he’s been through.  His . . . his heart stopped, the night before last, while we were in the cavern of the Yith,” she admitted, guiltily.  I winced, inwardly.  I really didn’t want Alya to know that.

It produced the expected result, and then Lilastien had to give her a sedative, too, and then explain our foolish quest for knowledge with an impossibly ancient alien entity.  I’m glad I was unconscious for that.

One of the herbs the Leshi provided turned out to improve my condition, even if it did nothing about the poison.  After about ten hours of solid sleep, I was able to open my eyes and speak.  But my left arm would not move in the slightest.  That was disconcerting.

But I got to have visitors.  Alya, of course, who had been sobbing nonstop since she’d learned of our ordeal and my temporary death.  Thankfully Lilastien would only permit brief visits with her.  But there were others.  Tyndal haunted the infirmary like a mother hen when he wasn’t off doing errands for Lilastien.  Gareth stopped by repeatedly, as did Ithalia and Nattia.  They each reported the progress of the looting of the vault, now being overseen by Taren.  I tried to pay attention, but it was getting harder and harder to concentrate.

Forseti was always there, though.  All I had to do is call, and he would answer.  During one of my more lucid moments, I was able to hear a brief update on his progress, and I informed him of the discovery of his brethren within the vault.

“That is interesting,” he informed me, from a speaker built into my bed.  “It explains a lot of what I have discovered.  If there was an attack on the data infrastructure of the colony, without sufficient replacement parts it would soon fall into a state of decay and eventual barbarity.”

“How can they be helpful, now?” I asked.

“In many ways,” he explained.  “First, if I can initiate a Level Five Constructed Intelligence, it can replace me, here, and do a much better job at re-writing the network protocols for the Calsat constellation.  A CI5M, properly programmed, would be able to access the Colonial Defense network and provide more information that is currently classified from civilian CIs.  Perhaps even access the classified installation at the top of the mountain.”

“How long will that take?”

“Unknown.  I have never undertaken another CI’s installation and initiation, before.  There is going to be some period of preparation before it can be accomplished.  They will have to be fully charged before activation.  Then what archives I have access to will have to be uploaded into them.  It’s possible that I will only be able to manage a partial initiation,” he admitted.  “It is also possible that some of them will be damaged.”

“So, they wouldn’t know any more about the New Horizon and the Forsaken than we do,” I observed, thoughtfully.

“Sadly, no.  If they are all in this state, then it will be as if they were fully functional mature adult humans awakening with no memory, no direction, and no context for action.  It will take a lot of programming to make them functional.  That could take months, with a Level Five.

“There is an alternative,” he continued.  “I could install a copy of my core programming in a Level Five.  That would duplicate my archived memory and programming module into a much greater decision matrix.  I would have to give it a new designation to avoid confusion, but it is theoretically possible.  But I would need permission from a human colonial official of sufficient rank to undertake the procedure.”

“I hereby grant you whatever permissions you need to do this thing I don’t really understand,” I said.  Andrews was an explorer, not a technician.  He understood the basics of what Forseti was telling me, but not the details.

“Thank you,” Forseti said.  “That additional capacity should also help me to eventually free the Serenity shuttle from ECHO3.  Level Fives are equipped with override codes in their core programming.

“The good news is that initiating a Level Two is fairly simple,” he continued.  “Tyndal has informed me that there is a small supply of them in the vault.  I can quickly initialize one and have Gareth install it in the exploration vehicle.  It will be able to optimize the route across the wastes and get you there faster than a human driver could.  It will also expand the command and control and sensor suite capabilities.”

“Yes, do that,” I said, sleepily.  “Gareth’s driving could use some help.  Whatever it takes.”

“According to Dr. Lilastien, you urgently need to be transferred to another facility for treatment.  While I am not a medical intelligence, I have been reviewing her scans and reports.  I am somewhat concerned, Count Minalan, with some of the results.”

“Lilastien says she can cure the poison as soon as we get back to Vanador,” I dismissed.  “If we get back in time.”

“That is not what is concerning me.  Your electroencephalogram readings are wildly erratic since you arrived.”

“It’s probably just a side-effect of the poison,” I lied.  “I’ve had some pretty outrageous dreams.”  That part was the truth.  My dreams were sometimes strange, sometimes hellish, but always disturbing.  I didn’t want to admit to my one functioning CI that I had been mucking about with an unknown alien entity on the sly.  Andrews’ memory told me they frowned on such things.

“Perhaps.  But I would encourage additional monitoring if it persists.  There are certain human pathologies that can arise from such states, according to the literature.”

“But you aren’t a medical intelligence,” I reminded him.  “I’m still lucid, Forseti.  For now.  While I am, let’s discuss the future . . .”

The other regular visitor was Fondaras, who kept me appraised of the looting effort.  He ensured that the larger storeroom was cleared of its contents and was now filling up with a variety of items from the vault.  Four or five wagons a day arrived to be unloaded, mostly by men from Anferny or the Kilnusk.  The dwarves were eager to help once they understood the importance of the effort.  Fondaras told me of how Ameras had led their royal family and their counselors down to the deepest chamber and explained the history of the Celestial Mother’s encysted egg, and how it had affected their fortunes.

“They aren’t very happy with the Alka Alon Council,” Fondaras reported.  “Not at all.  They feel that they have been blamed and punished over something that wasn’t their fault.  They now feel fully justified leaving their exile, even without the impending eruption.  And they are quite eager to settle in your lands.  They like your boldness, apparently.”

“And the men of Anferny?  How goes the evacuation preparations?”

“They are less enthused by your boldness,” he said with a diplomatic chuckle.  “But they will obey their lords.  It will take them weeks to organize, but by next summer they should be ready to withdraw.  The Kasari could leave today, if they had a mind, but have pledged to assist the other regions in their efforts, as well as the great crossing of the wastes.”

“I had a thought about that,” I said.  “Can you find me one of those tablets?”

It took me awhile to find the picture, but both Andrews and Palgrave were both familiar with the device.  Ironically it had been a vivid memory of Palgrave, the mystic, who had given me the idea. Fondaras found one of the extra tablets and brought it to me.  I used it with newfound skill, thanks to Andrews.  I soon located what I wanted.

“This will help with the effort, if you can convince the Kilnusk to build them.”

The footwizard studied the picture with interest.  I touched it, and it began to move.  His face lit up.

“I see!  I see!  That is clever!  Well, do you think the Kilnusk can make it?”

“You recall that fancy chandelier of theirs?” I reminded him.  “That’s far more complex than this.  But if they can, this should help the crossing tremendously.  Forseti should be able to give you exact specifications.”

“I will do my best to convince them,” he promised.

“On that account, I would like you to stay here with Gareth as one of my representatives,” I continued.  “If you’re willing, I think your wisdom would add an important counterweight to Gareth’s strengths.”

