by D. T. Kane
One he’d been unable to avoid had been a rogue strand in 21 A.A., where he’d foiled a plot to assassinate Trimale herself. Fixing it had cost Devan his life. That was a tool in any Aldur’s arsenal, expending one’s life. A resolved rogue strand was like a canal drained and filled-in, gone like it never happened. You could get away with dying in one so long as you were certain your death would resolve it. But even when successful, dying left one with quite a hangover.
And there’d been the time spent searching for Val, too. All for naught, other than eliminating dozens of places where he wasn’t. He might as well have been searching for a single coal in a blazing forge. Devan couldn’t even be sure that Val had actually been at Riverdale when Bladesorrow had been attacked. It was possible he’d merely set the Lesser Terror on the man and left it at that. And after their battle at the Conclave, Val could have fled anywhere in time and place. What Devan needed was more time in his memory parlor with his books, searching for inconsistencies. Changed names, altered events, people in positions they shouldn’t be. Yet, with the near-constant demands of the Path consuming his time, he’d barely had time to go to his parlor at all. Hadn’t even had a chance to review A Complete History of the Keepers for additional clues.
But his failure to find Val was a minor annoyance compared to his dismay over a truth that was slowly seeping into his bones: He couldn’t maintain his blind anger at his one-time friend forever. The rage was still there, of course. He’d still kill Val if given the chance. Probably. But it waned each day. He was now beginning to look on Val’s fall with as much sadness as he did hate. As far as he was concerned, the Val he’d known had died along with the others that day.
Devan pushed such thoughts aside. There wasn’t time to dwell on such matters. A glance at the sky showed it was still blue, even through the sooty film that hung in the Northern air. The Path’s fires would begin to show through before long, though. Flame bound all, but it would just as soon consume all if the Path fell.
He turned a bend in the road and was surprised to see a gated stone wall before him, enclosing the Founders’ Circus, the spires of the Domkirkja Aldur penetrating over the ramparts. That was wrong. No such thing had ever been built on the Path. The Circus and the Second Symposium beyond had always been freely open to all. Yet there it stood. Devan’s innards churned at the sight, a physical reminder that he no longer had the benefit of prescience to guide him. Anything could happen and he’d no way of anticipating it. Knowledge of the events of the True Path were useless to him.
Shaking his head, he pounded on the wooden door that towered over him. After an impatient moment, a dwarf peered down from the ramparts.
“What der ye’ want?” he demanded.
“I seek High Emissary Nellis Lonemage. Tell him his fairy godmother has returned.”
The dwarf frowned, mouth all but disappearing within his bushy mustache. “This ain’t a time fer jokes, trav’ler. The High Em’sary don’t just come te teh beck ’n call of any stranger. State yer business or be away wit’ ye.”
“Ah. So Nellis is here.” Devan smiled up at the guard.
The dwarf flushed but remained silent.
“Oh, would you just tell him I’m here. I have business involving the Grand Master Keeper.”
Devan could see the guard’s eyes widen at this, obviously surprised he knew that Bladesorrow was within the Stronghold’s walls. The dwarf mumbled something to himself that Devan couldn’t catch, then disappeared behind the battlements. He could hear armor clanking as the dwarf descended from atop the wall. Several minutes later, the gates creaked open, just wide enough for Devan to slip through.
Nellis stood on the other side, stout as ever. Devan flashed him a broad smile, opening his arms wide in greeting.
Nellis harrumphed.
“Ye said ye’d be back soon.”
Devan’s smile faded. “Don’t you lecture me on time, master dwarf. I returned as soon as my other duties would permit.” When the dwarf’s sullen expression didn’t change, he decided to just plow forward. “How is our friend?”
Nellis softened a tad, sighing. “Frustrated. Took ’im a while just te heal, even after ye pulled that... thing from ’is side. And comin’ te grips wit’ ’is changed powers is takin’ longer.”
