by Tyler Krings
“That was really stupid, Noah,” Jon heard her say.
“Never mind that, check him.” The old gestured to the Wolf.
“He lives,” said Irving. “And he’ll heal…eventually.” Jon’s gaze passed from horse to horse to Wolf for a bewildered moment.
“Is this…a dream?” he asked quietly. His vision faded.
Jon opened his eyes to the glow of a campfire. Voices spoke in soft tones a small distance away. The hard ground beneath him muted whatever comfort he might have drawn from the blanket over him. He grunted silently when he tried to move, grasping his chest where a god had kicked him. He turned his head with an effort and found the sleeping body of his future wife next to him. Her breaths came easily, and she seemed in peaceful slumber. By the fire, the old man, a wolf, and a couple horses sat or stood idly, none now speaking, and all turning their attention to him. With an effort, Jon threw off the cover, immediately regretting the decision when he felt the night’s chill touch, and stumbled to the fire. He extended his hands to the warmth as the old man and the animals remained silent.
“So,” said Jon. “Has Irving always talked?”
There was a small moment of silence before all gathered offered quiet laughter. The old man smirked and nodded. “This is the Lord of the Wolves, Harnen,” began the old man. “Irving and his mate Isca are the Lord and Lady of the Horses. We have been friends a long time.” Irving, Isca, and the Wolf all nodded to the boy upon their introductions. The air of familiarity struck Jon as something far older than he, something beyond time and the ages of this world. He had always known the old man to be something more than he suggested, but he had never given thought to Irving and Isca. Perhaps they had seen to it that he would not.
“I have wanted to speak with you for some time, young master,” Irving sound, his voice a pleasant drawl.
“Is that so?” Jon asked.
“Yes. The latest batch of carrots have quite simply not been up to par—”
Isca made a shushing sound from behind the stallion. Irving quieted, but not unhappily, seeming pleased to have finally broken his silence.
“Why the deception?” Jon asked.
The old man responded, “No one else could know.”
Jon met the old man’s eyes, hardening his look. “I mean from me.”
Isca scoffed behind Irving and folded her legs beneath her in a loud huff. Irving and the Wolf gave the old man the same knowing look. The old man sighed. “I thought to spare you. The less you knew, the less you would have been seen as a threat.”
“To whom?”
“To the Pantheon. Secrets not known are never shared.”
A flash of hurt sparked a sudden anger that the boy could not keep from his voice. “You did not trust me?”
“It is not about trust. I’ve never lied to you.”
“No, but you’ve omitted it. I have always trusted you. Without fail. What else don’t I know?”
The old man drew back slightly, betraying his self-control, and visibly worked to regain composure. “There is much—”
“Just tell him, Noah,” the Wolf interrupted. “He has a right to know.”
The old man shot the Wolf a warning look. One that said this was not a conversation that included him. They shared a glare for a long moment before the old man sighed and turned back to Jon.
“Your ancestor was the Lord of War, and a friend of mine. When the Revolution began, we”—He gestured to those gathered.—“fought bravely beside him. When we lost, we gathered whomever we could and fled. Most are now dead, and the rest will most likely never be seen again. War fled here, to Evanna, and with my help, he remained hidden. In time, he fathered children who in turn sired others. A race of humans with the blood of gods, and trained in the Art. It had always been his intention to return, with an army at his back such that no world had ever seen.”
They shared a moment of silence broken only by the crackle of flames.
“Why didn’t he?” Jon asked.
Another sigh and a longer pause. “Because…he didn’t want to. He came to love what he had found. It did not matter in the end. Fate found us and sent his agent to do the work.”
Jon gestured vaguely behind him. “The Hunt?”
The old man shook his head. “No. Something worse.” The Wolf twitched his ears, and the Irving snorted. “Murder.”
“Murder,” Jon repeated. “As in ‘The Lord of?”
“Yes.”
Jon gave a small shake of his head. “Didn’t know there was such a Lord.” Although, I’m getting less surprised by the minute.
“In the beginning, there wasn’t.”
They fear him. Jon eyed the old man. “So, everyone here, save myself, is a Lord or Lady of something or other. What does that make you?”
The old man returned his gaze. “Old.”
Jon could not help the grin that came to his face. I guess I'm not ready for that secret just yet. “In the woods, Ana told me she was sent here to find War. She…hinted…that perhaps he is still alive. Is that true?” Irving and the Wolf shared another look and turned to the old man expectantly.
The old man’s gaze did not waver from Jon. “We don’t know,” he said. “It is our suspicion that he was imprisoned in Lamen.”
Jon nodded. “She also…alluded to me being who she was looking for. And just now, the Hunt requested very politely that she hand me over. Does that have any merit?”
The old man hesitated. “No.”
The Wolf and horses sighed audibly.
“And I’ll not hear it again from you,” the old man remarked to the other three.
“I take it this is an old conversation?” Jon asked. “One that I don’t recall ever being a part of.”
The old man looked suddenly very weary and shook his head, unable to find anything to say. The Wolf took the initiative.
