The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  He took the main boulevard through the city. Below, the massive blue lake glittered in the sun. He reached the docks, which smelled of fresh clams and not-so-fresh fish, stabled his horse, and found the ferryman waiting for his arrival. The man rowed him to the pocket-sized island where Lolligan made his home. A salt miner and tea vendor, Lolligan had been rich well before the wars. After the assistance he'd provided during the conflicts, he'd become one of the region's preeminent businessmen.

  This came with a cost, though: Dante now expected the man to put him up whenever he was in town.

  The ferryman docked at the island's private pier. Dante thanked him and hopped out. As he crossed the lawn toward the manor, Stedden emerged from the ground floor and dashed toward him in a flurry of black robes.

  "She's still alive," the monk announced. He was a bit chubby and had a habit of staring through you, like he couldn't wait to get back to monk-work. "Still unconscious, though. And I'm not sure she'll wake up without your help."

  "Show me to her."

  Stedden led him inside and down a hallway to the ground-floor guest rooms. There, a woman lay in bed, dressed in a heavy coat and patchwork trousers. The woman was a few years younger than Dante and her skin was a medium brown not often seen this far north. She didn't look sweaty or feverish, but there was a faint cast to her, like a reflection in a bubbly pane of glass. A cloying smell of burned cinnamon hung in the air.

  Yet for all that was strange about her, he was struck by an uncanny sense of familiarity. Like he'd met her before.

  Dante reached for her wrist. Rock dust clung to the hairs of his arm. Her pulse was fluttery, weak. Her breathing was shallow. Dante pushed up his left sleeve, drew an antler-handled knife, and nicked the back of his arm. The nether flocked to the dribbles of blood, feeding hungrily. He reached out to the nether inside the woman.

  And was stung as sharply as a bee. He took a step back, wincing and shaking his head. He turned on Stedden. "You idiot. She's netherburned."

  The man hunched his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I've never seen a nether burn before."

  "I know it's difficult to gather firsthand experiences of everything in the world. That's why they invented 'studying.' Aren't you a monk of Arawn?"

  "I'm sorry," the man repeated, more softly this time.

  Dante let out a long breath and leaned over the woman. "We can't heal her. Touching her with the nether will only make it worse. Give her water, if you can."

  "You're sure of this?"

  "Check in with Nak. He treated me for it once. But I'm afraid this is one of those annoying injuries where the only treatment is time."

  Dante opened her coat and made a quick assessment for other wounds that could be treated through mundane means. Other than a few small scabs on her palms and knuckles, she looked perfectly fine—until he got to her shins. There, her brown skin was striped with finger-sized lines as black as the inside of the mountain tunnel.

  "For future reference, that's what a nether burn looks like." He pulled a sheet up to cover the woman's shoulders and turned to Stedden. "Tell me everything she told you."

  Apparently, the woman had been staggering down the southern foothills toward the city. Found by a small-scale tea farmer, she'd spoken Dante's name in an accent the farmer had never heard before, refusing to say anything else. Concerned for her well-being, the farmer had escorted her via ferry to Lolligan's. There, she'd spoken to Stedden, giving the same details the monk had relayed to Dante.

  Dante plunked down in a chair. "I suppose she said nothing of the message itself."

  "No." Stedden moved to a desk at the front of the room. "However, she seemed to understand she might not make it to your arrival. She made me swear to Arawn that I wouldn't open it. And then she gave me this."

  He picked up a wooden rod and brought it to Dante. Roughly ten inches long and two in diameter, it was a piece of polished wood, bright brown and warm orange-reds. It appeared to be seamless, but it was light enough it had to be hollow. After a great deal of fooling around, Dante discovered it twisted open in the middle. It carried a rolled-up sheet of paper inside it.

  He skimmed its contents. "I'll be in my quarters. If she wakes, or shows any change in her condition, come to me at once."