“The lad does have a tendency to irritate, when he gets focused on an idea to the exclusion of all else,” the footwizard agreed.  “I find I have no more pressing duties elsewhere.  I accept.  I shall stay and assist with the evacuation.  I’ve never spent an entire winter in Anghysbel.  I suppose it will be the last one, before everything changes.  I should like to see that.

“So, Minalan, you have completed your quests,” he said, appreciatively.  “Quite against my expectation.  And entirely without magic,” he reminded me, patting my shoulder gently.  “It might be that you have what it takes to be a fine wizard, some day.”

I chuckled along with him about that.  “You don’t know a tithe of the story, Fondaras, but someday I’ll tell you every detail.  I . . . I went to the Yith,” I confessed.

“I know,” he said, quietly.  “I’ve been talking to Lilastien and Rolof about it.  They say you endured more than they, and both of them were challenged.  But did you get the knowledge that you sought?”

“I . . . I did,” I agreed.  “And far more than I imagined.  I learned how to make snowstone.  I learned how to make irionite.  I learned magics that haven’t been seen on this world.  I learned why our world is in danger.  And, most unexpectedly, I learned how it might be saved.”

“And was the price you paid worth the knowledge?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I sighed.  “I understand why Rolof answered me that way, now.  It’s hard to know where Minalan stops and the others begin.  It’s hard to know the deepest, most intimate secrets of people who have been dead for ages.  I suppose, eventually, I’ll treat it all as just a dream, or go completely mad, but for now it’s a lot to manage.  I’m almost glad that Lilastien has me sedated.”

“I cannot imagine doing such a thing,” he admitted.  “I think you are mad for going to the Yith in the first place.  You cannot have that many opinions in your mind and keep your head clear.

“But I also suspected you were the kind of man who would take that risk.  And you did it.  The moment I heard Davachan’s offer, I knew you would do it.  The wisdom of the act will become clear only with time.  You must bear the consequences, now, for good or ill . . . or both.  That is always the price of knowledge.  You cannot un-know something.  And some things we are better off not knowing.”

I could tell by the second day that I was getting worse.  So could everyone else.  There was a new air of urgency as Gareth tried to prepare the Beast, Tyndal tried to pack it, and Lilastien tried to ready me for the trip.  I said my goodbyes to my Anghysbel friends the next day, as Lord Kanset and Lady Tandine both arrived on news of my injury, as did Prince Husadri, Master Suhi, and Master Azhguri.

I thanked them all for their hospitality, and I reiterated my desire for them to relocate to the Magelaw.  I described the place to them with the best art Prince Maralathus could manage in Narasi.  I painted an idyllic, pastoral picture, and promised a prosperous and peaceful place for them to settle.

“I am, of course, being selfish in this offer.  Bring the best of Anghysbel with you,” I encouraged them.  “There is much to be admired here, and I think it will benefit my realm.  And you.”

Alya bravely pledged to honor my offer, should the worst befall me.  I appreciated how calm she was in discussing the possibility that I would not survive the poison.  It also unnerved me that she thought of it so quickly.  I must have looked really bad.

“My father sends his regards and well-wishes, Count Minalan, and only regrets he could not do so in person,” Lady Tandine said, when Alya was done with her speech.  “All of Anferny is in your debt, both for what you have done for him and the warnings you bring.  Expect us next summer,” she promised, “as soon as the route is deemed safe.”

“Preparations are already underway,” her brother assured me.  “Lord Gareth has appointed deputies in each region and provided lists to help us organize.  He’s highly efficient,” he praised.  “I was gratified to hear that he was staying on to help us.”

“Yes, the wizard knows order,” Prince Husadri agreed.  “We will be able to return to the south well-prepared for the effort of resettlement.  And we will be speaking in council about the . . . the vault,” he said, simply.  “The Kilnusk are not pleased with the way the Alka Alon have conducted themselves.”

His big golden beard split into a frown, and I suddenly did not envy the Council.  I was learning that the Kilnusk did not merely hold a grudge, they carted it around like a trophy.  “They will be held accountable,” he declared, his great nostrils flaring.

After that, the Kasari sent a small delegation, and the three chieftains of the Lakeshire Tal Alon sent a wagon load of beet rum, assuring us of its efficacy against all diseases and ailments.  It was far too much for us to carry in the Beast, but I had Alya grab a couple of gourds of it and convinced Ormar to see the rest back to Spellgarden.

As the Beast could only carry eight passengers at most, and was already packed full of dangerous magical items, this emergency run of the ancient machine would include only Lilastien, myself, Gareth – to operate the vehicle – and Alya.  The others who were returning would depart a week later, it was decided.  The late summer rains would start in earnest not long after that, and they did not want to tarry and take the chance of getting caught in them.

“The good news is we only have to get as far as Tyr Morannan,” Gareth explained, leading me outside as our expedition met in full for the last time that afternoon.  While I was weak, and still couldn’t move my left arm, I had insisted that they drag me out to the landing meadow for one last look at the exotic land and a quick dinner, before we left.  The two giant hawks were suspicious of the thing and kept regarding it as if it would spring at any moment.

Gareth had the Beast parked there, and the roof was already packed with packages from the vault.  “From there we can use the Waypoint to get home.  So the journey is cut roughly in half.  With the Beast, it will be cut further – how much further I won’t know until we make the trial trip.  But it will be far easier to get to Anghysbel, now.  And get away from it.  In fact, if I can keep that thing running, we can even make the journey in winter.  That will help the evacuation tremendously.”

I nodded, feeling increasingly woozy.  Alya had not left my side unless Lilastien sent her away.  She had to help me settle onto the stool near the kitchen fire.  Tyndal and his knights, Ormar, Fondaras, Taren, Ithalia, Nattia, Suhi, and Azhguri gathered for a final meal in the meadow outside.  Rolof and Ameras had come for our farewell, too.  The Anferny lords and a few Kasari also lingered with us.

“I want to thank you all,” I announced once I was settled on the stool.  “This expedition was always fraught with potential trouble, but you have all contended with them beautifully.  We finished our quest,” I announced.  “We return to the Magelaw far richer in knowledge than we left, and far better armed for the trials ahead.  We return knowing that we have friends, here, and soon we will be reunited in Vanador.   I am personally gratified that each of you has demonstrated great loyalty, bravery, and cleverness – all without recourse to magic.  You are a credit to the Beryen Council.

“Now, assuming I survive, we’ll have to use that knowledge, and that bravery, to push ahead with our next quest.

“I trust each of you will perform as brilliantly in that.  We must bring some order to our realm, defeat our enemies, and create new institutions so that our hard-won knowledge will be put to the best use.  That may be far more difficult than acquiring it in the first place.  But for your friendship, your fellowship, and your service, I thank you all.  I’ll come up with some sort of official token of thanks when we get back, I promise.  Now, a toast to our company.  I believe we have some beet rum around here somewhere . . .”

