by D. T. Kane
Below, before the murder of shades and their ominous leader, stood a winnow of a figure, wrapped in a rough-spun robe. Not unlike Erem’s drab attire. He was so thin it was hard to believe him alive. His blonde hair was nearly white, shaved down to the scalp. A scar at the corner of one eye gave him a look of perpetual disappointment. He appeared to be wearing a ring on every finger, each connected by a fine chain, making two sets of five.
“What is that fool doing?” mumbled Ferrin, trying to resist the urge to vomit now that the pain in his shoulder had redoubled.
Erem watched, fixated on the new arrival. “He’s here to help us.”
Ferrin laughed, though it came out sounding like crinkled parchment. “I don’t think he could stand up to a strong wind, much less that spawn of the Elsewhere down there.”
“Watch,” Erem replied, eyes not leaving the figure below. “He may surprise you. Hope to Agar he does.”
The words were coming to Ferrin’s ears normally again, the sense of being submerged under water subsiding.
“You speak as if you know him,” he said between painful inhalations.
Erem grunted in his characteristic way, a disgruntled rumble indicating he thought you’d either said something incredibly stupid or that hadn’t needed to be said aloud. In fact, Ferrin wasn’t sure Erem would acknowledge a difference between the two.
“I know of him would be more apt. We’ve met before. You could say he’s been following me.”
“Following us? I thought you’d been keeping a careful eye on our backtrail to ensure nothing like that happened.”
Erem grunted again and Ferrin reddened at its implication.
“I said following me, not us. And I didn’t mean following us from place to place.”
“What other kind of following is there?” Shades! This man was difficult.
Erem gave no reply other than to wave at him to be silent. He was prepared to insist on a response, when a voice from down below drew his attention.
“You have no place here on the Path. Back to the Elsewhere with you where you belong.” The figure below didn’t shout, or even raise his voice, yet the words seemed to carry impossibly well. Ferrin could hear them clear as if the stranger were standing beside him.
For a time, the scene below was dangerously silent. A wind rippled through the few trees standing on the plain below, the sound full of half-remembered atrocities, ripe with the pungent horror of the inexplicable creatures below. Ferrin shuddered.
Finally, the silence broke. The creature’s response abraded the nighttime air, raking Ferrin’s brain with nightmare fingers. He uttered a low moan and Erem once more clutched at his side. In some grotesque way, the thing was actually laughing. Cackling.
“You have no power over me, Angel.” It spat this last word with amused exaggeration. “Your people’s time has passed. A new order is rising—one that should have come to be long ago. You are but a memory, no more than a footnote. The Path has fallen.”
“As long as I live, the Aldur strive on.” The stranger emphasized Aldur with a vigor that canceled out the creature’s mock exaggeration, as if he were speaking the name of god. As a Parent might speak the name of Tragnè.
Ferrin felt his mouth hanging open. Had the Terror called the spindly stranger an Angel? One of the Aldur? Impossible. Not so long ago he’d have said that of the monstrosity down below as well, but at least the thing looked like the fiends from the tales. The newcomer looked more a beggar than a myth come to life.
“The Path shall be preserved,” the one the Terror had called an Angel said. “Now I say unto you once more, foul being. Leave this place. I will not warn you again.”
This time the stranger had raised his voice. The sound of it reverberated around Ferrin’s skull as if he were standing within Ral Mok’s belfry at high noon. It made him feel very small, as if he were watching two adults argue and he was but a child.
Once more the Terror guffawed in its terrible, bone-chattering way. Then without further warning, it slipped from its position a dozen paces in front of the robed figure to stand directly before him. Ferrin had witnessed the shades perform such “slipping” before, but to see a creature the height of two men do so was another thing entirely. The fiend towered over the stranger like a wolf might loom over a dying rabbit, scythes raised. The newcomer responded with raised hands, a futile gesture to stop the monstrosity’s blow.
Except he did stop it.