“You have the blood of a god in your veins, and Noah here wants to live in denial,” he said. “It is an affront to Anu, as procreation between man and god is strictly forbidden. It is believed that such a union could bring about the end of creation. It may yet still.”
Jon looked at each of them in turn before he asked, “Is that what you believe?”
The Wolf looked into the fire. “I don’t know. But it may be what is needed.”
“And how would I do such a thing? End creation? Because clearly all of you believe—or at least have entertained—the thought of me, a farmer, somehow resurrecting a revolution and putting an end to some weird shit that’s happening in Anu. You believe it so much that not only have I been trained in the Art, but I have also been hidden until such a time that I can …what? Rise from the ashes and avenge my family?”
The old man started, “That’s not—”
“It isn’t?” Jon interrupted. “Because it looks to me as if this has been discussed over and over and little ol’ me is just sitting here with no fucking knowledge of any of it and taking everything I've seen or heard on faith. Now a goddess has fallen from the sky, mother fucking Ivan Emersin is at our goddamn doorstep, and there’s a dead god in the woods.”
“Murder’s here, too,” Irving added. He shook off the annoyed looks from the old man and Isca. “What? Jon happens to be making some very good points that I myself have made from time to time. Oh, and by the way, Jon, no one here is foolish enough to believe you merely a ‘little ol’ farmer.’”
“Murder’s here to,” Jon repeated. “Fucking gods, anything else?”
There was a strained moment of silence.
The Wolf started, “The Lord of Fate did not know you existed. When Nathera burned, the details of it were kept from the citizens of Anu. It would not have gone well for Fate to be privy to burning women and children in the early days of post-revolution. Arienaethin would have had no knowledge that Arthen was no longer on Evanna when they finally managed to smuggle her out. When Noah rescued you from the fire, he kept you hidden. The bloodline of Arthen is a threat to Fate, one that those still rebelling could use a
s a figurehead for future action.”
“A rallying cry,” Irving added.
“But I am no Lord,” Jon answered.
“True,” agreed the Wolf. “Not yet, anyway.”
Jon waited.
The Wolf continued, “The blood of Arthen is strong, but it will have to be awoken.”
Jon laughed. “Okay. Assuming I am a willing participant, how would we do that?”
“We don’t know. We had…assumed it would be a…natural process.”
Irving snorted. “He was hoping you’d show some signs once you hit puberty.”
“But he has,” Isca replied. “Unnatural reflexes. Unnatural healing. The boy walked to the fire without a limp, and we all saw what the Hunt did to his knee.”
“Aye,” said the Wolf. “His reflexes can be attributed to two dozen years of training, but I will agree he heals quickly. It will take much more than that, I’m afraid, if we are to defeat Fate.”
“He is more,” said Isca. “I am sure of it.” Jon looked at her fondly, and if a horse could smile, he was sure she did.
“So, what do we do now?” Jon asked.
“We run,” the old man said. The other four looked at him.
Jon shook his head in disbelief. “Run? Where?”
“Anywhere,” the old man replied. “It will take them time to find us again, and we can buy ourselves a moment to think.”
“They will find us. It does not matter where we go.” A light hand took hold of Jon’s shoulder. He looked and found Ana’s small smile and blue eyes. She took a seat next to him and took his hand in hers. There was a startled look from the old man as he took in the sight of the two of them together. He sighed heavily.
Irving snorted, “Told you.”
The old man shook his head. “Have you…”
“Yes,” the goddess answered.
“I mean have you…”
“Yes. We are bound.”
“Damn.”
“Noah,” Ana started, her voice formal as though she was addressing a war council. “This is our chance. The enemy has gathered, and there is nowhere to go. If we are to have a hope of winning, let alone survival, we must strike now.”
“Strike?!” The old man stood as he spoke. “With what? And at whom? Murder? A human general? These are mere pawns and would accomplish nothing in the grand scheme.”
“So,” replied Ana calmly, “we draw the true enemy here.”
“And just how do you plan to do…” He trailed off. “The wedding.”
Ana nodded, “Aye.”
Jon spoke up. “What does a wedding have to do with any of this? By the way, since we’re all talking about this as a given, I asked her yesterday and she said ‘yes.’”
Ana rolled her eyes, but the smile was close to her lips. “Because a wedding is sacred. It is when two become one. And it is when threads are bound.”
Jon shook his head. “I feel like I know all that…but I’m lost. How will that bring Fate here?”
The group offered a moment of silence, and from Ana…the silence was deeper. The old man raised his head and answered, “It is because of the nature of Fate’s work. The war is over, but he is not done.”
“The Lord of Fate,” spat Ana, “made me believe I loved him and made me his, because he rewove my thread. It was an experiment. To see if he could indeed remake the gods in his image. I was not his first and assuredly I am not his last, but I am his…most cherished.”
“His plan,” said the old man, “was one that Arthen discovered. It is what started the war.”
It was a little thing, a war started over the love of a woman among tribes far removed from anywhere in the civilized regions. They managed to kill each other with such abandon as to nearly cause both tribes to approach extinction and leave the remnants with such hatred that there was no hope of reparation. It went unnoticed, for the wars of man are plenty, to all but one. The only one that cared about such things. In the world of men, wars came and went as they pleased. The difference here was that man did not start it. Someone else pulled the strings.