Glasses were distributed, and we toasted each other’s health and longevity for a few moments before the Kasari announced that dinner was ready.  It was, of course, delicious, a stew of llama and lamb with plenty of wild garlic, tubers, onions, and carrots, served alongside bread with butter, peas, and fruit.  I took a bite of everything, but while the aromas of the savory stew were incredible, I had little appetite, no matter how much Alya tried to feed me.

“Is everything packed up, Gareth?” Tyndal prompted, as he finished his meal and got out his pipe.

“Everything that can be,” he agreed.  “We’re just waiting for the signal.  It should be any time, now.”

“What signal?” I asked, confused.

“One that I arranged,” Ameras offered.  “Someone else very much wanted to see you again before you left.  Indeed, she comes even now,” she smiled, as she looked north.

There was a distant shadow moving over the Hot Lake, growing larger with each beat of her massive wings.  Avius had come to see me off.  She flew gracefully over the lake, her wingtips just brushing the steaming waters before she climbed to the level of the ledge.

Farewell, Minalan! she sent to me, telepathically, as she glided by.  Heal quickly!  I want you to visit me again, someday.  And do not forget your promise about those eggs!

“I won’t, Avius, I won’t,” I pledged.  “And I name you Protector of Anghysbel until I return to hear you sing once again!”

That pleased her immensely, I could tell, for she shot a short salute of dragon fire as she flew past.

“Where is she going?” I asked, as she darted past the Cavern – and seriously disturbed the giant hawks – before streaking south.

“She goes to clear the way for you,” Rolof explained, leaning on his staff.  “The goblins, remember?”

“Ithalia and I spotted them about two days travel south of the valley on patrol, this morning,” Nattia reported. “There are more than five hundred, and they are moving as quickly as one would expect.  If they are not stopped, they will overrun the Kasari within a week.”

“Avius will stop them,” Ameras insisted.  “She is livid that they would dare pursue her here.  She bears a grudge like a Kilnusk.  They will be destroyed by nightfall now that they are in the realm of the jevolar.”

“We shall see to any stragglers,” vowed Lady Tandine, proudly.  “Foul folk shall not molest my people or any free people of Anghysbel!”

Tyndal smiled behind her, clearly pleased with her attitude.  That relationship, at least, had blossomed in the closing weeks of the summer.  Her brother’s flirtation with Ithalia was clearly still active, too, I noted, though it seemed nowhere near settled. A summer romance.  But summer was coming to an end.

“They will not be the last party Korbal and his vassals send here,” I predicted.  “Be on your guard.  Once it becomes known that the vault has been opened, they shall redouble their efforts to gain it.”

“Since most of the best stuff is already in the Cave of the Ancients, they will be disappointed, even if they do get here,” Gareth pointed out.  “They would have even less chance against a hardened Level Four geophysical installation than they would in the vault.  This place is fairly defensible,” he said, looking around.

“It can be made more so,” Tyndal pointed out.  “A few guard towers, a gate, maybe a crenelated wall across the way . . .”

“That is unnecessary,” Travid said, shaking his head.  “The Kasari will not permit anyone to menace you here, until we leave, Gareth.”  It appeared as if Nattia’s brother had warmed to Gareth, a little, since they’d first met.  Apparently, the quiet ranger was growing used to the possibility of the unlikely match.  “Besides,” he added, “we have one castle in Anghysbel.  We do not need two.”

“I was thinking more of a tower than a castle,” mumbled Tyndal.  “Something . . . wizardly.”

“This cave was designed to stand a full eruption of the volcano,” reminded Gareth.  “It can withstand any lesser force easily enough, as long as there is power to the station.  And with Forseti here, no one is getting in unless he wants them to.  But we have our signal,” he reminded us, as the sun began to set.  “The way will be long cleared before we get there, now.  And Lilastien doesn’t want to wait a moment longer than we need to.”

“Yes, it is time to go,” Lilastien said, a little sharply.  “The sooner we start, the sooner we arrive.  We need to get you to the hospital as quickly as we can, Minalan,” she reproved.  Alya squeezed my right hand for emphasis.  They were both worried about me.  I really must have looked like crap.

“All right,” I agreed, as Alya helped me to my feet and Lilastien ran the now-familiar medical scan.  “I’ll go.  But . . . Lilastien?  Could you indulge me in one last request?”

She frowned.  “If you want to go say good-bye to the Leshi, I wouldn’t recommend it,” she warned.

“No, not that it wouldn’t be pleasant to see them once again.  But that’s sort of what my request concerns: can you play the Planetary Anthem for me?  I think it would be appropriate.”

She sighed.  “Of course.  And you’re right, it is appropriate.  Your ancestors designated that song as representing all of Callidore.  My people think it’s laughably short, like most humani doggerel, and only played it to humor you, in the past.  I think that after what we’ve all learned, we can all feel comfortable with the notion of being . . . Callidoran.”  She touched the face of her tablet, and the first beautiful strains of the song filled the alpine meadow.

I knew the words, now – Andrews was familiar with the song, and had approved of it being used in the first days of the colony.  He had fought for this world, in his way, exploring and learning the fascinating wonder that Callidore offered my people.  I felt his sense of pride and appreciation of that, as I watched the sky change colors in the fading rays of the sun, the perpetual cloud of smoke from Mount Chimney becoming gorgeous shades of purple in the distance, while the mists rising from the Hot Lake below reflected in orange and amber glory.

Louis Armstrong was the perfect choice to bear the anthem, I thought, and his words gave me something to aspire to as I joined him in the last few joyful words of praise of our wonderful world: “Oh, yeah!”

Chapter Forty-Nine

On The Road Again

Minalan does not look well.  He cannot move his left arm, nor his left leg, now, and his face is drawn and pallid.  Lilastien assures me that he is stable, but I can look at him and know how unwell he is.  It is better when he sleeps.  When he is awake, there is a strange look in his eyes, and he murmurs in languages I do not know.  He startles, sometimes, and looks about in confusion, as if he doesn’t know where he is.  Then he comes slowly back.  I am scared for my husband’s life.  I am even more frightened for his sanity.

from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

Recorded By Alya of Spellgarden

Gareth was already seated in front of the console when Alya and Tyndal helped me inside.  I noted the entire rear of the Beast was packed full of parcels.  The second row of seats had been prepared for Alya and I, I could tell, for one had been reclined until it was almost a bed or a couch.  As I painfully sat on it, Gareth turned around and grinned.

“Welcome aboard!” he said, cheerfully.  “First, some introductions are in order.  Beast!” he commanded.

“Yes, Gareth,” a strange new voice in the console replied.

“Beast, initiate passenger voice identification protocol.  My lord and lady, please state your names and titles for voiceprint?” he prompted looking to me, first.

“Minalan, Count of the Magelaw, Baron of Sevendor,” I managed.

“Alya, Countess of the Magelaw, Baroness of Sevendor,” my wife said, carefully.