The air between the newcomer’s outstretched hands shimmered as the scythes met it, and Ferrin would have sworn he saw the outline of a great shield hanging in the air before him. The Terror stumbled backwards, as if it’d hit a wall. The ground shook. Gurgles of dismay emanated from the gaping maws of the surrounding shades.
“Your foul weapons have no power over me,” the stranger said. “Back through the rift from whence you came.”
The stranger set his feet in a stance that seemed vaguely reminiscent of the River. There was a relaxed casualness about him, as if he’d stood before such nightmares before and come away laughing. Ferrin realized with surprise that the posture was similar to one Erem had used during their first battle. He shot a glance at the man beside him, but Erem’s eyes remained transfixed on the scene below.
The creature uttered no reply, but three of the surrounding shades suddenly slipped, snapping back into existence to encircle the robed stranger. He moved to action before the fiends had even rematerialized, like he could see the future. Throwing a hand out towards one of the fiends, the suggestion of a sword flickered in the stranger’s hand. The shade’s head went rolling off its shoulders, bounding away to rest at the Terror’s feet before it turned to dust. He performed a similar maneuver to the second shade, moving like a dance, employing stances Ferrin couldn’t name.
With the third nearly upon him, the stranger spun as if on ice, palmed the shade’s face, and squeezed like one might an orange to release its juices. As he did so, one of his sleeves slid down to the elbow, revealing scars that looked as if he’d been burned alive.
For a moment, as the robed stranger clenched the shade’s face, Ferrin thought he was seeing double. A shimmering, perfect outline of the shade appeared directly behind it. The liquid likeness hung suspended in the air for an instant, then splashed to the ground. Concurrent with this splash, the stranger’s grasping hand crushed through the shade’s head as if it were made of sand. The rest of the thing’s body quickly followed, disintegrating to the ground like grains through an hourglass.
The Terror roared with the unbridled ferocity of a rabid animal. Every shade in the clearing resumed its slow, unnatural plodding, converging at the point occupied by the... the what? Man? Aldur? Legend?
Whatever he was, he sighed as if bored. “Enough of this. You’ve received more warning that you deserve.”
And then, in what seemed the most incredibly stupid thing he could have done, the unknown stranger bounded forward and dove at the Terror, as if to tackle it. To Ferrin’s great surprise, the thing tried to step back, as if afraid.
The two collided in a billow of robes and limbs. The Terror’s cowl defied gravity, remaining perfectly in place, continuing to hide whatever horrors lay beneath. It swung wildly with its scythes, but the stranger was too close for them to be of any use.
The pair fell to the ground, the rabbit now remarkably astride the wolf. The tables turned. With sure confidence, the stranger scooped his hand into the mystery of the Terror’s cowled visage. For a moment, he seemed to be fighting an internal struggle, his placid features contorting with intense concentration. Then a look of satisfaction washed over his face. Ferrin staggered as his senses felt the might of the stranger’s power. He was channeling all five of the elements.
“Be gone!” The Angel shouted, his clear voice ringing from the tower’s rooftop, impossibly loud for one so gaunt.
Another shriek began to emanate from the Terror, but it seemed to be fading. Then, it was gone. Not just the sound, but the Terror itself. The Angel st
raddled over nothing but bare grass, matted from the struggle that had been occurring only moments before. The murder of shades that had nearly converged on him collapsed in unison, heaps of misaligned limbs shuddering like the legs of dead insects.
The Angel rose, dusting himself off as one might wipe dirt from his knees after tending the garden. He reached into the folds of his robe, retrieving a small metallic item Ferrin couldn’t identify from his high perch. After studying it a moment, the Angel looked up to the window where Ferrin and Erem stood.
“You may come down now.” An amused smile played on his lips. “We have much to discuss.”
35
Devan
The Sixth Lesson: Living beings shall not cross their own timelines.
-From The Lessons
“SO YOU KILLED IT?” Ferrin asked.
