by D. T. Kane
This time Erem shook his head. He was slightly taken aback by the girl’s forthrightness, though he shouldn’t have been. Sometimes she seemed more like a woman grown than a girl barely free of the wet nurse. But foreign as the clearing felt, he’d no desire to leave it. No desire to face the world that had turned its back on him.
“I cannot.”
“Cannot? Or will not?”
This she spoke with near-perfect diction and Erem had to suppress the urge to flinch back in surprise. He’d heard her speak so in the past, but it always startled him.
“It’s easier this way,” he said to her. “Things are much less complicated here.”
She frowned up at him, the seriousness of her expression out of place on her juvenile face.
“You should try. One day at a time, giving it your best. That’s all anyone can do.”
What could he say to that? Perhaps she was right. But that didn’t mean his mind was changed.
When he didn’t reply, she dropped her eyes, air of maturity gone, and held out the carrot. He took it gently and she turned to leave. His chest tightened. Always people were leaving his life. Or being taken from it.
“Won’t you stay to chat for a few more minutes? We haven’t had a lesson in some time. And I’d hear where you’ve been these past weeks.”
The girl considered him for a time, then smiled shyly, an expression that caused the freckles on her cheeks to beam like stars. She plopped back down, sitting cross legged. Erem lowered himself across from her and assumed the same position, adjusting his specs and folding his hands in his lap.
“You headed south, I believe. Any news from down that way?”
“South?” She asked, puzzled. “I don’t know, south.” She pronounced the direction like a foreign word. “I went out of Falume, toward wall men made with many trees.”
“Ral Mok,” he said. “That’s south.”
“Okay. Then yes. Went South. There were men on wall, but I stayed away and followed the water...south?”
Erem nodded and she smiled. “South beautiful. I walked in water dirt. Squish squish squish!” She imitated, gleefully. “I went in water and played with water squirrels.”
“Fish,” he corrected again, smiling. She’d gone quite a ways if she’d been able to get down to the water. Most of the west river ran through a deep gully that was impassable except by the West River Crossing at Ral Mok and Corim’s Crossing at Tarmin further north from here. It was a wonder she found her way back, though she always did. She was bound here, just like him.
The girl mouthed the word a few times. “Feee-sssh; feee-sssh; feee-sh. Yes. Played with feeshes!” Then she frowned. “I tried to make a feesh, but no work. Wanted more feesh to play with! I felt like I was close to making one. But couldn’t!” Her face curled into a pouty frown.
“You cannot make sentient—” he paused, realizing she wouldn’t understand. “You can’t make living animals like you can plants, Autumn. Living things require use of all the elements, not just the earth that you’re so good at. And in any event, it is forbidden—much too close to enchantment, taking over the mind of a living being and bending it to your wants.”
“Sorry,” she said, eyes beginning to well.
Perhaps he’d gone a bit too far with that explanation.
“Nothing to apologize for. That’s why we have these chats. Go on.”
She brightened. “I played with feeshes and slept under trees for lots of suns. I don’t know how many.” She shrugged, and giggled.
“Very good.” He felt the perpetual tension in his face ease at the jingle of her laughter. Built-up pain he hadn’t known his shoulders held suddenly released. He very nearly smiled again.
“Anything else besides play and sleep?”
She looked up to the sky, eyes chasing clouds as they floated by. He almost asked his question again, when she looked back down at him.
“I saw men coming from south. Not nice men,” she pouted once more. “They had white skins on, with a circle of yellow on front.” She drew the shape in the air with a finger.
His face returned to granite hardness.
“A couple see me, try to catch me. But Autumn too smart for men in white skins!” she proclaimed. “I put roots on men’s feet and ran away. Some tried to follow me, but Autumn too fast.” She smiled proudly.
But Erem didn’t congratulate her this time.
“Did any follow you here?”
“Don’t think so,” she said, her smile fading.
“How many.... men in white skins?”
“Don’t know,” she whispered meekly, her expression saddening.
“Where were they? Did you see who was leading them?”
“Don’t know.” Her lip quivered. “Need to go now.” She popped up and hurried towards the tree line.
He held back a curse and leapt up as well.
“Autumn, wait.”
She looked back but continued on until he lost sight of her amongst the corn stalks.
“Agar’s broken blade,” he cursed under his breath. He peered around the clearing and fingered the dagger, but left it tucked away. For now. Instead, he hefted Autumn’s carrot and made his way back inside, scanning the trees the whole way.
Men wearing white skins? The Angel had said no one could enter the clearing besides the girl. And Erem begrudgingly had to admit that the Angel was usually right, though he’d never tell him so. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t be taking any risks.
Back in the cottage he chopped the carrot—perhaps a bit rougher than he intended—then took up the slices and dropped them in the stew. The liquid gurgled with approval, but he hardly noticed, mind lost in thoughts of men dressed in white storming the clearing.
Not bothering to wait for the food to finish, Erem stalked over to the hearth and took up an armful of sticks and rope from a pile that lay there. Taking them back to the table, he pulled up one of the chairs and began working the branches with the knife, selectively knotting the ropes to some of them, sharpening others to precise shapes. His hands moved with a slow precision, the blade an extension of his arm. He barely breathed, letting the Focus grip him, murmuring words without meaning. The danger present in his movements when Autumn had first disturbed him returned.