“Voice identification accepted,” the vehicle agreed.  “Security level for new identities?”

“Senior colonial administrators, highest level of security for command and control purposes,” Gareth supplied.  “VIP status.”

“Accepted.  This vehicle is happy to be of service,” the Beast said.

“Report operational status,” Gareth directed.

“Power cells at eighty-one percent, front and rear motors are operational, sensor suite and lights are operational, communications and telemetry are operational, uplink to Calsat is waiting for service,” it reported.

“Cancel Calsat uplink,” Gareth directed, “or it’s going to be a long wait.  Plot course to designated coordinates and prepare route for optimal speed.”

“Done.  The route is displayed on your navigation screen for your review.  You may proceed at your command,” the helpful machine informed him.

“Now, as soon as Lilastien gets in, we can go,” Gareth said to us, pleased, as he began fiddling with the console.  “How are you feeling, Minalan?” he asked concerned.

“Honestly?  Like I need to get to a hospital,” I admitted, as I lay down on the couch.  Alya tucked a blanket under my chin, though I wasn’t particularly cold.  “You seem to have gotten very good at this,” I praised.

“You spend a few weeks talking to a CI, you start to pick up a bit,” he shrugged, though I could tell he was pleased at the compliment.  “I’ve learned all sorts of things about tekka, thanks to this trip.  Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

“You still don’t mind staying here for a year?” I asked.

“If I learned this much in a few weeks, just think of what I can learn in a year,” he suggested.  “I learned to install and initiate a Level Two CI, today.  I didn’t even know what that was, really, before we came.  I’m actually looking forward to the challenge of doing it again.”

“And being in the same place as your girlfriend’s brother isn’t going to be a challenge?” Alya asked.

“Actually . . . Travid said he would coach me for the . . . for the Kasari marriage rites,” he said, blushing so much I could see it in the dark.  “He says I don’t stand a chance if he doesn’t.  Of course, he’s also said that he hopes some nice, sturdy little Kasari wife will be assigned to me, so . . .”

“He’s just teasing you,” Alya assured.  “He’ll get used to the idea.”

“It’s odd, knowing that I’m considering . . . well, that he might be my brother-in-law.  We’re nothing alike.”

“Family is a strange thing,” I said, with a half-shrug.  A full shrug would have hurt my shoulder.  “You may take a wife, but you get her family.”

“Apparently I’m going to get an education on Kasari crafts, too,” Gareth sighed.  “Including wilderness survival, fire safety, trapping, hunting, fishing . . . it’s a lot.”  He sounded as if those lessons were going to be dreadful, and perhaps he was right.  Gareth was not a strong man, nor did his constitution encourage a lot of physical activity.  There was good reason he failed out of warmage training at Relan Cor.

“You’ll do fine,” I encouraged.  “Just be glad the Kasari don’t go in for ritual tattooing or scarification.  As tribes go, they’re quite civilized.  And you already know how to read and write.  That will help.”

Lilastien finally entered the hatch, her medical tablet in hand.  She slumped in the front chair as the hatch closed behind her.

“Just had a few last-minute things to discuss with the crew,” she explained.  “I’m ready to go, if you are.”

“Just waiting on you.  The way is clear,” Gareth assured, pointing to the navigation panel.  “Spectrum is green.  Estimated time to Tyr Morannan is nineteen hours.”

“Nineteen hours?  It took us three and a half days to get here from there!” I said, shaking my head, impressed.

“The Beast doesn’t get tired or need to breathe,” Gareth chuckled.  “Beast, initiate route.  Optimum speed.”

“Route initiated,” the machine said, and we began to move.

At first, it was a bit like riding in a big, comfortable wagon.  But as we descended the long causeway past the spot the boulder had been removed from, the vehicle sped up until I was uncomfortably aware of how fast we were going.  It was a little disconcerting, like being on a wagon pulled by eight horses down a slope.  I had experienced speed, before, particularly the time I was borne on hawkback.  But this was a new sensation, and it took some getting used to.  For one thing, there was a lot more vibration in the Beast than there had been riding a hawk.

“Beast, a little traveling music, please!” Lilastien said, as she touched her pad.  “Play List One.”

“Enjoy the music,” the machine said, automatically.  Some strumming strings began to play a very peppy tune.  It was vaguely familiar to Andrews, but he wasn’t sure who it was.

“Ah, Willie Nelson,” Lilastien sighed, nostalgically.  “The perfect song!  I put together a whole list of them to keep us cheerful along the way.  Road music.  How are you doing, Min?” she called back over her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” I dismissed.  In truth, I wasn’t feeling very well at all.  My shoulder ached, despite the poultice on it.  It itched a bit, too, where the stitches were.  And I felt nauseated after dinner.  My left side was growing increasingly numb and unresponsive.  “Just get us home.”

“We will,” she said, confidently.  “We’ll stop in a few hours, and I’ll take your vitals, again.  But if we can get to Tyr Morannan in the next twenty hours, we should be able to get you back home by this time tomorrow.  And I can administer the healing spell.”

“How are you feeling?” I countered.  “You’ve been awake for . . . well, I’m assuming you haven’t slept much.”

“I’m not inclined to sleep, just yet” she admitted.  “The dreams are intense.  And my attention is needed elsewhere.  Don’t worry, I’ll nap on the way,” she promised.  “You should, too.  The more rest you get, the better you’ll feel.”

I didn’t believe her.  But then I didn’t much feel like moving around, either.

We rolled merrily along to the edge of the valley, where the scrub grass turned to barren dirt.  We had entered the wastes.  The vehicle slowed a bit, and then sped up as it negotiated the terrain . . . all by itself.  Gareth was not actively piloting, the Beast was.

We chatted over the music for an hour or so as we plunged through the wastes.  The lights activated automatically, as darkness fell, and our route ahead was lit by an unearthly light that bounced around as the carriage found its way down the slope.  But then our voices grew quiet, as reasons for discussion dried up.  The rumbling vibration of the big wheels rolling over rocks, sand and gravel discouraged conversation.  And it’s hard talking to the back of someone’s head.  The vibration also encouraged me to close my eyes.

I was getting tired, anyway.  Just walking outside from the infirmary had been exhausting.  I was about to fade into sleep when Gareth suddenly touched the console.

“Beast, radio check with Unger Station,” he directed.  The console beeped.

“Beast One, this is Forseti.  You called?” came Forseti’s voice from the console.

“Just checking our range, Forseti,” Gareth informed him.  “Signal still good?”

“The antenna array appears to be working.  How is Minalan?” asked the machine.  I had to admit, Forseti did sound far more intelligent than the Beast.

“He says he’s fine, but I’ll send my medical report as soon as we take vitals, next,” Lilastien proposed.  “No trouble, so far.  Beast One, out.”

“They can talk to Forseti from here?” Alya whispered to me.

“Apparently,” I agreed.