Devan frowned. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Even in his experience—which was quite a bit—he’d never heard of someone’s elemental attunement being altered. Lost certainly. Burnout was tragic, but not uncommon. And then there was elemental harvesting. A vile practice that allowed one to steal the attunement of a dying man. The Conclave had outlawed it long ago. But swapping one attunement for another? It had never happened as far as he knew. Ought to be impossible.
But that knowledge did nothing to quiet Devan’s displeasure. He was about to explain to Bladesorrow that his life was the only thing standing between every living being and complete destruction. And, worse yet, he still had no idea how to stem the tide of said destruction. He’d hoped to find the Grand Master in better spirits. Not for the first time since Val’s betrayal, Devan found himself wishing for even a small part of his old friend’s talent for dealing with others. Time-threatening disasters? No problem. Getting a Linear to see things his way? Pure misery as far as Devan was concerned. Val, on the other hand, could have turned a whole city to his way of thinking overnight. The thought only soured him further.
“Take me to him.”
The dwarf grunted uncooperatively but turned and motioned for him to follow. As Nellis trundled away he muttered something about being ordered about in his own home. That lifted Devan’s mood some as he forced back a smile.
The mirth quickly left him as he followed the dwarf. In some ways, the Founders’ Circus was just as he’d left it the last time he’d been in Trimale City. The elemental fountain burbled at its center, the statues of Tragnè and Trimale still cast their solemn stares. Beyond that, the Cathedral’s quintet of towers stood in silent judgment over any who walked below them. The rough stonework of its façade gave the suggestion of an old man who’d seen much and hadn’t liked most of it.
But then there were the tents. Off to the right of the Cathedral. Row after seemingly endless row of them. The flaps of some were drawn tight against the midday heat, but many were open, showing men and dwarfs of all ages. Men. Women. Elders who could barely walk. Families with little ones. A fair number of children ran amongst the shelters. Several dwarvish children, long hair not yet having grown in, rushed past, enthralled in a game of slink and snoop. Devan wasn’t entirely surprised to see several swinging wooden swords that looked suspiciously like Friend Slayer—the Grand Master Keeper’s own blade.
But many others, both adults and young, merely sat about, idle, staring into nothing. As if they’d lost everything they had. Which, in all likelihood, they had, Devan supposed. And he saw no one eating. Not a single person.
“Teh war’s been hard,” Nellis said, not turning to look at Devan as he did.
“There’ll be far worse things to worry about if we don’t get the situation with the Grand Master sorted,” Devan replied.
The High Emissary shot a glare over his shoulder but said no more. Devan shrugged at the dwarf’s back. Facts were facts.
The dwarf led him on, away from the tents, into the Second Symposium. Devan was surprised to see its outer courtyard still relatively busy. Several groups of docents clustered around lecturing teachers, seated on brightly woven rugs. A pair of students dueled under a master’s watchful eye. The clang of a blacksmith working a forge, the tingling in Devan’s senses indicating the man was smelting elemental steel. Passersby nodded respectfully to Nellis as he waddled by, murmurs of High Emissary following them. Apparently neither the war nor the dire peril of the Path had changed everything.
They walked past the main yard, through a tangle of halls only partially roofed. Even much of the interior space of the Second Symposium was open to the outdoors, promoting circulation in the North’s arid climate.
&nb
sp; The dwarf eventually stopped at an interior courtyard. A small fountain burbled at its center, surrounded by a garden of cacti and other succulents. Off to one side stood the Grand Master Keeper. He was muttering to himself and taking a series of deep breaths, lost in concentration. Every few moments, the shadows about him faded and wisps of dark power trickled from his fingers, like limp weeds after a storm, before fading back to nothingness. Then he’d grumble and start again.
As Devan continued to watch, a dwarven girl approached the Grand Master from behind, tapping him on the leg. For a flash of a second he looked annoyed, then seemed to realize who had touched him and smiled. Reddening and avoiding eye contact, the girl handed him a flower. A fire orchid—Linears thought it was good luck to find the rare red variety amongst the common blues and blacks. The girl scurried away (as much as a stumpy, juvenile dwarf can scurry, anyway) before Taul could look up. But when he did, his eyes were all Devan could notice.
