“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 wit
h 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 dec
ided, 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.
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