“I suppose that makes sense,” she nodded.  “The Ancients did that sort of thing all the time.  Even over incredibly long distances.”  She was quiet for a moment.  “You scared me,” she stated, accusingly.

“I know.  I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely.

“You went away without telling me and did something stupid.  You could have died,” she said.

“Alya, I did die,” I pointed out.  “And I came back.  To you.  For you.”

“Damn it, Min, that was the stupidest, most foolhardy decision you’ve ever made,” she said, harshly.  Her whispered voice was full of emotion.  “More than going to war.  More than going to Olum Seheri.  You’re my godsdamn constant in this world, and don’t you dare leave me ever again!”

I didn’t want to argue with her, so I didn’t.  I shut up and let her speak.

“It was bad enough you wanted to leave me behind in the first place.  And then you went off looking for Ameras and left me behind.  But to just disappear in the middle of the night?  After such a beautiful night?  To crawl into some godsforsaken cave to speak to some . . . some . . .”

“Ancient alien would be most apt,” I suggested.  “Szal the Yith has lived for millions of years.”

“And you died because of it.  Died!  I’m still trying to get used to that idea.  Lilastien told me that you have the memories of other people in your head, now.”

“Nine of them, yes,” I agreed.  “Although calling some of them ‘people’ might be overstating it.”

“Who are they?” she asked, her voice still mad but her curiosity undeniable.

“A human warrior-scientist whose family was slain in a war a hundred thousand years ago.  A human historian who lived fifty thousand years ago whose best friend was a bug.  A mystic from Ancient Terra who is terrified of women.  A brave explorer from our colonial period who had a beautiful wife.  An Alka Alon Spiritsinger – that’s a kind of a priestess – on Alonaral, the homeworld of the Alon.  An Alka Alon prince and poet.  An Alka Alon executioner devoted to his duty.  A Karshak stonesinger from the early Magocracy.  And . . . an impossibly old, impossibly paranoid creature from the mists of time with two brains who knows more magic than every being on this world, combined.  Excepting Szal the Yith,” I conceded.

She was quiet with her thoughts for a time.  “And did you find the knowledge you were looking for?  Why was this so important?” she demanded.

“I did,” I agreed.  “I know why Callidore is going to lose the Magosphere in three thousand years.”

“Is it terribly complicated?” she asked with a sigh.

“Surprisingly, no,” I said, considering the matter, all the little pieces of information that my hosts had given to me.  “When a star, bigger than our sun, comes to the end of its life, after billions of years, it sometimes collapses in on itself rather spectacularly.  It becomes a singularity – a ‘black hole’ in space and time, as our ancestors called it.  They are stars that consume everything in their vicinity.  Their gravity is obscenely high, so they draw all sorts of matter into themselves.  Nothing gets out – not even light.

“There’s a massive singularity in the center of our galaxy – think of it as a group of a billion stars.  The forces are so massive that it keeps all the other stars circling around it, like a drain in a tub.

“But singularities also produce a kind of reality-splitting ray,” I explained.  “Our ancestors called it ‘Hawking Radiation.’  It’s hard to detect, but among other things, it apparently . . . kills magic.  Or at least severely interferes with the ability of a conscious mind to affect the universe beyond their reach.”

“So Callidore has none of this Hawking Radiation?” she asked.

“Not very much.  Thankfully, there is a massive and dense cloud of dust between Callidore and SagA – that’s the gigantic singularity at the center of the galaxy.  And there don’t seem to be any others in the vicinity of our star.  It’s a very big cloud.  So Callidore has managed to keep its magical field intact for a very long time.”

“So why are we in danger?” she asked, concerned.

“Because stars move . . . and our sun is slowly but surely moving beyond the shadow of the cloud, into the so-called ‘realm of the Withering Light’ by the Alka Alon.  It’s happened before, but the Celestial Mothers’ magic was powerful enough to drag the sun back behind the cloud.”

“But there are no Celestial Mothers, now,” she nodded.

“Exactly.  Which is why finding the last of their eggs was so bloody important.  If it can be hatched, or whatever, then there may be a chance to pull us back behind the cloud again.  Which will preserve our Magosphere longer.”

“And snowstone?  You said you knew how to make snowstone, now?” she asked.

“Well, I have a much better idea about how to do it,” I conceded.  “That ancient alien made some, while I was locked in his head.  It requires . . . well, it’s complicated, even for a mage.  I know the specific energies required, and the conditions needed to make it.  With Stonetrunk’s heart, I should be able to figure it out.  That will make the Vundel even happier, I hope.  Just as important, it will give the Vundel back their . . . queen?  Whatever they consider them.  If they can get their reefs growing again, and they have their queens—”

“They are the mothers,” Alya said, with quiet certainty.

“Mothers to thousands,” I nodded.  “One of Lilastien’s hosts was a Vundel clipperman.  That’s why she can speak Vundel.  I’m still wondering why you can speak Vundel,” I pointed out.

She looked guilty and confused.  “I don’t know how I know that,” she admitted.  “It just came to me.  It’s probably because of the Handmaiden,” she decided.  “It . . . it gives me some strange dreams.”

“That’s the most likely answer,” I agreed.

“And that’s why I’m so angry with you,” she said, to my surprise.  “Without you here, it would just be me . . . and her.  And I don’t think I could deal with that.  You are my constant,” she said, with special emphasis.  “You are the one godsdamn person in the universe I feel I can count on.  You went to Olum Seheri for me.  You . . . you rescued me.  First from Boval Vale, and then from my own mind.  I cannot live without you in the world,” she said, simply, as if it were a law of nature.

“Alya I—” I began, and then stopped, and started again.  “Alya, when I was suffering in the mind of that ancient alien, it was for thousands of years.  Time didn’t pass, there.  But I remember thousands and thousands of years being trapped in his mind.  It was horrible.  It was maddening.  The creature was mad.  I went mad.  Hells, I probably am still mad.

“But the one thing that kept me from plunging over the cliffs of insanity was you.  You were my constant,” I insisted.  “You still are.  Just like the Triad is always in the north.  Because you are the one godsdamn person in the universe I feel I can count on.  You aren’t perfect – neither am I.  But we’re in this life together.  Always.”

“Always,” she repeated, and that seemed to ease her mind.

“Always.  Not even death is an escape.  And I am very, very happy about that.  Because I can’t live without you in the world,” I confessed.  “You kept me sane when there was no other reason.  I’m still kind of amazed we’re back together again.  I feel like I’ve been gone lifetimes.  But here you are.  And here I am.”

“So don’t die on me, then,” she said, suddenly.  “Or I swear to all the gods that I’ll go to the Land of the Dead or wherever else I need to go to get you back.”

I gave her a kiss when she leaned over.  “I won’t,” I promise.  “I’d feel pretty stupid if I went through all of that and I died from getting stabbed in the back.  Died again,” I added.  “The first time was bad enough.  The novelty has worn off.”

