by Jason Denzel
The world began to blur and spin. Pomella had the distinct impression that wherever she was—Lal’s memory most likely—it was fading, or ending. Hector zoomed away, following Lal, and Ena tapped her hand again. Pomella realized she was trying to get her to do something. Following instinct, she reached out and wrapped her hand around Ena.
Her wispy, silver body dissolved into light just as the memory-world collapsed. She merged with Ena, and together they sped deeper into Lal’s memories. She had no idea where she was going or how she was being guided. She held tight to her little hummingbird and trusted she would lead her true. The world rushed and exploded with light once more.
This time, she found herself standing just inside the doorway of a familiar room. Floating orbs of light drifted near the ceiling of the library in Kelt Apar’s central tower.
Pomella opened her still-silver and translucent hand and released Ena. A heartbeat later Hector was there, too, dashing from nowhere to join her near the window on the far side of the library. Beside Pomella, on the other side of the doorway, stood a short Qina woman holding a Mystic staff. A thick head of curly braided hair plummeted down her back well past her hips. The woman, who was perhaps in her mid- to late thirties, wore a dress colored red for Crow Tallin. Her upper arms were bare, revealing a multitude of intricate tattoos. She gave no indication that she could see Pomella. Her attention was focused on the gathering of four other people in the library.
Two Mystics sat up on cushions at the far end of the room with their staves resting nearby.
One of them, who Pomella realized must be a High Mystic, was a man who also bore Qina heritage and wore dark-red robes. All of his gray hair was pulled into a bun above his head. Beside him sat a plump, kindly looking woman with light skin and short-cropped hair that was just beginning to fade from auburn to gray. Like the others, she wore a red dress, and this one had full-length sleeves with elaborate embroidery along its seams.
A sense of familiarity tickled Pomella’s mind. She looked around the library, trying to place it. A ring of paintings decorated the room, some resting between books on shelves and others mounted directly to the tower’s stone walls. Pomella recognized most of these images, as they were portraits of former High Mystics who had presided over Kelt Apar. But several paintings that Pomella was familiar with were missing. One was Lal’s portrait, and the others were of the masters before him, including the woman now seated in front of her.
“Ghaina,” Pomella whispered. Indeed, it was her, a woman Pomella had only seen before in a painting. In awe of the being in her presence, Pomella stared at Great-Grandmistress Ghaina. She had been the High Mystic of Moth two generations before Lal’s tenure. One of her students, Mistress Joycean, had become Lal’s teacher.
Lal rarely spoke of either person, except to say that they had been the kindest people he’d ever met. Looking at Ghaina now, Pomella was stunned at how beautiful her blue eyes were. They were like bottomless pools of a clear, eternal ocean. According to the lore Pomella was familiar with, Ghaina had been taught by Saint Serrabeth, one of the legendary Mystics of Moth, whose portrait rested on a shelf just an arm’s length away from where she stood. It filled Pomella with both joy and intimidation to know that she was now connected to that lineage.
The final two occupants of the room were young men who stood facing the High Mystics. Pomella could only see their backs but immediately recognized the first. It was Lal, now older, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with his hair still long. Pomella’s attention leaped to the oak staff he held that was about his height and slightly curved.
Realizing she was in the presence of not just one but two past masters of her lineage, Pomella bowed.
When she rose, she looked at the last person in the room, a boy no more than five or six years old. He seemed tall for his age, pale and skinny. From her angle, Pomella could see only his thin legs and bare feet poking out from a rough woolen blanket that was draped over his shoulders but kept slipping off. The boy, who had a shock of red hair, sniffed pathetically from time to time and appeared to struggle to keep the blanket on.
“Where in Mystwood did you find him?” asked the High Mystic with the gray hair bun in a thick Qina accent.