  Stedden bobbed his head and sat down beside the foreign woman's bed. Dante exited and climbed the stairs to the much larger and nicer room Lolligan had assigned to him. He locked the door, sat on his bed, and unrolled the paper. It was a single sheet, covered on both sides. It was written in Mallish. Had his father been able to write? He couldn't remember. He could hardly remember the man's face.

  He read the note in full. He let the page rest on his leg, remembering, then read it anew, lingering on each line. He dropped the note on the bed and went to the window. Light shimmered on the lake. He didn't see it. Instead, he saw the grassy fields of a village outside Bressel.

  He felt something in the room with him. A presence. The hair stood on his arms and neck. Dante gathered the nether in his hands and turned toward the door. Across the room, a blond man stood before him, a sword hanging from each hip.

  "Lyle's balls," Dante said, dispersing the shadows. The bolt on the door was still firmly locked. "You walked through the wall, didn't you?"

  Blays shrugged. "Like you wouldn't if you could?"

  "What if I'd had someone in here?"

  The other man folded his arms. "Like who?"

  "Like, say, a woman?"

  "Then I would have had a heart attack and died. Sparing you and your imaginary companion the embarrassment."

  "Let's return to the antiquated practice of knocking, shall we? Unless you'd prefer that I enter your room by blasting the wall down."

  "That would be rude. It's Lolligan's wall, not mine." Blays rocked on his heels. "So. Is it true?"

  Dante eyed him. "What have you heard?"

  "They say a strange woman staggered out of the mountains. And that she's here on behalf of your father. Shocking."

  "I know. I haven't seen him in nearly twenty years."

  "That, and I always assumed you were hatched, not born."

  "I think it's real." He nodded at the note on the bed. "No one else would know some of those details."

  Blays gestured to it. "Can I?"

  "I'm surprised you asked first."

  "It's much easier to ask for permission knowing you can always sneak in later." He picked up the page, eyes tracking the words. When they'd met as teenagers, Blays hadn't been able to read at all. The fact he was now literate in both Mallish and Gaskan struck Dante as nothing short of proof of the existence of the gods. Blays finished reading, lowered the note, and raised his eyebrows at Dante. "He knew your mom. He knew you. The events he mentions, they're like you remember them?"

  "It was a long time ago. But yes."

  "Right. So when do we leave?"

  Dante laughed. "We're not going anywhere."

  "But you just said this is your dad."

  "And?"

  "And he's sick and dying. You're one of the only people in the world who could help him."

  Dante sat on the cushions of the window seat. "He's the one who decided to leave. I've done perfectly well without him. Why mess with a good thing?"

  "We're only issued one father per existence," Blays said. "Most humans, when given the chance to see a parent they thought was long dead, would leap at the chance."

  "He left me. Alone. That was his choice. This may be difficult for you to understand, but after that, I've had no desire to ever see him again."

  "You're right. I don't understand. I'd give anything to see my dad one last time."

  Dante watched him a moment. "Really? You'd give up Minn? Trade your relationship with her for one last chat with your dad?"

  Blays batted at the air. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "How about our friendship, then?"

  "I'd give you up for a good ham sandwich."

  Dante rose to collect the note. "If you won't take this seriously, th
en I won't, either."

  "All right, point conceded. It wouldn't make any sense to trade a meaningful relationship for a few more minutes of an old one."

  "So we've established that you wouldn't give up anything. That there are, in fact, real limits to what you'd sacrifice. The only thing left to do is find out exactly how little you would give up."

  Blays glared from beneath his blond eyebrows. "Clearly more than you."

  Dante crumpled the note and pocketed it. "People like to pretend there's nothing more important than family. That they'd sacrifice anything for it. But parents abandon their children every day. Kids forsake their parents. Brothers betray each other. There's nothing sacred about blood."

  "Family isn't sacred, it's an ideal. We all have to break our ideals sometime. But having them gives us something to live up to." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "If you won't go, mind if I do?"

  "You absolutely will not."