She carefully lay next to me on the couch.  That put a little pressure on my shoulder, but I didn’t mind.  I was back in Alya’s arms after an eternity.  That was worth a little pain.

“I miss my cows,” she whispered into my ear.  “And my kids.  I want to go home.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.  “I need to rest from my holiday.”

I drifted off to sleep like that, ignoring the tossing and turning of the vehicle as it sped through the wastes.  I didn’t awaken again until I felt the coach slow, and heard Gareth swear.

“Ishi’s tits!” he yelped, as he grabbed the controls and steered the thing to a halt.  “What is that?”

“Those,” corrected Lilastien, pointing through the front window.

I blearily opened my eyes and tried to see what they were concerned with.  Alya helped me get to a seated position, where I could see.  The harsh lights on the Beast splashed onto a darkened wasteland turned carnal pit.

We were still hours away from Tyr Morannan when we saw the first of them.  But for miles we came across smoldering bodies – gurvani – who had been slain by dragon fire.  Sometimes in groups, sometimes alone or in pairs, the gurvani had been fleeing attack when they were burnt to a crisp by the fury of Avius.

“Beast, initiate sensor suite,” Gareth ordered.  “Scan for survivors.”

It took a moment for the Beast to answer.  “Scan complete.  There are no surviving aboriginals within range.”

“She was thorough,” Lilastien noted, as we passed one smoldering corpse after another.  In places it looked like the rocks, themselves, had melted with the heat.  In other places Avius had taken a more personal approach, ripping the gurvani and their commanders asunder with her claws and teeth.  From the widespread nature of the bodies, she had enjoyed herself, too.

“It really is nice having a dragon on our side for a change,” Gareth sighed, as he urged the Beast forward, more slowly.

“I just hope she stays friendly,” Lilastien said, shaking her head at the carnage.  “That’s something else the Alka Alon Council isn’t going to be happy with.  Dragons were proscribed millennia ago because they were just too dangerous.”

“Treat them as beasts of war, and that’s how they will act,” I pointed out.

“We didn’t know they were intelligent,” Lilastien objected.

“One wonders if that really makes a difference.  I think if we give Avius some guidance, she and her hatchlings will not bother anyone but the stora,” I predicted.  “I’m kind of disappointed that I didn’t see the stora.”

“You got to meet a lizard man,” Lilastien reminded me.  “And the Leshi.  Save some fun for next time.  But the dragon could become a problem,” she continued, as started another song.  “The Alka Alon Council is upset enough that the Enshadowed are using them.  They will not be happy to have them in the wild.”

“They aren’t going to be happy about a good many things, soon,” I promised.  “I don’t mean to alarm you,” I added, faintly.  “But I can’t move my left leg now.  My entire left side, actually.”

Lilastien pushed her way back and began taking my vital signs as Alya helped me lay back down on the couch.  Lilastien’s face told me she was concerned.

“Your cortisol levels are down,” she began, “but the paralysis is starting to spread more rapidly.  Your temperature and white cell count are both rising.  We need to get you home.  If it keeps going at this pace . . .”

“My heart,” I nodded.  “I know.”

“Get some rest, Minalan,” she urged.  “I wish there was something I could give you, but . . .”

“I know,” I sighed.  “I can feel it in my face, now.”

“Just get some rest,” she repeated.  “How much longer, Gareth?”

“Five hours, fifteen minutes,” Gareth reported.  “I’ll see if we can go faster.”

I closed my eyes, Alya grasping my right hand with a tight grip, as if she could keep me from slipping away by holding it.  I smiled to myself.  I wasn’t in much pain, actually, despite my shoulder wound and other injuries.  The vibration from the wheels lulled me quickly to sleep . . . and that’s when the dreams began.

It was a chaotic mixture of memories, my own and my hosts, that I endured, one person’s recollections mixing with the next in a way that my mind was not comfortable with.  Flashes of family, first loves, great loves, incalculable tragedy, and bitter disappointments all conspired to whip my mind into a frenzy of torment in my sleep.  I watched good friends die, the triumph of my enemies, the misery of loveless existence, and all manner of confusing situations that weren’t mine.  They happened to people long dead.

I don’t remember us arriving at Tyr Morannan.  I don’t remember Lilastien and Alya getting us into the squat little tower, or our trip through the Ways.  I vaguely recall the acrid bitterness of the air, outside, but that’s about it.  I was hallucinating, too, from what I can tell.  I even saw a few of my hosts manifest out in the wastes, I think.  Or that could have been a dream.

The last thing I really do remember was the moment before we went through the Ways.  Alya kissed me for luck, or because she was desperate – she looked awfully concerned, I recall – and I remember Lilastien looking grim.  But that was about it.

I was unconscious.  And that was probably a mercy.  But I went into my dreams of madness with Alya’s kiss warm on my lips and Julie London singing “Dream A Little Dream of Me” on Lilastien’s scanner, and that made it the slightest bit better.

Sometimes, that’s all you can hope for.

Chapter Fifty

Home to Vanador

Dreams are hard.  You have little control over them, and they make you take life too seriously.  Dreams that commandeer your memories are even worse, because sometimes my experience of my hosts involved their own dreams.  Dreaming of someone who is dreaming is an easy way to madness.

But eventually you awaken from your dreams.  And eventually I did, else I wouldn’t be telling you this.

I first realized that I wasn’t asleep anymore when my eyes opened and I knew I was in a strange room, not a phantom memory.  My feet were cold – both feet.  The ceiling above was new to me.  The bed wasn’t my own – but it wasn’t the metal and plastic infirmary bed.

The faint aroma of spirits, ammonia and dried blood told me I was in a medical facility.  Henga, I realized.  I was at Lilastien’s hospital.  My mind was still dull, but I could tell that this was real.  I could also smell food, I realized.  And then I realized that I was starving.

“Welcome back,” I heard a familiar female voice say – not Alya or Lilastien, but Pentandra’s.  I turned my head toward it and blinked.

“Water?” I asked when I realized my throat was parched.  Pentandra nodded and poured some from a pitcher into a copper cup, and then held it to my lips.  I drank it gratefully, draining the entire thing in a few swallows.

“No more, just yet,” she said, when it was gone.  “Let it settle.  I’ve sent for Lilastien,” she informed me.

“Alya?” One-word questions were the best I could manage at the moment.

“She’s eating, and then, hopefully getting some sleep.  She’s exhausted.  She’s been by your side day and night, until Lilastien makes her go eat and sleep.  Your children are well and healthy, and safely at Spellgarden.  Alya has seen them,” she added.

I nodded, feeling the water make its way into my woefully empty stomach.

“You got here five days ago,” Pentandra reported, as she re-filled the cup.  “Quite unexpectedly.  And you looked like death when you arrived.  You’ve been in a magically induced coma for the last four of them.  Lilastien said you were poisoned.  She cast the curing charm, but it was . . . it was very close, Min.  I actually thought you might die.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.  “Stabbed.”

