A mote of darkness loomed into view ahead. Each tug of the rope dragged her closer. Gradually, the indistinct darkness resolved into a rocky outcrop sticking up from the water. It was little more than a few large stones, one of which stuck up sharply above the others. The spire of stone had an iron ring set into it, through which the rope had been anchored and steadied. It continued onward into the endless gray, but for the moment Myranda’s eyes lingered on something else clinging to the tiny foothold in the rushing river.
At first it wasn’t clear what she was looking upon. It only seemed to exist at the edge of her vision. Any attempt to look at it directly caused it to fade away. She dragged herself closer and attempted to draw her mind into some semblance of focus. While she’d been stripped of the capacity to cast any spells, steadying her mind and deepening her concentration served to sharpen her view of whatever lingered upon the stone.
What held on to the stone tightly was not a thing of flesh and bone. Indeed, there was no solid form at all. She saw highlights and shadows, but not the structure that the tricks of the light traced out. The ghostly figure was broadly human in shape, slender and lithe of build.
“Hello?” Myranda called as she neared the outcropping. “Who are you?”
The spirit raised its head. For a moment it flickered to solidity.
“Friend or foe,” the figure replied.
Its voice was as insubstantial as its appearance, an echo without the sharpness of its original sound.
“Friend, until you give me reason to be otherwise,” Myranda replied. She pulled herself the final few feet to the outcrop and placed a boot on the slick surface. “You are the first creature I have encountered here. Are you being tested as well?” she asked.
“Tested. Always. This is a strange one. Different from most.”
“Why can’t I see you?”
The figure flickered again. “Nothing to see,” the stranger replied. “I don’t believe there is much left of me.”
Though the figure couldn’t maintain visibility or solidity for any amount of time, its voice became more distinct. It was a woman’s voice. She had a frazzled tone that somehow maintained a degree of nobility, as though this place had worn her down but not yet broken her dignity.
“Who are you?” Myranda asked.
A wry laugh echoed around her. “That was the first to go. Not much use for identity here.”
“Do you need help?”
She crouched down and cautiously reached for the figure. As her fingers approached the arm gripping the stone, the limb shifted to visibility. The mere proximity of Myranda’s body loaned substance, the light of a torch pushing back the darkness. The swirling solidity spread to the rest of her body. The finer details of her face remained elusive, smoky and blurred like a half-remembered dream. Rather than clothes, the figure wore armor, too eroded and disheveled to be identified. Myranda was able to grasp her arm and pull her to her feet.
“How long have you been here?” Myranda asked.
The unknown woman paused. “I do not know how to answer that question. But you sound familiar to me.”
“I wish I could say the same. Your voice sounds so far away. How did you get here? On this rock. Are you trying to get to the other side?”
“I don’t know. I just… have been here. Waiting for something.” Her ill-defined face turned aside, then back to Myranda. “I don’t think you are part of one of my tests. I think I am part of one of yours. What are you trying to do?”
“They just told me to go forward.”
The figure nodded. “Your first time through. Yes. The trials are so clear the first time.”
“You’ve been through more than once?”
“More than once. More than twice. More than I could hope to count.”
“Why? Why haven’t you left?”
“Something about… I… Ah, yes. I recall now. Because I am dead. It seemed unwise to leave in such a state. I have a notion that death is more troublesome outside this place than in. So I need to reach the center to return to life.”
“But you’ve been to the center more than twice. Why didn’t you leave?”
“I have the unfortunate habit of dying again before I reach the center.” She leaned closer. “Things become more difficult the more often you pass through. A word of advice? Don’t die. It complicates things tremendously.” She straightened up. “Though to be fair, the first death is always the most difficult. … The burning…”
Her voice became sharper. A steam-like hiss and acrid scent filled the air. The flesh of the arm visible through a tear in the armor gleamed brightly. When it faded again, a blackened shape marred the pale skin like a fresh brand. The Mark of the Chosen.
“You… Trigorah?”
A flicker of elven features resolved themselves. Her expression was stricken and confused. “That name is so familiar.”
“You were Trigorah Teloran. You were my godmother. You fell to Epidime, and—”
“Epidime,” she hissed viciously.
For a moment, the face Myranda had last seen years ago in this very valley asserted itself in the half-defined figure. It was twisted with rage.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“He has been defeated, but Deacon has felt his touch. Deacon is here too. Have you seen him?”
Trigorah shut her eyes. “Memories don’t last long here. I may have…” The fallen Chosen stood, her features fighting to remain sharp and distinct. “I need to reach the center again. I need to leave this place. Epidime… Epidime needs to pay.”
“We’ll go together. The way things have been going, we may well need every hand we can get.”
Myranda stepped back onto the raft. She pulled the spiritual remnant of Trigorah with her. Together, they hauled at the rope and continued on their way.
“How long has it been out there?” Trigorah asked. “Since I died.”
Her expression was complex as she worked at the rope. She seemed to be searching, lost. Like the entirety of her mind was a fleeting thought that she had to work to keep hold of before it slipped away.