Devan shut his mouth, appraising the young lad. That would be considered redundant by many he supposed, young lad. But when you were so much older than all those around you, it was necessary to have a hierarchy of youngness.
He’d been about to address... What was the foolish name the man was going by now? Erem? Devan had half a mind to ignore his insistence on it. But he had the distinct intuition the man—Erem—would not appreciate that. Not at all. And the last thing Devan needed was the man more irritable than usual.
But who was this other one? This lad. He couldn’t place him. And try as he might to ignore it, that was bothering him. Fallen trees on a one-lane road! It was his business to know people, particularly ones who kept company as notable as the lad’s traveling companion. But this Ferrin was unfamiliar, and unfamiliar people were almost always a symptom of a disturbance on the Path. Or the result of one.
Devan narrowed his eyes, as if the intensity of his scrutinization would cause answers to leap from the ether about the lad’s head. No luck.
The three of them sat about a fire, shielded from the night’s chill by the waytower in which he’d found the lad and the... Erem. Their shadows loomed up the tower’s face, soaring like Terrors above them. Ferrin had been astounded when the fire had blinked into existence on the logs Devan had gathered. Devan had become so accustomed to channeling from Stephan’s chronometre that it’d taken him a moment to figure what had amazed the boy so. Linears were so easily awed. But in this instance, it was also quite perceptive. There was nothing around from which to channel fire, and the lad had noticed.
“Kill it?” Devan finally replied, shaking his head. They really didn’t teach the young anything from The Lessons in this time, did they? “That’s not how it works. Lesser Terrors have no true corporeal existence on the Path. They’re just projections from the Elsewhere. Really good projections, but projections nonetheless. That’s why they need the shades—to perform tasks that require physical presence. You’ll have noticed that they—or their husks at least—remained here.” He motioned about them, where the numerous mounds of dust that had been the shades still lay. He’d built their fire on the leeward side of the waytower, out of the wind, so the shades’ residue wasn’t blown onto them.
He continued. “But with the Lesser Terror there is nothing to kill. I simply banished it back to where it came from.”
The lad frowned, the expression accentuating his already pale face. Sweat trickled from his brow, into his eyes. He brushed it away slowly, as if the motion took great effort. What was Erem doing traveling with this boy who looked ready to collapse at any moment?
“So it could come back?” the lad pressed.
“Oh certainly.” Devan brushed some dirt from his robe. This was the only one he had with him and it’d been hopelessly grass-stained when he’d dove at the Terror. “In all likelihood, anyway, and not too long from now I’d guess, judging by the current state of things. Though time can be a tricky thing.” Devan shrugged.
The boy gave him an incredulous look. “That thing could kill half the land with that army of shades it commands. Shouldn’t you be going after it?”
Devan looked up from the stain he’d been picking at. He was unaccustomed to being addressed so sharply by anyone other than, well, the lad’s traveling partner.
“The shades it commanded,” Devan corrected, giving the lad a level stare. “When a Terror is banished, it loses its hold on the shades. And without that link, the shades die. Well, not die. They’re already dead.” Devan shifted his attention to polishing away some grime from one of his rings. “But you get what I mean.”
“Why not follow it to the Elsewhere and put it down?”
Erem made a sound in the back of his throat that said this was one of the stupidest questions ever uttered. Devan was inclined to agree, though the question’s foolishness was rivaled by Devan’s surprise with how casually the boy had mentioned the Elsewhere.
“Wrong again. The Elsewhere doesn’t play by our rules. Or any rules really. At least none with which I’m familiar, and I’m familiar with quite a bit. I’ll stick to the True Path, thank you.”
“The True Path?” The lad almost scoffed. “So you really are an Angel, then? Like the Terror said?”
“We prefer, Aldur,” Devan said, frowning at the lad.
Ferrin met his glare with the hint of a smile. But there was a sparkle in his eyes that Devan did not like.