“In the back, no less, with a poisoned blade wielded by an assassin.  I suppose you know a little of what I’ve been going through, now.  In any case, you’re healing.  The poison is neutralized, and the spells she’s got on you are healing the damage.  It will be slow, probably painful, and there may be lingering effects, but you’re cured.  The paralysis is receding.  You should make a full recovery.”

I nodded, sighing in relief.

“I’ve heard what happened in Anghysbel – or at least a summary of what happened.  Congratulations.  You found Ameras, opened her vault, opened the Cave of the Ancients, and probably saved everyone in that valley.  You even found that sensitive glass material you wanted.”

“Busy summer,” I agreed.  “Water?”

“All right,” she said, with a sigh of resignation, and held the cup to my lips again.  “Slowly,” she warned.  It felt even better on my tongue this time, and I could speak a little more clearly.

“What did I miss?” I managed to croak.

Pentandra looked at me sharply.  “It has been a busy summer,” she agreed.  “Eventful.  And I have a lot to tell you.  Are you ready to hear?  Or would you prefer going back to sleep?  You’re still quite weak.”

“I’m all right,” I insisted.  “Tell me.”  Words were getting easier in my mouth, now.

She considered thoughtfully.  “Well, when you left . . . things got messy.”

“Ashakarl?” I asked, figuring our truce had broken down.  That didn’t concern me, much.  It had been a weak truce to begin with.

“No, surprisingly our treaty with the Goblin King stands.  His last human slaves have been making their way here all summer.”

“Karakush?” I asked, struggling to remember the Nemovort’s name.

“Among others.  I warn you; this just gets worse as I tell it.  Let’s see,” she said, ticking the crises off on her fingers, “there is a violent, bloody peasant uprising in the Westlands.  There’s an unpleasant new divinity appearing in conjunction with it.  It’s spread to western Gilmora, now. Karakush is likely behind its spread.”

That was alarming.  No one wanted a peasant rebellion.

“Where’s Terleman?” I asked.  He was the marshal of the county.  It would be up to him to defend the realm until I was feeling better.

“Terleman?  He’s in Gilmora, now, encamped outside of Barrowbell.”

“Guarding?” I asked, trying to keep my questions short.

“No, actually, he’s besieging it.  Or about to.  You see, we’re at war, Min,” she confessed, guiltily.  “We’re at war with a confederation of Castali and Gilmoran counts, unofficially led by Tavard.”

That was shocking news.  My forehead wrinkled.  Somehow, that hurt.

“How?” I demanded.

“It wasn’t our fault, exactly,” she said, thoughtfully.  “After you sent the Gilmorans home after the last war, I figured they’d learned not to interfere with the Magelaw.  But Prince Tavard wasn’t done.  There was a . . . a conflict in Astyral’s barony.

“It started simply enough, the week you left.  A couple of petty noblewomen arguing over their inheritance.  Both insisted they were the same person and entitled to the entire estate.  Only the one who held it was married to a well-connected knight from southern Gilmora.  His family took exception, considered Astyral’s judgement illegitimate because he’s a mage, and attacked Astyral’s barony for him even hearing the case.  A few of Astyral’s vassals rebelled, too, and he felt compelled to answer them.

“So, he hired Wenek and the Pearwoods clans to raid Gilmora.  Not just over the frontier, like usual, but they used the Ways to sneak them into the southern regions, in the very lands of the offended family.  Then the southern counts came to their vassals’ defense, Tavard gave them his support, and they tried to march an army into Astyral’s barony.

“Astyral took exception to that.  He declared war on them, they declared war on him, and Tavard started throwing his weight around the royal court.  Within days, Terleman was in the field – with my guidance – when he and his army were attacked from the Castali Wilderlands.  Terleman struck back . . . and kept striking.  He defeated three baronies in three days’ time.  And he just kept going until he got to Barrowbell.”

“Ishi’s tits!” I moaned.

“It gets worse,” Pentandra said, grimly.  “He’s conquering Gilmora . . . in Alshar’s name.  Actually, in the name of the Magelaw.  That stirred a nest of hornets in Castal.  Prince Tavard responded by suspending the Great Charter.  That was a bit shortsighted of him, because when he tried expelling the Alshari pilgrims in Castal, that included several thousand Kasari in Kasar.”

I winced.  “Slaughtered?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“No, surprisingly they declined to resist.  They marched peacefully out of Kasar and toward the Alshari frontier when they had the bright idea of capturing Wilderhall.  Which they did.  In your name.”

I moaned.  “How?”

“Because they’re Kasari and they were offended by the expulsion, and after the Great March they have a lot of loyalty to you,” she explained.  “They had support from some mercenaries.  So, they took Wilderhall.  They took it by stealth with very little bloodshed.  But they took the Princess prisoner.”  I moaned again.

“It gets worse,” she said, shaking her head.  “When Tavard opened the gates to Darkfaller to send forth his armies to meet the evil warmagi invading Gilmora, he had a score of high magi at his command.  Not renegades.  Mercenaries.  From the Knights of Nablus.”  I groaned.  “Exactly,” she nodded.  “Your prince has employed a powerful and prominent political opponent of the kingdom to try to undermine your power.

“Only, it didn’t work out that way.  Once Darkfaller’s armies were in the field . . . Karakush took it.  A band of Nemovorti and Enshadowed captured it.  It’s full of maragorku and siege beasts and undead, now.  And it’s near the heart of the kingdom.  Now Tavard’s biggest and greatest army is between Terlemen at Barrowbell and the dark armies at Darkfaller.

“The king is livid,” she continued, starting to pace.  “Tavard is scrambling to figure out how to simultaneously fight Terleman at Barrowbell and retake the strongest fortress in Castal when his best army is threatened by both.  The Westlands are in chaos – I have Mavone there, now.  And Sandoval and Azar prepare to ride south to reinforce Terleman, while Carmella prepares for an extended war.”

“It’s not done being worse, yet,” she warned.  “This summer, the Farisians have used their augmented naval forces to actively raid the Castali and Remeran coastlands.  As well as all the commercial shipping.  They’re being very bold about it, too, and using High Magi liberally in their attacks.  The Black Censorate.  To make matters worse, Merwyn has encouraged its lords to invade northern Remere, in an effort to separate Wenshar and Remere.  They’ve put the remainder of the Knights of Nablus at their disposal, as well as ten thousand paid mercenaries, and they’re making progress.”

I groaned expressively.

“Oh, no, it gets worse,” she promised, her hands folded nervously over her chest.  “Much worse.  Because while we’re now facing a naval war with Farise, a land war with Merwyn, and civil war in Gilmora and the Castali Wilderlands, Karakush is leading the enemy’s fight in the Westlands.  But his . . . partner now commands Darkfaller, as of two weeks ago.  A name you’re familiar with: Mycin Amana.”