“About three years.”
“What’s become of the world?”
“Peace. The Alliance is three kingdoms again. I am the queen of Kenvard, and Deacon is the king.”
Trigorah shut her eyes tightly. “For decades I tracked the Red Shadow and the war raged on. I die and the world heals… If I’d known that was all it would take, I would have died sooner.”
They pulled themselves onward. With two more arms at work, the ferry moved along far more swiftly. The tiny stone island that had held Trigorah vanished into the fog. Once again, Myranda was in the center of a gray void, no shore in sight.
Water lapped at the edge of the raft. Then slowly crested over its edge. The work of dragging it through the water compounded as each new pull scooped water along with it.
“We’d best hurry,” Trigorah said. “This raft won’t last much longer with two of us on it.”
“We’ll make it,” Myranda said.
They redoubled their efforts. The cold water of the river washed over their feet and curled about their shins. Trigorah’s eyes drifted down to the water.
“You were surprised to find me…” she said.
“I was.”
“They didn’t mention me when they gave you your task? It was just ‘move forward’?”
“That is all.”
“Of course they didn’t…” Trigorah shook her head. “They pull this trick often. We aren’t working toward the same goal.”
“What do you mean? We both need to reach the center.”
“We do. But the way toward the center isn’t a direction. It’s a sequence of tasks. Your task is to move forward. They’ve stopped telling me what my tasks are. Part of the puzzle is figuring it out. And I think I have. My puzzle, anyway.”
The raft was fully beneath the surface of the water now. If not for the tether connecting it to
the rope, it would have likely sunk to the bottom.
“What do you mean? What are you meant to do, if not take my help and reach safety?”
“This place is about your flaws. Giving you a chance to correct them. I am your godmother. I could not have failed you more in that regard. It’s time to correct that.”
Trigorah smiled serenely and released her grip on the rope. Myranda took one hand away and grabbed her wrist before the current could wash Trigorah free.
“What are you doing?!” she cried.
“The raft is only sturdy enough for one. Take it. Go. I’ll find my way.”
“You barely existed when I found you. It wasn’t until I helped you that you even remembered who you were. I can get you to the center. I know I can.”
“Myranda, I’m already gone,” Trigorah said.
She held on tightly, but the tether holding the raft to the rope was beginning to fail. Everything in her heart demanded she hold on. It was the right thing to do. But the words echoed in her mind. Oriech’s words. Just move forward. Trigorah was a part of her past. Was it really so simple? Was it really so cruel?
She loosened her fingers and let her past slip away. Trigorah was swallowed by the rapids. The raft lurched back to the surface. Myranda trembled with anger as the image burned itself into her mind. Around her, the fog dissipated. The water slowed. The distant shore came into view.
Myranda took a breath. “You were never one to make your points lightly, Oriech,” she said.
“Just because you came here without a stain on your soul doesn’t mean you can’t stand to learn some important lessons,” Oriech replied.
She turned. The shore was much closer than it had been when she last looked, and Oriech was standing there, waiting for her.
“That I’ll have to make sacrifices to succeed? Do you honestly think I haven’t learned that time and time again?”
“It’s a lesson that bears repeating. Onward, Myranda. Not much further now.”
#
Deacon marched through the forest, awaiting his next trial. Oriech had kept his promise. Several tests were behind him, and they had been alternately confounding in their complexity and savage in their physical demands. Despite the travails, his time here felt almost like a reprieve. Oriech’s influence had calmed the roiling chaos in his mind without stripping it away. He was thus free to view this unique aspect of his world with the wonder and fascination of his thoroughly analytical self while still cursed with the slanted insight of his affliction. It was enlightening, and were the circumstances less dire, he would have relished the opportunity to test himself against this place.
He shut his eyes and allowed the power of Spirit Oak to wash over his spirit.
“Astounding…” he murmured. “Not even the crystal arena coaxes arcane energies into so skillful an approximation of reality. I can still feel myself within the valley, and yet all of this, this endless forest, seems as real as my own body.”
“It is far more real than that,” remarked a voice from the forest.
Deacon opened his eyes and looked to the source. The darkened depths of the forest surrounded him. “Who is there?” he asked.
“A fine question. If I’d not been reminded, I might not have known the answer. This place has a way of scouring the mind clean. Have you felt it yet? The searing clarity of stripped-away sanity?”
A figure stepped from the darkness, though it remained barely a whisper of form. Curls of light traced out vague details. A pair of lips pulled into a wry smile. “Oh, no. I can see it. The patina of reality is still clouding your mind. First time through as well. So I suppose that would make you Deacon.”
“Again I ask you, who are you?” he asked.
The figure stepped closer. It spoke in a far clearer voice. “I am the one you came here to find.”
Deacon sharpened his focus and allowed a thread of his power to curl out toward the figure. Like a handful of dust blown into the rays of the sun pouring through a window, his power swirled and became illuminated, tracing the form more vividly. “Trigorah… I knew I would find you here.”