“So you can travel through time at will?”
Devan chuckled. “Well. It’s not quite as simple as all that. Peregrination’s like putting together a puzzle while all the pieces are constantly moving around. Lots of boring, technical details that you wouldn’t be able to comprehend.”
The lad’s glare was indignant. Devan gave him an apologetic shrug but didn’t retract the statement.
“But in short? Yes. I can travel through time at will.” He gave a little half flourish and bow from his seated position, then rolled his eyes.
“Interesting,” Ferrin said. Not the first response Devan typically received when one learned of his true nature. The lad’s eyes still held that questionable gleam. “So what Erem’s been telling me? About the Path, the Cataclysm, the Seven? That’s all real?”
Devan cast Erem a sidelong glance. With the way the man always acted towards him, Devan found it almost impossible that he’d been passing on knowledge of the Aldur. Was that a smile playing at the corner of his mouth? May the man find himself on a flooded path with no horse! Insufferable Linear.
“You don’t look like much of a god, though. Do you?”
This time Devan was certain he caught Erem smiling.
“You don’t look so great yourself,” Devan retorted.
The lad narrowed his eyes, while simultaneously rubbing at his shoulder.
“So you can travel through time? Change it to be whatever you want? Prevent loved ones from dying? Make yourself a king?”
Devan frowned. Dangerous lines of thought, those.
“No, no, no,” he replied after studying the lad’s features. “It doesn’t work that way.” He turned to Erem. “I thought you were teaching him?”
This wiped any trace of a grin from Erem’s lips, which Devan was more than a little satisfied to see.
“I am,” Erem said. “But sometimes the young only hear what they wish to.”
Devan thought the statement quite observant, though it drew a glare from the lad. Now, if only Erem would realize that he was a young man too and needed to listen to sense.
“The Path isn’t going to bend to yours or anyone else’s whim, lad, so take heed. The major links in the Path’s chain of events are largely set. They cannot be altered, and if they are, the Path begins to break down.”
“Like a fraying rope,” Erem offered.
Devan eyed the man, but he was staring into the fire.
“A crude analogy. I prefer to think of it as a river. If you alter a significant event, it’s like creating a branch off the river. This weakens time’s forward flow and makes it easier for more tributaries to form. Pretty soon the original river itself—the True Path—is in jeopardy of being swallowed by all the rogue strands.
“Alright, so you can’t change the big things,” Ferrin said. “Agar’s birth. The Ebon Affair. The Betrayer’s death. But what about the lesser events? Are you telling me you’ve never made a mistake and gone back to rectify it?”
The boy’s tone made Devan feel like he was sliding down a slippery slope with spikes at the bottom. Not unlike how he’d felt at times when talking to a certain former friend of his. He narrowed his eyes at the lad.
“No. First off, your analogy’s flawed. You can’t cross your own timeline—Lesson Six. Second, to the point you were attempting to get at, lesser events can be changed, but never casually. The unintended consequences of changing even the smallest thing can be disastrous. An Aldur will sometimes spend years studying and modeling before doing a thing as simple as whispering a few words to a person. Often it’s the smallest of ideas that create the biggest change. And every change to the Path weakens it in some way, so you must never do it without purpose.”
The lad frowned.
“It’s like tying a knot in Erem’s rope.” He glanced at the man, but he was still considering the flames of their fire. “A well-tied knot can hold out a while. Perhaps indefinitely. But the rope as a whole is never quite the same, nor quite as strong. And the more knots in the rope, the more weak points. So you never create a knot that’s unneeded.
“Or, if you prefer the river analogy, it’s like creating a tributary and then reconnecting it further downstream. Not as bad as a branch that never reconnects to the river, but too many of them still aren’t good. Eventually, there won’t be enough water left in the original waterway.”
Ferrin’s face grew pensive. “But if changes to the Path are so rare, your life must get awfully boring. Knowing everything that will ever happen and knowing that it will never change?”