Later, after he’d eaten, Erem spooned a serving of the leftover stew into a bowl and left it behind the cottage near the dilapidated stable. He then resumed his post at the table with grim determination, now fashioning rope into a net. He labored long into the night, stopping only to adjust his solar specs when they slid too far down the bridge of his nose.
When his work was complete, he stalked to the corner of the room, shrugged into a leather jerkin and cloak, and slung the sword that matched his dagger across his back. He left behind a broad sword and shield embossed with a lion’s face, almost as if he didn’t notice they were there. Taking up the traps he strode out the door, making for the woods beyond the cornfields.
5
Devan
The Third Lesson: An Aldur shall never Kill another Aldur.
-From The Lessons
STEPHAN FALCONWING was dead.
They were all dead.
Torchlight flickered over the scene. Stephan had spoken of visions showing a grave challenge for their people, though Devan had paid him little heed. All Aldur experienced troubling dreams to one extent or another. They were usually just whispers of rogue strands long gone, or courses the Path had already taken in prior cycles. Some of the strongest Aldur did occasionally glimpse snippets of what was to come. Even some Linears had such metasense. But it was rare anyone could reliably interpret such visions.
Nonetheless, Stephan had believed his metasense was giving him insights into the future. He’d even cryptically told Devan about preparations he’d made to combat against the possibilities he’d seen, though had never shared details.
But if this was what Stephan had seen, why had he never spoken of it?
Bodies were strewn throughout the chamber. It was a caver
nous place, full of cold austerity, illuminated by several enormous, iron-wrought chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. Each held glass orbs that contained a mixture of mortal and shadow flame, elementally enhanced to never cease burning. The deep purples of the shadow mixed with the burnt hues of the mortal fire to cast the whole area in shades of muted crimson. Like dried blood.
The hall was arranged for a rare meeting of the whole race, the one Stephan had been telling him about what seemed only moments before. Beneath the chandeliers at the room’s center were three rectangular tables, each angled to face the others so they formed a triangle. These were positioned over a tiled depiction of the Alduric crest—a shield topped by a horizontal line of dark, followed by a similar line of white above equal wedges of red, blue, and green. The dark portion of tile was shattered, as if someone had taken a hammer to it.
There had been four seats per table, enough for every Aldur. But now the tables were overturned, one broken in half, still smoking. Devan recognized Alexos—what was left of him—crumpled amidst the remains of a splintered chair. Lexona’s remains lay nearby, only identifiable by her long, now smoldering hair. Seven others lay around the room in similarly grizzled states. The air stank of burnt skin and charred bones.
He’d never been particularly close with any of them, save Val and Stephan. They generally existed apart from one another, performing varied tasks in diverse regions of time and place. That held doubly true for Devan. As Master Horologer, he jumped from point in time to point in time more often than the rest of them combined, always the first on the scene of any notable disruption of the Path.
But even without a close relationship, these people had been his family. Standing there, seeing them all dead, he realized that simply knowing they’d all been out there had been a comfort.
Memory and regret is all that remains of them now, he thought bitterly. If he’d come when Stephan had asked, perhaps he could have stopped this.
Stephan.
He had not been among the nine bodies that lay in the wreckage of the meeting tables. With a flicker of hope, Devan had spun left, then right, searching the room for some sign of survivors. Stephan had not been difficult to locate, his fine robe that blended the five elemental colors standing out against the otherwise stark surroundings.
His was the tenth and final body, a trail of blood leading away from the others to where he’d finally come to rest, some distance away from the tables, near the hall’s arched entryway. The rainbow of his robe was a tattered, blood-soaked mess. There was a wound in his side, edges dark as if whatever pierced him had burned. Devan stooped over his mentor’s—his friend’s—body, grasping his limp hand between both of his own, careful to avoid the congealing pool of blood that had spilled from his slit throat. The wound was partially healed, as if one of the others had spent their final moments of life in an effort to save their leader. Stephan’s hand was still warm, which seemed a cruel jape. That warmth had often provided Devan comfort in life.
“Your memory shall endure forever,” he intoned, drawing Stephan’s eyelids down, keeping his own head bowed. After allowing himself a moment, he moved about the room, reciting the solemn mantra over each of the other bodies. His voice echoed off the cavernous ceiling like a bell pealing over a graveyard.
When he’d finished the rites, Devan made for the hall’s sole exit, passing under the arch and averting his eyes from the shell that had once been Stephan. He’d seen plenty of death in his nearly two thousand years of life; much of it caused by his own hand. But even he couldn’t stand to remain in the presence of such genocide any longer. There would be time to mourn and properly care for the bodies later.
I’m not running, he reassured himself. There was simply no time now for mourning—an irony he might have laughed at under different circumstance considering his line of work. But before there had always been others to help him. They hadn’t all shared his affinity for peregrination—channeling the elements to travel through time and place. That’s why he’d been made Master Horologer despite being junior to them all. But every one of them had been more than capable of fixing minor rogue strands, untangling lesser anomalies, while he dealt with the more serious threats to the True Path. But now there were no others, only him. And if what he’d just discovered in his books was true, then the Path was on the verge of collapse. His kin would have to forgive him for delaying their entombment.
