Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  When he awoke, sometime later, he was shivering in the darkness. There was no moon, and being in a mountain valley, few stars were visible. With his mind closed he felt completely blind, at least until he opened it again and his magesight began to function. His body ached, not just from its wounds, but also the shivering, which presumably had been going on for a while. It was one occasion when he felt he might have preferred his previous krytek body.

  The krytek body he’d had before had been human in form, but krytek, whatever their form, were produced with the guiding principle of function before survival. They didn’t get cold, they experienced little pain, and they could continue to operate normally right up until the point that they fell over dead. The body he had now was an exact replica of his creator’s former human form, which meant, like most natural living bodies, that it prioritized survival over function. He got cold, he shivered, he felt pain and experienced fatigue. All the natural mechanisms that human bodies had to prevent death and warn them of impending injury or death were in place, and consequently, he was absolutely miserable.

  And based on what he was feeling now, there was a decent chance he might not survive long enough to find proper shelter.

  Dying wasn’t a particular fear for him, and at present he was too tired to even feel his usual anger or drive for revenge. Lying down and going back to sleep was tempting. I probably wouldn’t feel the cold much longer and then I could rest peacefully, he thought to himself.

  He didn’t do that, however. Instead, he sat up and forced himself to eat the cheese and drink some water, though he felt no real hunger. Then he got up and began walking, hopefully away from Mordecai’s home. There was no way to tell for sure. He followed the flow of the stream, on the general principle that it would eventually lead him out of the mountains.

  Eventually, the sun rose behind him, confirming his guess. He was headed west. The sun warmed his back, a welcome change, and he plodded along steadily. As the day wore on, he ate the dried peas, chewing them in small handfuls. Tyrion still wasn’t hungry, but he knew he needed something to keep him going, whether he felt it or not.

  In the early afternoon, a companion joined him, a woman perhaps. She trod along beside him, though he couldn’t see her when he turned his head to look directly. She was known to him more as a feeling, a presence, and occasionally he caught flashes of light glinting from what he presumed were her weapons.

  This didn’t seem strange to him, though he suspected it should. As the day wore on, he began to hear her footsteps more clearly, and when he began to stagger he finally caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye. Brigid.

  She was naked, as usual, and the glints of light were coming from her snake-like metal weapon, hovering around her as it often did when she fought. She met his eyes for a moment and smiled, the expression half-feral and half twisted as it always was when she attempted it.

  His daughter turned away a second later, her raven hair hiding her face as she continued to march onward, leaving him behind.

  Straightening up, he followed, unwilling to show his weakness in front of her, or behind her as the case might be. Brigid’s figure blurred in and out of focus as he walked, but he could see she walked with strength and confidence, as she always had, her long, dark hair swaying behind her.

  She’s a perfect reflection of my best and worst, he thought idly. Then his eyes misted. But she’s dead.

  Brigid turned back just then. “Hurry up, Father. We can’t have you dying here.”

  “You aren’t real,” he muttered, too low for her to hear.

  “And you are?” she returned, hearing him anyway.

  That made him grimace. He was, after all, only a copy of her true father. “More than you.”

  Brigid stopped, then turned to face him, appearing as a naked goddess with the sun creating shining highlights in her hair, but none of that was what caught his attention. It was the deadly, enchanted steel blade at the tip of her chain that was racing toward his face.

  Activating his arm blade, he batted it away, albeit more awkwardly than he normally would have, then he stumbled and fell sideways to avoid the slicing chain that whipped toward him from the other side. The third attack would have killed him, for he had no way to avoid it, but Brigid stopped. She stood over him, looking down with blue eyes hidden in shadow.

  Seizing his chance, he surged upward and caught her throat in one hand, but his daughter’s body felt as hard as stone beneath his fingers. Her face devoid of expression, Brigid lifted one hand and pulled his hand away, her strength greatly exceeding his own in his weakened state.

  His strength gave out then, and his legs collapsed beneath him. Tyrion wound up on his back, staring up at her, while his body trembled from the sudden exertion.

  Kneeling beside him, Brigid brought her face close to his and then kissed him before sitting back to stare at him with serious eyes. “You have a fever, Father. I think you may die soon.”

  “What’s it like?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

  “I don’t know,” she answered immediately. “The living have no knowledge of such things, and for now…” She gestured at herself, as if indicating her all too real body. “… I feel alive.”

  “This is a fever dream,” he declared quietly. Unless my original self created her from his memories, but if so, she isn’t the real Brigid. His mind was too foggy to decide what was real and what wasn’t.