“You’d hoped you would find me here,” she said. “And by most measures, you haven’t found me here. My body, and the better part of my soul, are long gone. The one you came in search of is no more.”
“No. You cannot lie to me. This place does not destroy. It is a crucible. It has rendered away the impurities. Your essential nature, that which I have sought, still remains.”
“Well, you are the fool who came here knowing what you would find. And so you’ve found it. What do you intend to do now?”
Deacon reached into his bottomless satchel and withdrew the coin. “I need the barest whisper of your essence. Just a sample of your nature,” he said. “I believe it may well be the final ingredient to a ritual that will permit me to literally change the world for the better.”
“Change the world. And by who’s authority do you do such a thing?”
“By my own.”
“I sense no mark upon your skin. No divinity in your soul. Indeed, I sense quite the opposite coiled about you.” The half-seen eyes flashed with anger. “Something familiar. Something unwelcome.”
“Please. All I ask is that you touch the coin. I shall do the rest.”
Trigorah approached. Her ghostly hand, little more than a dull glow given vague form, reached forward. The fingers closed about the coin. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No surge of power, no flicker of intensity. Then came the torrent. Threads of light spilled into the form standing before him. It was as though Trigorah was little more than a vessel, and the coin was pouring golden, shimmering light into it, filling it to bursting. The curves and shapes of her body became brilliant and vivid.
Deacon shut his eyes and spared himself the glare, putting his mind to work. As he had at each mythic site, each meeting point of the Chosen, he poured his mind and focus into the coin. He unraveled its physical and mystical form ever so slightly, allowing the merest notion of Trigorah’s aspect to entwine with the other sampled moments, places, and people. Just as two simple metals can combine to become an alloy that is greater than the sum of its parts, the reality of the coin was enhanced. Trigorah loaned it a measure of her importance, of her once crucial role in her world.
As the raw power of the moment subsided, so too did the blinding light that composed the form before him. The details of Trigorah’s body coalesced again, solid and whole. Her ragged but formidable armor, her fierce and determined gaze. She was, for the moment, herself again.
“There…” Deacon said, letting his focus ease. “It is as complete as I am likely to achieve. I thank you.”
“Say nothing of it,” Trigorah said.
In a startling motion, her grip on the coin tightened and she wrenched it from his hand.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“You are being tested.” Trigorah dropped the coin into a pouch at her belt. “You didn’t suppose I would loan you even a sliver of what the gods gave me without being satisfied it was in the right hands, did you?”
“Oriech is the one testing me. The forest is the one testing me. Not you. Give me the coin.”
“Wielding the power of the divine? Daring to wrench fate and reality from its stated course? Those are the tasks of the gods and their surrogates. You are neither a god nor Chosen. If you can assign yourself the task of reweaving reality, I can assign myself the task of judging your worth.” She gave him a defiant look. “And as it stands, I will require some convincing.”
“Give me the coin,” Deacon demanded again.
“Do you believe you can take it?” she said.
“I have no desire to hurt you.”
“I am already dead. And even if I still lived, I doubt you could do so.”
His fingers tightened around his crystal. A flex of magic curled out from his mind. Before it could take hold, or even take form as a proper spell, Trigorah’s form blurred an
d vanished. He tensed his mind, ready for some manner of mystic assault from the powerful spirit.
What he received instead was a punishing physical blow to the midsection. The wind rushed from his lungs, and he dropped to one knee. Trigorah took a deep breath and released it in a glorious, contented sigh.
“Flesh and bone,” she said reverently. “A rare gift for me in a place like this.”
She set her boot on his shoulder and kicked him to the forest floor. It could have been a cruel or crass motion, but the way she delivered it, it simply seemed efficient.
“Why a coin, Deacon?” she asked. “What is so special about the coin?”
Deacon fought breath into his lungs and tried another twist of magic. Trigorah knelt down, her knee on his chest, and placed a hand on the side of his face. Her touch was like ice, though he knew the sensation well enough to know it had nothing to do with true temperature. The penetrating cold was a function of the soul not the body. It plunged past his flesh and into his mind, muddling his thoughts and fouling the spell he was attempting to concoct.
“You…” Deacon said. “How are you doing this?”
“If Myranda can be believed, three years have passed out there. Three years. In this place, only the completion of a test advances time in the world beyond the valley. Some puzzles take mere minutes to solve. But each time through, the trials become more difficult. They can take weeks… years to complete. And for each one, a single hour passes in the world beyond. I don’t have much of a mind for figures these days, but I think you can appreciate the eternities I have called this place home. I have seen and endured many lifetimes of mind-rending tests. It is a wonder I have any sanity left. But while I maintain my wits, I assure you, you cannot best me.”
“It must… it must be torture…” Deacon said.
“It is what I deserve. It is what is necessary to wipe my crimes clean. So I know a thing or two about what it takes to be worthy, Deacon.” She placed her hand on the pouch at her side. “Why a coin?”
Deacon sat up. “The ritual needed a focus. A hub to bind the elements. It could have been anything. I just needed something separate from the artifacts.”
The Coin of Kenvard Page 26