“Where did he get those ridiculous spectacles?” he hissed, shooting an accusatory stare downward at the dwarf.
Nellis flinched, then shrugged, braids undulating just like the hills around Trimale City.
“The dark eyes. They make teh other Keepers uncom-fort’ble. He ask’d for ’em.”
Devan could only shake his head. “And the muttering? Why is he doing that?”
Devan thought Nellis rolled his eyes at this, though his obfusive brows made it hard to tell.
“There’s no tome written that says what we must teach ’im. Taul was one o’ the great’st light chann’lers of our time; spent ’is ’ole life chann’ling light. Only light. But now all he can reach is the shadow.” Nellis shrugged once more. His drooping mustaches bounced. “He says the mutters ’elp ’im concentrate. Who am I te question?”
Devan put a hand to his face, rubbing at his temples. “And you, master dwarf, are supposed to be one of the greatest shadow attuneds of your time? I expected more progress than this in a year’s time.”
Nellis made to respond, but Devan was already striding away from him towards the Grand Master. The man finally noticed his presence and turned to face him, shoulders square, back straight like the soldier he was. Or at least had been.
“Who are you?” he demanded, eyeing the bag Devan carried. The Grand Master was dressed plainly. Linen tunic, baggy trousers. He looked more a farmer than a fabled blademaster. At least he’d kept his dark beard trimmed.
Devan ignored the query. “You’re trying to channel shadow.”
It wasn’t a question. The Grand Master Keeper cocked an eyebrow at him.
“I am channeling shadow.”
“You’re failing miserably,” Devan said almost before the words were out of the man’s mouth, drawing a scowl from Bladesorrow.
“What are you focusing on when you reach for the shade?”
The scowl remained on the Grand Master’s face and he looked over Devan’s shoulder to Nellis. Devan didn’t deign turn to see the dwarf’s reaction, but he must have gestured for Taul to respond. The man grunted, then said, “Nellis says it’s like reaching into a murky pond and fishing around for pebbles while avoiding the jagged rocks.”
Devan stared at Bladesorrow for a moment, mouth slightly agape.
“That,” Devan drew out the word, “is even more ridiculous than those absurd spectacles you’re wearing.”
Nellis kicked at the dirt ground of the courtyard, looking down and allowing his long hair to obscure his face.
“Well it’s the best anyone here has come up with,” Bladesorrow growled. “I’ve spoken to dozens of shadow attuned here, men and dwarfs both, and what you just witnessed is the full extent of the power I’ve mustered even after all their assistance.” He glowered, then added, “Do I know you? Something about you rings familiar.”
In response, Devan peregrinated. A simple place-to-place slip, just to the other side of the Grand Master Keeper. Stephan would have condemned it as an outrageous waste of resources. But Devan wanted to make a point. To his chagrin, however, Taul simply turned to where he’d materialized, unfazed.
At least the dwarf looks uncomfortable, Devan comforted himself, glancing at Nellis, who was now twirling a mustache about his finger.
“So. You’re the Angel.”
Bah! Devan hated when others knew more than they ought to. And he really needed to come up with a new moniker for the Linears to use.
“Nellis said you were supposed to be here months ago.”
Devan threw up his hands. “Where do you common men,” Nellis cleared his throat, “and dwarfs, get off lecturing me about time?”
Devan thought he may have actually seen the hint of a smile play on the Grand Master’s face, but now he wasn’t in the mood.
“Look. Channeling works a little different for everyone,” Devan said, waving a hand at the nearby fountain, causing water to jet into the air. “We all have our own mental tricks for focusing and drawing power from the elements around us. But those mental cues shouldn’t change just because you’re reaching for a different element.”
To illustrate the point, Devan casually channeled down a beam of light, setting a nearby plant aflame. Then in nearly the same breath he focused on the earth at their feet, summoning up a cloud of dust and dousing the fire.
“See. I just channeled two different elements; didn’t change my mental process for either. Just reached out to one, then the other. I picture a lock clicking into place. You? Just direct whatever you did with light at the shadow.”