  "I'm not up to much here. I may as well go make myself useful."

  "Don't you dare try to threaten me with this." Dante's voice was soft, concealing its quaver. "This is my family. My decision."

  "Maybe it's none of my business. But I've known you long enough to know that, in a situation like this, you'd rather reject it out of hand than give it real consideration."

  "I've made enough mistakes to be able to live with one more."

  "Just think about it, all right?"

  "Why do you care so much?"

  "I'm not saying you have to go make nice with him. You can go heal him up, then rub it in his face that you're such a raging success."

  Dante frowned. "What exactly would that gain me?"

  "If you're that sure you don't care, then stay here. But if you've got any uncertainty at all, and you don't see him, you could regret it forever."

  "I'll think about it. But I make no promises."

  "That's all I ask." Blays pushed off from the wall. He moved to the door and unlocked the bolt. "If you decide you're going, you know I'll go with you."

  He walked outside, using the door this time. Dante sat on the bed, removed the wadded-up note from his pocket, and smoothed it against his leg.

  An hour later, he left his room and found Lolligan in his study. The room overlooked the lake and was cozy with bric-a-brac gathered over a lifetime of travel. The salt merchant was approaching seventy years of age, but his white goatee remained neatly trimmed, and he showed no signs of slowing down, be it in his business or the speed at which he walked between meetings.

  Seeing Dante, he smiled and rose from a plush chair. "Back from work already? I didn't expect to see you until this evening."

  "The tunnel entrance," Dante said. "Has the TAGVOG decided where it will go? Or are they still having a contest to see who can waste the most of my time?"

  The old man's smile fell. Unlike many businessmen, he seemed primarily motivated by the desire to explore what was possible and to forge connections between people. Unnaturally good-natured, he now looked hurt.

  "I understand your frustration," Lolligan said. "You're giving us a boon and we're so busy squabbling about where to unwrap it that it sounds like we don't care what's inside. But I promise you, everyone in the Association knows what this will mean for the lakes."

  "Two days from now, I'll finish the tunnel. If your people haven't decided where they want it by then, I'll make that decision for them."

  The old man frowned lightly, then rediscovered his smile. "We discuss things too much, I'll agree, but that's only because words are free. I'll let them know we've indulged ourselves long enough."

  Dante left to check in on the woman, but she was still unconscious. There was a stillness to her body that he didn't like at all. Stedden informed him that she hadn't so much as shifted position during the hour-plus since Dante had first seen her. He stood over her for some time, but nothing explained why he felt like he'd seen her before.

  ~

  At first light, he hiked back to the tunnels. Inside, he pushed the passage's end closer and closer to Wending, shifting the nether within the rock until he felt a tingle in his veins. He slept right there in the tunnel, curled in his blankets. When he next awoke, he had no idea how long he'd been out, but it was long enough to have recovered. He returned to the stone, melting it away down the passage, leaving the way forward as smooth as the surface of a pond.

  Via loon, a message came in from Lolligan. The Association had made its decision. Dante extracted himself from the tunnels and hustled back to Wending. They had selected a spot in a small hollow outside the city, presumably so that if bandits or soldiers from the Middle Kingdom ever tried to use the tunnels to invade, it would be a simple matter to assault them from the ridges above. Dante cut his arm, fed his blood to the nether, and opened a hole in the side of the hollow.

  Within a day, he connected this leg of the tunnel to the one he'd driven up from the south. He emerged from the tunnel tired and dusty. Along the ridges of the hollow, dozens of faces appeared. The merchants of the TAGVOG lifted their arms and cheered his name.

  This marked the beginning of a two-day celebration of feasting, drinking, and drunken promises of greater feasts to come. Of all the festivals Dante had been invited to, he thought he liked Gallador's the best. The lakes held so many different varieties of fish, crabs, and mollusks that he doubted he'd ever be able to sample them all.