“I see him, naked lying under stone by north-most border, Master,” said teenage Lal. “Mystic staff was near him. Downstairs now.” His voice sounded less weathered to Pomella, and full of strength, although she could tell he was just beginning to learn the Continental language. He stood tall with his staff, full of pride and confidence. It was interesting to her how he’d changed in the sixty years between this Crow Tallin she was witnessing and the one she was alive for. What lessons did the young man before her have yet to learn? What experiences would he go through that would ultimately lead this enthusiastic youth to become her kindly and thoughtful master who had decided to retire from the world and give up his possessions, his title, and his power in order to seek something more profound?
Probably, she realized, the same lessons she herself had to learn.
“Do not be afraid, young man,” said Great-Grandmistress Ghaina to the shivering boy. Her voice sounded like bell chimes. “Do you have a name?”
The skinny boy with red hair sniffed again but said nothing. He stared straight ahead, lost in his own mind, not seeing anything. The blanket slipped off his shoulder, exposing his naked backside. A bony spine stuck out on his emaciated back.
Lal bent down to retrieve the blanket and fixed it back around him. As Lal placed it near the boy’s shoulder, the boy lazily lifted his hand to hold it in place. Pomella heart raced. The boy’s hand was burned and mangled.
“Bayyy-lew!”
Vivianna’s chant resonated across time and the tower, vibrating Pomella.
Nobody reacted to this except Ghaina, who blinked and looked around the room. She turned to peer at the nearby window where Hector and Ena had perched on the sill. A faint smile appeared on Ghana’s face before she turned back. For a moment, the High Mystic’s eyes slipped past Lal and the boy to settle on Pomella. Immediately Pomella’s entire body tingled with energy. Her spine grew warm, from the base of her tailbone to the back of her neck. For a fraction of a second their eyes met, and Pomella found herself lost in the depths of her great-grandmistress’ wisdom.
Then, quicker than a heartbeat, the moment passed and Ghaina looked again at the boy in front of her. She leaned forward in a kindly and conspiratorial manner.
“You can see the little hummingbirds, can’t you?” Ghaina said to the boy.
Pomella felt as though her heart might pop out of her translucent chest.
At first the boy did not move, and she wondered if he understood their language. But slowly he turned and faced the far window where Hector and Ena were. Then his gaze dropped to the floor again and he did not move.
“The Myst resonates with him,” said the other High Mystic. “There are curious and concerning circumstances about his arrival that I wish to explore.”
Ghaina leaned back to an upright position on her cushion. “Yes,” she said. “You were wise to bring him to us, Lal. But first, Master Challando, he must be cared for. He is just a boy, and needs love and attention. In time, we will learn his story.”
“Crow Tallin is over,” said High Mystic Challando. “You done much for all us, Mistress Ghaina. I will see boy raised in suitable house, and taught of the Myst.”
“But is from Moth,” said Lal, and Pomella couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the way he interjected himself into the discussion between two High Mystics. Even with him standing right there, it was difficult for her to see that he was not much more than an eager apprentice.
“Perhaps,” said Ghaina. “But there is more to his story. His mind wanders. I think he has seen other skies besides our own.”
“Please,” said Challando, “let me honor your Crow Tallin leadership. I will ensure this boy is brought up to become a Mystic. My apprentice, Mahnitha”—he gestured to the tattooed woman standing beside Pomella—�
��will take him to a good home and train him when he is old enough.”
The woman beside Pomella stiffened slightly but bowed obediently.
“Bayyy-lew!”
The library rumbled all around Pomella as she realized the memory was collapsing like the previous one had. Hector and Ena leaped from the windowsill, returning to her.
“Very well, thank you,” said Ghaina. She turned to the boy. “You will be safe, young man. The High Mystic of Qin will see that you are educated. Come back to us when your memory returns.”
Lal bowed to the High Mystics and gently guided the little boy out of the library. As they left with Mahnitha, the boy peeked briefly at Pomella. Familiarity raced over her.
Bhairatonix.
He was sixty years younger than the old High Mystic she knew, but there was no mistaking his face and lanky frame. It was strange to see his tumble of red hair rather than the long gray beard she was accustomed to.