Taul looked at him doubtfully, but then squared his shoulders and began muttering again. For a time, nothing seemed to happen. Then the shadows around them dimmed, seeming to slither towards the Grand Master like water to a sponge. The man extended his hand out to the far wall of the courtyard. This time, shadow leapt from his fingers like a frightened animal. The wall exploded, exposing a small kitchen beyond. A dwarf stood amidst the rubble, soup ladle in hand. He gawked for a moment, then rushed from view.
“There,” Devan said, waving dust from his eyes. “Easy.”
But Taul only shook his head. “That isn’t natural. I always healed with light. Protected others. My talent was never for destruction. And yet it felt so... good.” He shuddered, a decidedly unnatural reaction from such a man.
Devan had already been prepared to move on to another lesson. But at this last remark, he paused and turned to Nellis.
“You’ve spoken to him about the Call, of course?”
The dwarf looked like a father who’d just been told to explain the dragons and the wyverns to his adolescent boy.
“The what?” Taul asked.
Devan groaned, wiping a hand down his face. “Never mind. I’ll explain later. For now, let’s try again. Don’t blow anything up this time.” Devan began to clear his throat for further instruction.
“I’d rather not.”
Devan had been about to speak, but snapped his mouth shut, throwing his hands into the air in Nellis’s direction. The dwarf was still a bright shade of crimson. “Is he always this difficult?”
Nellis made as if to respond, then glanced at the Grand Master and instead made his way over to the man. He clapped him on the waist—the dwarf wasn’t tall enough to reach his shoulder. Taul scowled.
“Go easy on ’im. Ev’one expects so much b’cause o’ who he is, but he’s been te the Elsewhere ’n back.”
Almost literally, Devan reflected darkly.
“But Taul,” Nellis looked up to the man. “Though teh Angel ’as a certain, er, abras’vness to ’im, he’s one o’ the Aldur. He knows things. And he did save ye after teh Dales. I think he means ye well.”
The dwarf Pathed himself at mention of the Aldur, though the look he gave Devan might have been best described as a scowl.
“Ye could do worse than te listen to ’im.”
Devan fumed. The Grand Master Keeper was quite possibly the only thing standing between them and never-ending chaos. The Path was seeping away in a dozen different directions, no tribu
tary strong enough to maintain time’s forward flow. Now was hardly the time go easy. He took a deep breath, trying to picture what Stephan would do. His mentor had always pushed him to the brink, but never over. Perhaps it wasn’t the time yet to pile the pressures of all existence on Bladesorrow’s shoulders.
“Alright then,” Devan shrugged. “Let’s leave the channeling alone for now. How about something more to your liking? Some swordplay perhaps?”
The Grand Master crossed his arms, maintaining a stubborn façade. A bit like a well-bred stallion refusing its master’s commands. Nonetheless, Devan could tell he’d piqued the man’s interest.
“Come.” He retrieved the bag he’d brought and motioned Bladesorrow over. From the sack he withdrew a dark blade, lined with red runes. It was about the length of a broad sword, but half the width, if that. Bladesorrow’s brows arched over the rims of his spectacles.
“Ebon,” murmured Nellis, wading over to inspect the weapon. Devan handed it to him, and the dwarf took it with reverent care. It seemed disproportionately long for the dwarf, but he handled it with a Keeper’s grace.
“Most o’ these were destroyed a’ter the Affair,” he said, taking several cuts at the air with it. “Where did ye find this?”
Devan winked. “Made a quick stop in 400 A.A. on the way here. It’s from one of your home’s own forges.”
Nellis gave him a disbelieving look. Devan shrugged. The dwarf was descended from Glofar himself, the namesake of the Stronghold that protected the sole passage leading to Mount Trimale. A distant relation to Grand Master Keeper Trimale herself. And Nellis currently held the family seat, being Glofar’s great great great... well, many generations removed grandson.
“Look at the maker’s mark if you don’t believe me.”
Nellis held the hilt of the blade up to his eyes, then nearly dropped it in shock.