  The first day of the event was held at Lolligan's. It was fun, but a little stuffy. The second day, they convened on the city docks, which took on the air of a proper holiday, complete with food stalls, wandering entertainers, and children tearing about the streets without looking where they were going. Tables were dragged to the docks and loaded with seafood of all kinds, accompanied by the tea and spiced rum the lakes were famous for.

  As the sun drooped toward the western peaks, the people began a slow migration to the tables. Once the seats were filled, Lolligan rose from his seat beside Dante and rang a silver bell. Two hundred faces turned his way.

  "Tonight, we celebrate the essence of trade: a connection built between two people. It's there, in our new pathway to the Middle Kingdom." He gestured in the direction of the tunnel's mouth, two miles to the southwest. "But it's also right here beside me, in the form of the man who made it possible. Years ago, Dante Galand came here as a young man with a crazy idea: that his lands, and ours, could be free. That they should be free.

  "At the time, backing him against the Gaskan Empire felt like madness. In time, though, that decision has repaid our investment of trust many times over. Tonight, we celebrate our dear allies in Narashtovik!" Cheers erupted from across the tables. Lolligan let them fade, then winked at the revelers. "And you know what? Let's celebrate ourselves, too. For having the wisdom to set us down this path in the first place!"

  This drew even more shouts and upraised glasses. Blays smiled at Lolligan and took a long drink. Gazing across the happy, rum-flushed faces, Dante felt at odds with himself. He'd given them something of great value. In the process, he'd strengthened the bonds between the lakelands and Narashtovik. He should have felt satisfied. Proud. Accomplished.

  Yet the arrival of the netherburned woman had stolen that from him. He never thought about his father because he never had to. After the memories contained in the letter, though, he no longer knew if the past was buried as deeply as he'd thought.

  He tried and succeeded to drink his way to good cheer. Late that night, he went to bed intending to spend a day or two longer in Wending to recover from the work—not to mention the celebrations—and then return to Narashtovik. He'd been away for weeks and was looking forward to going home.

  Someone shook him awake. The room was dark, chilly from the breeze off the lake. His head swam with drink.

  "Stedden?" he croaked. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

  "It's the stranger, sir." The monk drew back, staring down at him with a face as serious as a cat's. "She's awake."

  Dante jumped out of bed. Dressed only in his slee
ping robe, he followed Stedden downstairs. Three candles barely lit the woman's small room. She was lying in bed, but her eyes were wide open. The room smelled like meat kept sealed for too long. Dante moved beside the bed. The woman's eyes snapped to his.

  "You are him?" Her voice was raspy, weak, accented in a way Dante had never encountered. He leaned closer. She grabbed the collar of his robe. "You are Dante?"

  "I am. Who are you?"

  "He will soon die. You must go see him."

  Dante drew back. "He doesn't deserve it."

  "Perhaps not. But you do."

  "You don't even—" He cut himself short. She had begun to shake, limbs jerking, teeth clacking. Her eyes rolled back. Her back arched like a drawn bow. A dark blot moved up her cheek. He tried to swat it away, but it was within the skin, staining it pure black.

  The stain reached her right eye, painting it out. A second tendril crept up her left cheek. He watched, helpless, as it moved into her left eye and filled it with blackness.

  Her body relaxed, pooling on the bed like cool oil. He felt for her pulse and found none.

  "What's happening?" Stedden whispered. "Has she..?"

  Dante whirled on him. "Did she say anything? Before you came to me?"

  "Only that her name was Riddi. I ran for you as soon as her eyes opened. Did I do wrong?"

  "No." He unclenched his fist. "There was nothing more to do for her. Thank you for coming to get me."

  A part of him wished to study the body, to see if he could learn more about the nethereal burns that had taken her life, but at the moment, he had no stomach for it. He exited the room and headed upstairs. Rather than returning to his room, he went into Blays'. The man was snoring loudly, tangled in his sheets. Dante pulled up a chair and sat, thinking.