There was a vacancy to the boy’s eyes, and she wondered at the horrors or mysteries he’d witnessed. How did this crippled orphan become the High Mystic of Qin? She shivered, and reached out to Ena as the memory-world vanished.
Pomella and Ena flashed through Lal’s memories and landed on Kelt Apar’s lush green lawn. She stood near the southern edge of the Mystwood, where Lal’s cabin was. Only, in this memory, the place where his cabin ought to have been was an open patch of grass. The central tower stood where it always had, although there were fewer cottages on its far side. Above her, the same dark clouds she’d seen earlier roiled with pending rage.
Ena flew from her hand and joined Hector. As the hummingbirds buzzed across the open lawn, they passed two men strolling toward her. Lal and Bhairatonix, both carrying Mystic staves, were more familiar to Pomella in that they were much closer to the ages she knew them as. Lal’s long hair and serene face marked him as the High Mystic of Moth, before his retirement.
The two masters walked right past Pomella with an easy manner. As usual, Bhairatonix kept his left hand tucked into his layered robes. Pomella knew now why he kept it that way. Neither gave any indication that he could see Pomella. She walked slightly behind them, listening carefully.
“I’m sorry to hear of the devastation the plague has brought your island,” Bhairatonix said in Continental. “Is it as widespread as they say?”
Lal sighed. “It is worse.”
“That is unfortunate,” Bhairatonix said.
“Will you help us?” Lal said, and Pomella could hear an uncharacteristic desperation in his voice. The lines on his face, along with the circles under his eyes, told a story of stress and little rest.
Bhairatonix did not respond, his expression suddenly distant.
“Please, friend,” said Lal, “thousands suffer. Whole communities decimated. You are the greatest healer among the High Mystics. Is it true you cured a man with the plague in Qin?”
The desperation in Lal’s voice broke Pomella’s heart. She remembered from her childhood when the Coughing Plague had torn through Moth, claiming her mhathir’s life, along with the lives of so many others in her village. At the time, people like her fathir, and others who had survived only to lose their families, had bitterly cursed Lal for his lack of assistance. They believed he turned a blind eye to dying commoners, but Pomella could see in Lal’s face just how desperately he sought a way of helping.
Bhairatonix remained silent for a while as they circled the outer edge of Kelt Apar. Finally, he spoke, but his eyes did not turn to Lal. “The Mystic Star will return in a decade and a half,” he said. “It will bring with it, of course, Crow Tallin.”
Lal eyed Bhairatonix suspiciously. “Yes?”
“For centuries we High Mystics have gathered here to secretly prevent a certain event from happening. In these desperate times, perhaps our thinking should change.”
“What do you mean?” Lal asked with a hesitant edge to his voice.
Bhairatonix finally turned his gaze on to Lal, and Pomella could see a fiery excitement dancing in his eyes. “I speak, of course, of the Reunion.”
Lal frowned. “I do not understand. How—”
“Think on it, Ahlala!” Bhairatonix snapped. “Think! Kelt Apar is the most powerful location in this world because it is closest to Fayün. During Crow Tallin, the worlds merge. What if we allowed the Reunion to take place? What if we let the worlds stay united?”
Lal stared at the other High Mystic with a wide-eyed expression of shock. “I asked your help because you are the only one who can cure plague. In response, you speak of what is forbidden. You suggest we break our most sacred duty.”
“I suggest we harness the power of a new world and eliminate all suffering! Look beyond dogma and consider what wonders we could achieve.”
“It will destroy us all,” Lal said. “The fire and blood…”
Bhairatonix stopped and loomed over Lal. “Your island is already burning with the flames of a disease you cannot control.”
Thunder rumbled through the memory.
“Bayyy-lew!”
Vivianna’s chant sounded across Kelt Apar. A shadow crossed the compound, and Pomella saw another figure hovering above the path in front of them. He had a vaguely laghart-like appearance, with sharp spikes emerging from his arms and legs and spine. Bat-like wings protruded from his back. The wings flapped hard, keeping the creature aloft. Like Pomella, he was made from silver smoke that blew in an otherwise-unseen wind.