Devan passed out of the hall into the annex that led to the mouth of the cave that served as the Conclave’s entrance. When your entire race existed not only in diverse places, but various times, there was no need for grand cities like those of the Linears. Time was their castle. When they did need to meet, it was usually accomplished by simply visiting one another’s memory parlors, as Stephan had just done with him. The parlors weren’t constrained by the inconveniences of physical and temporal proximity.
That was another reason he’d been annoyed when Stephan had told him of this meeting. They almost never happened, and yet one had been called at the peak of the worst washout Devan had ever seen, rogue strands branching from the Path in every which direction. He morbidly reflected that his stubbornness had saved the Aldur from extinction.
Well, not quite. There’d only been ten bodies. But he couldn’t open his mind to that fact yet. For he knew what it meant and couldn’t bear it.
He reached the mouth of the cave. It was night and a steady rain fell upon Agarsfar’s Raging Mountains. He pulled up the cowl of his rough-spun cloak, letting it settle over the spikes of his pale hair. The linked rings he wore on each finger gave off a cheerful jangle that jarred his soul. He shoved his hands into the robe’s pockets to make it stop. Shrugging his shoulders, he wiped dampness from his face, smearing the dark face paint that encircled his eyes. He stared out over the Broken Coast, far below the cave’s entrance. On a clear night, you could practically see straight to Tragnè City from this vantage. But not this night.
He stepped out into the rain. Lightning flashed. Water pelted down. As if the world were emphasizing that never again would there be a blue sky for his fellow Aldur.
After some time staring into the darkness, letting the rain wash over him as if it would cleanse him of the horror he’d left behind, he wiped the moisture from his eyes, fingertips brushing over that old scar at the edge of his eye. He reached into the folds of his robe and flicked open his chronometre with a snap of his wrist. Gone were the twelve hands showing the locations of his comrades. Now only two remained. He’d expected that. What he hadn’t was their orientation.
The remaining hands hovered directly atop one another.
“You’re late.” The voice sliced through the precipitation.
Devan shut his eyes and gripped the timepiece until it dug into his palm. He wished for surprise at his old friend’s presence, but he’d known the moment he’d seen the bodies, his not among them. A Linear could perhaps kill one of the Aldur. But ten? Only another Aldur could have the ability—and the audacity—to perpetrate such an atrocity.
He turned to see Val standing above him on a rocky outcrop over the Conclave’s entrance. His dark eyes burned through the downpour. They were red rimmed, no doubt from the smoke of whatever he’d done back in the hall. His gray cloak of southern silk billowed in the gale. It was torn in several places. Devan reflected that Val had often criticized Stephan’s fine clothing, though his own had never been wanting for extravagance either. His once-friend’s brown hair was down, splayed over his shoulders, rather than spiked in the traditional style. Somehow it appeared to be completely dry despite the gale raging around them. His smooth face, which he had once used to such great effect on women, gleamed in a flash of lightning.
“My tardiness seems to have worked to my benefit,” Devan replied, trying with great effort to mask his rage. Anger wouldn’t help him now. “I’d ask you to tell me it’s not so, Val. But I saw the scene you left in there.”
Val opened his mouth, the shut it, lips curling downward. The traitor didn�
��t even bother to deny the implication of mass murder.
“There are things you cannot possibly understand, Devan.”
He actually had the gall to sound dismayed. Devan clenched his hands into fists to stop the rest of his body from quaking.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea. Kill a Constant, Taul Bladesorrow—” Devan paused, frowning at the name. The man’s name had been, was, Taul Lightsblade, not Bladesorrow. But whatever Val had done had altered the man’s name. Even Devan was having trouble keeping the old one—the right one—firm in his mind.
“Taul Lightsblade,” he emphasized with care. “You killed him, then murdered the entire Conclave so they couldn’t stop the ensuing Chaos.”
It was a troubling prospect. The Constants were like dams in the flow of time, securing particularly crucial moments from turning the wrong way. If one were annihilated and the loss left unremedied, the temporal currents would spray in countless directions, none alone strong enough to maintain the forward momentum of time. The future would cease to be. And without a future, there could be no existence.
“The one thing I don’t see is why,” Devan went on. “Why are you trying to destroy everything? Surely this can’t all be over—”
“Don’t you dare utter her name,” Val snarled. His voice was acid, eyes like darts. The ferocity rendered Devan momentarily silent. Val took a deep breath.
“The Angelic forced my hand.”
Val spat the word like venom from a wound. Devan flinched. Common men, of course, sometimes referred to his people as Angels, but they never referred to themselves as such.
“This is your fault,” Val continued. “If you hadn’t convinced the others to reject my plea—” he interrupted his own words with a snarl, “then she would still be alive.”
Devan shut his eyes. It had been terrible, true. But it did not warrant this, though it explained why he’d chosen Taul Lightsblade as his target.