  A malicious look crossed her features and Brigid lifted her right hand before pressing it against his heart. Focusing her aythar at the tip of her thumbnail, she cut a small red line into the skin of his chest. She sealed the cut a second later, knitting the skin in a lazy fashion that would leave a noticeable scar afterward. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice.

  “What was the point of that?” he asked weakly.

  “None,” said Brigid. “Unless you live.” Then she eased one arm behind his shoulders and the other beneath his thighs. He could feel her aythar moving as she strengthened her body, and with a smooth motion, Brigid stood, lifting him with her, like a babe in her arms.

  Tyrion was vaguely aware of her walking after that, as he passed in and out of consciousness. It was dark again when he woke fully at the feeling of cold grass beneath him. Brigid was staring down at him again, her eyes serious and sad. “Try not to die, Father. The god hates you, but he isn’t done with you yet.”

  He chuckled hoarsely. “God? There is no god. This is a fever dream.”

  Thunder cracked, seeming so powerful that it shook the sky itself, and Brigid began to fade. “Watch me burn,” she whispered, and then she was gone. Rain began to fall, and the fat, cold, drops of water felt good on Tyrion’s skin.

  He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  “Are you alive? Can you hear me?” asked an anxious woman’s voice.

  Tyrion opened his eyes again, but the face in front of him wasn’t Brigid’s, it belonged to a stranger. The woman stared at him worriedly before putting her palm against his forehead. Then she stood and began to run. “James! There’s someone here!” she called.

  Chapter 22

  Matthew stared back in the direction of Lancaster as the opening his sister Irene had made closed. Slowly, almost languidly, he turned back to the others, his eyes meeting first Karen’s and then Irene’s and Lynaralla’s. “I need your help,” he announced, the cadence of his voice sounding almost normal now.

  Karen nodded immediately, but Irene asked, “What is it?”

  “I want to return Lancaster to its previous place,” said Matthew simply.

  “You can do that?” exclaimed Irene. “Is that possible?”

  Lynaralla also responded at the same moment, “No.”

  Irene glanced at her. “It isn’t possible?”

  “Possible and probable are two different things,” said the She’Har woman. As she stood in the early dawn light, the wind plucked at her hair, strengthening her already ethereal appearance. “It may be possible, but the probabi
lity is low and the chance of death or worse is very high.”

  Elaine spoke for the first time from her position behind them, “I thought you didn’t have any working knowledge of how the Illeniel She’Har constructed these magics.” Her statement was addressed to Lynaralla rather than Matthew.

  Lynaralla nodded in agreement. “I do not.”

  Irene, whose expression had been wavering between hope and uncertainty, asked, “Then how can you say that, Lynn? What do you understand about this that we don’t?”

  Without any hesitation, Irene’s newest sister replied, “The basics of magic.”

  Elaine coughed. “Ouch.”

  But Lynaralla wasn’t done. She continued, “From what I do know, the magical construct that was created to divide our world was the work of thousands upon thousands of my people, possibly both children such as myself and the elders. For an individual, or even a small group, to attempt to shift any part of it is akin to a single worker trying to remove or replace the keystone of an arch in a stone wall. The task is too great. Without proper support the wall will collapse, probably killing the individual as well as destroying the wall.”

  Matthew smiled. “She’s right.”

  “Then we shouldn’t attempt it,” asserted Irene.

  “Why would you even suggest it?” asked Karen, her eyes narrowing as she stared at him.

  Matt sighed. “I mean her reasoning is correct, based on the information she has. However, I am certain, based on mine, that it is not only possible, but almost certain that we will succeed.” He received only sour looks from them at those words.

  Gram took Alyssa’s hand. “Let’s take a walk. I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”

  For her part, Alyssa seemed torn. “But, what if…?”

  “They won’t need us,” said Gram.

  “I’ll join you,” put in Cyhan, and Grace chimed in a second later, “Me too.”

  Moments later, only the mages and their dragons remained at the dimensional boundary line. “What is this information you possess?” asked Lynaralla, nothing but pure curiosity in her voice.

  “I can’t put it into words,” said Matthew. “You aren’t truly an Illeniel yet. For that matter, maybe I’m not one either.”

  “You’re human,” said Irene. “Illeniel is just our last name. Lynaralla actually is an Illeniel She’Har.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Matthew. “Rennie, do you know what the word ‘Illeniel’ actually means in Erollith?”

  Elaine began muttering loudly under her breath, “Here we go again. I’m so sick of this mystic prophet routine.”

  Irene shot the older woman a warning glance before answering her brother, “No. You know I don’t speak Erollith. I wasn’t born with the Loshti like you were.”