The wivan reached behind his back and withdrew a long, serpentine-shaped knife. The wivan’s eyes found hers, then latched on to Lal with menacing force.
“Lal!” Pomella shouted as the wivan swooped down to attack.
A surprised expression crossed Lal’s face. He looked toward Pomella but seemed to stare straight through her.
The wivan closed the distance between them with lightning speed, his knife poised to strike.
With instinctive force, Pomella summoned her hummingbirds. Hector crashed into the smoky creature’s face. The wivan spun and waved him off, refusing to let the little bird slow him down. Lal and Bhairatonix continued to walk, seemingly unaware of the pending attack.
“What you suggest is madness,” Lal said to Bhairatonix. “For nine hundred years we guard against the true threat of Crow Tallin. The Reunion will not bring power like you think. It only brings death.”
“I am disappointed in you,” said Bhairatonix. “You are the First among us, yet you do not have the wisdom to see the truth. Perhaps you are no longer qualified to preside over this island.”
Pomella watched as Bhairatonix looked directly at the wivan and took a step back to give him room.
The wivan leaped again, and this time Pomella had no choice. She leaped in front of Lal just as the creature stabbed. She managed to knock aside the knife, but the wivan retaliated with a claw toward her throat. She felt the creature wrap himself around her, trying to choke her life away.
The memory-world tore itself apart like thin canvas, and she found herself spinning in a world of utter darkness. The only light she could see shone from herself and the wivan trying to destroy her.
“Bayyy-lew!”
Vivianna’s voice pulsed through Pomella, giving her strength. Connected as she was to the wivan, she expected to feel cold rage coming off him. Instead, the creature expressed only grim determination.
“The Reunion comesss. Lagnaraste will be fffree,” breathed the wivan with deadly calm.
Pomella filled herself with the Myst and, bolstered by Vivianna’s chant, rallied her own assault on the wivan.
They tumbled through an eternal darkness, into the depths of a place she could not fathom or describe. Pinpricks of light illuminated all around her.
“Bayyy-lew!”
The chant was fainter this time, more distant. More stars emerged in the blackness as they fell, seemingly brought to life by their passing presence, each giving her a mote of strength.
Pomella knew that she struggled not only for her life but for Lal’s as w
ell. If she failed, the wivan would consume both of them.
The creature clawed at her neck, although now their translucent bodies had twisted together such she could no longer sense where hers ended and his began. The wivan’s cold resolve filled her, and a corner of her mind wondered if he felt her panic and fear, and used those emotions as kindling.
“You will not take my master from this world!” she snarled.
The wivan responded with another assault. By now Pomella no longer sensed a body surrounding her. There was only conscious space, and the glowing lights of eternity. The wivan swelled around her, and she sensed herself dim.
“Bayyy-lew.” The chant was a far distant whimper.
Pomella could struggle no more. The wivan was too powerful. She had nothing left to throw at him, no means of fighting. This was how it would end. Sitting in stillness, trapped within an endless fall through the unfamiliar void beyond the Crossroads.
Pomella. Huzzo.
One of the pinpricks of light pulsed with the word. Her name. Her Mystic name. It came from Lal’s voice, warm and affectionate.
Huzzo.
The name echoed from another direction, from another star in the endless sky. It was a woman’s voice, one she did not recognize.
Huzzo. From another direction, another star, another woman. This voice she did recognize from the memory she’d just earlier witnessed. It was the silvery chiming voice of High Mystic Ghaina.
One by one her name rang out through the endless stars, voiced by the past masters of untold generations. The lineage of her Mystical past blazed around her.
“Help me!” she called to the masters. “Let this lineage not die.”
Like the dawn arriving after a long winter night, strength, warmth, and the Myst bloomed within Pomella.
It was as though a thousand burning suns rested in her heart, giving her their strength. She inhaled deeply, filling herself with the Myst. The wivan became distinct from her, and confused. He scrabbled to keep hold of her, but Pomella felt herself growing in the void, becoming larger and larger until the wivan was little more than an insect trying to cling to her.