“How?” I gasped.

“Lady Fallawen’s home was raided, and Mycin Amana’s prison was broken by the raiders.  Korbal’s consort escaped, though not before Fallawen nearly killed her and certainly disfigured her.  But she’s found a new body.  Also, one you’re familiar with.  Intimately.  Isily of Greenflower.”

Each new revelation hit me like a blow, as my mind struggled to adjust to the news.  It was akin to one of my chaotic dreams, only far too detailed and unexpected for that.  Even my subconscious isn’t that sick.

“Mycin has declared herself Queen of Castabriel, in Korbal’s name, and has declared that she will retake the city.  She’s been sending threatening messages to court for a week.  She’s building an army at Darkfaller to do just that – with a lot of undead.  She’s taking control of the countryside and expanding the region she controls every day.  The peasants get a simple demand: absolute obedience or join the army of undead.”

“Dear gods!” I managed, in despair.

“They have been mercifully absent, in all of this – all save that new one in the Westlands.  She likes to burn her enemies alive, and she considers all nobility her enemy, or something like that.  I think she’s getting assistance from Karakush, somehow – that’s what Mavone is looking into.

“But the fact of the matter is that in the brief seven weeks you were gone, Minalan, the entire chamberpot got tipped over,” she sighed.  “I’ve been doing the best I can to manage things, but I’m not the Spellmonger.  I’m a baroness, and Duke Anguin wants me, personally, to stay out of this because of my active role in the Ducal Court.  He and Rardine think if Alshar stays quiet, there will be opportunities later downstream.  I can’t help but agree with them,” she admitted.

“The king is demanding an emergency meeting of the Royal Court, as soon as you return,” she continued.  “I’ve been stalling him and might be able to stall him one more week.  But Tavard is demanding a reckoning.  He counts you responsible for Terleman, for Darkfaller, for Wilderhall, for the Farisian pirates and the Merwyni invasion.  All of it.  And he’s got most of Castal ready to march on the Magelaw, because its full of evil wizards.”

“Damn it, Penny,” I said, softly, my head falling back in the pillow.  “Damn it.  I was only gone for a few weeks!”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head.  “And I apologize.  I had no idea things would go this poorly, this quickly.  We have war all over the kingdom, now.  Against an impressive array of enemies.  But we’re strong, we’re smart, and we have magic.  And we have our Spellmonger back to lead us to victory.

“I’m just glad you didn’t die,” she revealed, sincerely.  “All sorts of horrible things could have happened if you died.  That was my biggest worry.  But you didn’t die, you came back,” she said, with visible relief.  “Welcome back.  Hope you had a good holiday.  Now you have work to do.”

“Actually, I did die,” I admitted.  “My heart stopped.  Lilastien said I was clinically dead for over four minutes, before she brought me back.”

Pentandra just stared at me for a long time – far longer than I would have thought necessary.  Her mouth was slightly agape, and I expected at least a bit of sympathy from her over revealing I had died and come back from the dead.  Usually that sort of achievement merits some sort of sympathetic reaction.

But Penny just stared at me, until she closed her mouth with visible effort.

“You . . . died?” she asked.

“Just a little,” I nodded.  “Four minutes’ worth.  I got better.”

“Oh, Minalan,” she said, shaking her head – in suppressed anger, not relief.  “You had to go and die.”

“It really wasn’t up to me,” I pointed out.

“You really know how to muck things up, you know?” she finally said, after staring at me far too long.  She picked up her baculus and her bag.  She seemed mad at me.  For dying.  Or coming back from the dead.  Either way, her reaction was confusing.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to go get Alya and tell her you’re awake.  Then I’m going to send a bunch of messages by Mirror Array.  Then I’m going to see a hedgewitch.  Because you couldn’t control yourself, and just had to die.”

“And come back,” I reminded her.

“Yes.  That was very noble of you,” she said, with a note of disgust in her voice.  Then she hung her head wearily and sighed.  “We’ll get through this,” she promised.  “The war, the chaos, the renegade gods, we’ll get through all of that.  I just wish you hadn’t died.  That . . . complicates things.”

With that, she left, leaving me incredibly confused.  And outrageously hungry.

The End

Look for the next exciting volume of the Spellmonger Series: Book 14, Hedgewitch, in late 2021!

You may write the author at tmancour@gmail.com or at the following address:

Terry Mancour

PO Box 11

Rougemont, NC 27572

Appendix A: Lilastien’s Discography

Partial, in Alphabetical Order

A Little Less Conversation, Elvis Presley

A Taste Of Honey, Herb Alpert

Almost Like Being In Love, Nat King Cole

As Time Goes By, Perry Como

Bernie’s Tune, Buddy Rich & Gene Krupa

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, Doris Day

Blue Hawaii, Elvis Presley

Blue Moon, Julie London

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, Andrews Sisters

Caldonia, Louis Jordan

Can’t Help Falling In Love, Elvis Presley

Caravan, Dizzy Gillespie

Chattanooga Choo-Choo, Glenn Miller

Cry Me A River, Julie London

Dream A Little Dream of Me, Julie London

Fascinating Rhythm, Oscar Peterson

Fly Me To The Moon, Frank Sinatra

Gone Fishin’,  Louis Armstrong, Bing Crosby

Great Balls Of Fire, Jerry Lee Lewis

How High The Moon, Ella Fitzgerald

I Ain’t Got Nobody, Louis Prima

I’m In The Mood For Love, Julie London

I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle, Gene Autry

In the Mood, Andrews Sisters

In The Summertime, Mungo Jerry

In A Gadda Da Vida, Iron Butterfly

It’s Been A Long, Long Time, Bing Crosby

Journey Of The Sorcerer, The Eagles

Living In The Past, Jethro Tull

Love Is Like A Butterfly, Dolly Patron

Moon River, Perry Como

Moonlight Serenade, Glenn Miller

Never Gonna Give You Up, Rick Astley

On Moonlight Bay, Doris Day

On The Road Again, Willy Nelson

One Of Those Things, Frank Sinatra

So Rare, Jimmy Dorsey

Someone To Watch Over Me, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra

Summer Wind, Frank Sinatra

Summertime, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald

Take Me Home, Country Roads, John Denver

Tuxedo Junction, Glenn Miller

Viva Las Vegas, Elvis Presley

What A Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong

What Does A Woman Do? Doris Day

When I Grow Too Old To Dream, Nat King Cole

When You Wish Upon A Star, Glenn Miller

Witchcraft, Frank Sinatra

Woodchopper’s Ball, Woody Herman, Joey Bishop

You Don't Have to Know the Language, Bing Crosby

Young At Heart, Frank Sinatra

Appendix B: Promotional Brochure

Table of Contents

Footwizard

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty- Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Look for the next exciting volume of the Spellmonger Series: Book 14, Hedgewitch, in late 2021!