War found his way to the Loom. Not an easy task as Fate kept his doors under guard and locked. But threads have to tether to something, and it was not so difficult to trace and follow their passage home. The Loomis looked up.
“Hello,” it said.
War ignored the automaton that wove every moment of every day and found his way to the threads he sought. The tapestry of the tribes was like many that had come before it. A small city founded on the basic principle of men seeking warmth and shelter together and pitching their tents by the same oasis. A leader arose out of the group and they found common ground from his guidance. Together, they gathered more to their camp and garnered food, economy, religion, and law. From humble beginnings a society was born.
War skimmed the list of genealogies and the part describing the second tribe’s forging. He ignored the stoic gaze of the Loomis as he came upon the thing that did not sit well with him. A woman. She should not have been there. From neither tribe and never before mentioned, she was not a part of the original thread. She was something else.
“What are you doing here?”
War turned to find Fate standing amidst threads in continuous weave. Fate parted the waiting tapestry and approached War with caution.
“What have you done?” asked War.
“What do you mean?”
“This!” War gestured to the tribes and specifically the thread of the woman. “This is not my doing!”
Fate looked at the tapestry and shrugged. “Perhaps you missed one? I only weave as I have been dictated.”
“Bullshit.”
“Believe what you will. Now, please leave my Loom. I’m not sure how you got in here, but I have much work to do.”
The Lord of War ignored the god in golden armor and stepped to the tapestry. Here and there, alterations had been made. A woman and two men. Only the woman was false. While the men had histories, the woman connected to nothing before she appeared in the weave. False meetings and emotions spread through the tapestry like an infection, a poison that soon engulfed both tribes and led to slaughter that had not been governed by the Lord of War. Or decreed by Anu.
War turned to Fate, who returned his glare. “Get. Out,” Fate said. War walked further into the Loom, inspecting tapestry after tapestry as the Lord of Fate seethed.
“This is not your place Arthen!”
War whirled. “You have made it my place! What did you think was going to happen? That I would not notice? How far you have fallen. When I am done, the only place that you will reign will be Lamen itself!”
Fate did not respond immediately. Instead, he smiled, “Arthen, perhaps you don’t realize, you are only in Anu because I have deemed it so.”
Arthen paused. He took Fate’s golden gaze into his own as his eyes gathered ancient anger. Realization clouded his mind in a sudden swirling storm. The Creator has been long gone, and what…now…has this… thing done in his absence? In the end, he answered Fate’s declaration with silence.
“There,” Fate remarked. “Reason at last.” He walked a lazy circle around the loom, playing the spun threads with the practiced fingers of a musician. The Loomis continued its work as though the two of them did not exist. Fate came to stand between the Lord of War and the Loom. “Perhaps it is time we had a conversation, you and I. The others seem keen on keeping up appearances—denying their own curiosity, maintaining the status quo. But you, no, you do not strike me as someone who is interested in playing into any sort of…false narrative. Not like the one we have now created. One where we must maintain the illusion that the Creator’s world is one that needs maintaining, that it is perfect. I propose that it is not. The truth is, this world, and that one, and that one—” Fate gestured down the line of eternal tapestries still being woven. “They are all ours. Now more than ever. The Creator is gone, but we are not.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying, the worlds are ours
. There is no counterargument, old friend. The Creator is gone; we are his children and must do what is best for the worlds. I have set into motion a remarkable amount of…changes. Improvements. In time, this world and all the others will be better, if not perfect. Just as the Creator intended.”
The Lord of War bristled and gestured to the tapestry. “But…that was not his intention. You took their choice, and they died needlessly. Is this an example of your improvements?”
“Freedom? Is that your point? Freedom to live, freedom of choice? This coming from the Lord beset with the responsibility of solving grievances in the most violent of fashions. No, Arthen, they did not die ‘needlessly.’ Without their sacrifice, my work would not be possible. They would have warred anyway. It is the way of man; it is, was, inevitable. You see the results of choices, poor or otherwise, more than any other. Perhaps what you fear most is that in my world there will be no need of you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is liberation! For you, for me, for all of us here and there. The killers, the thieves, the rapists, the despots, the poor, the rich, the little bitty babies clinging to their mother’s breasts, and even for the gods themselves. For all of them, all we need do”—Fate tapped a thread with the tip of his finger.—“is pluck a string. And all their fortunes are now reversed. Peace will ensue, and the worlds will be one in their perfection. I no longer need to spin what I have been dictated to, for there is no longer any dictation.”
War’s mask felt suffocating, despite his not needing to breathe. He has already done it. Made his changes, Arthen thought. He looked now to the Loom in its entirety. Looking hard enough, he could see the changes in the multitude of threads that spanned the walls. Small at first but growing larger as Fate’s experiments had clearly expanded over time.
“None…none have noticed this but I?”
“None have cared, my friend.”
The notion to vomit was a human one, but it was one that the Lord of War now shared. He looked at the Lord of Fate and grimaced at the smug smile as a thought dawned. “And what do you gain?”