  “The closest word in Barion would be ‘potential,’” said Lynaralla helpfully.

  Matthew nodded. “I always thought it was an odd name for a She’Har grove, or for our family. It never really occurred to me that there might be a deeper meaning until I crossed the void to go to Karen’s world. I really didn’t connect the name to our gift until a few weeks ago, while I was considering the changes my gift has undergone. I don’t know what to call it, to be honest.”

  “Just get to the point,” snipped Elaine.

  “Illeniel is a reference to what lies between worlds,” explained Matthew, “or maybe it’s a reference to those who can communicate with it, those with the Illeniel gift. The terminology doesn’t really matter I suppose. The important point is that the place between worlds, between universes, isn’t empty, it’s alive—and aware. Aythar is a manifestation of that. That’s why everything is conscious to some degree, however slight. But when you travel between worlds, everything else falls away and you lose your sense of self, you get a glimpse of the unlimited potential that underlies the fabric of reality.”

  Karen was nodding, a distant expression on her face. “I felt something like that, when you brought me here.”

  “That’s where my ‘mystic prophet’ routine comes from,” said Matthew, giving Elaine a wry look. “The potential guides me, showing me possibilities I haven’t considered.”

  “You have become an elder,” said Lynaralla.

  Irene frowned. “He isn’t that much older than me.”

  “I think she’s referring to the She’Har elders, those who have become trees,” suggested Elaine.

  Karen laughed. “He’s pretty rough around the edges but he’s a long way from having bark.”

  “Elaine is correct,” said Lynaralla. “Since he is human, he cannot become a tree, but his mind has undergone a transformation similar to that of an Illeniel elder.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Irene with some exasperation.

  Matthew answered first, “It means I can probably reverse the dimensional boundary around Lancaster.”

  “This is crazy,” said Elaine.

  “Will you help me try?” asked Matthew.

  Lynaralla responded immediately, “Yes.”

  After staring at the She’Har woman for a moment, both Irene and Karen nodded affirmatively, but Elaine’s response was more pessimistic. “This is stupid, but I guess I have no choice but to go along.”

  “What do we do?” asked Karen.

  “Each of you will connect your minds with mine and allow me to control your gift. Zephyr will supply the aythar needed,” began Matthew.

  Elaine was quick to point out the obvious flaw in his plan. “Only Irene and Lynn have the same gift. Karen and I can’t work with this ‘potential’ you mentioned.”

  “You do,” countered Matthew. “It’s the secret behind all the She’Har gifts, no matter which one you consider. Teleportation, invisibility, mind control, shapeshifting, they all require control and calculations that no human mind is capable of alone. A mage without one of those gifts can often replicate the results, but only with extensive preparation—a teleportation circle for example. The other gifts are more specialized, but they all rely on the same connection to the ‘potential.’”

  “Is this something you learned from that Loshti thing you were born with?” asked Irene.

  He shook his head. “No. It’s just my guess. Dad used to speculate about it, but as time goes on it seems like the only explanation that really fits, at least to my way of thinking.”

  A few minutes later they stood together at the boundary with their hands linked. A voluntary mind-link was something any mage could manage, even without the physical contact, but the degree of control Matthew required was difficult. It took a while for each of them to still their thoughts and relax their self-control, subordinating their power to his will. Compounding the problem, he had to draw aythar from Zephyr at the same time, which made it feel a bit like juggling, a physical skill he had never mastered. This would be a lot easier with Moira’s help, he thought, forgetting their close link for a moment.

  As if any of us would trust her in our minds, came Elaine’s mental response.

  The link wavered for a moment as each of them began to verbalize mentally, forcing them to spend time silencing their thoughts once more. Thoughts weren’t the only distraction, however. Emotions flowed between them as well, and with five people things got confusing. Matthew felt a jumble of unexpected feelings—love, irritation, affection, and even jealousy. It wasn’t always clear from which person each emotion originated, but he quickly realized that beneath the veneer of ordinary daily existence, the four women around him had far more complex relationships both with him and one another, than he had really appreciated.

  Elaine’s eyes met his for a moment before she looked away, her face coloring, while at the same time he felt a surge of anger, presumably from Karen.

  “This isn’t working,” remarked Irene, staring at the other women while through the link she radiated both disgust and some sort of sisterly protectiveness.

  Perhaps if we dealt with the affectionate and reproductive urges first, things would be easier, sent Lyn
aralla. It might eliminate the competitive tension between some of us.

  How? asked Matthew, before immediately regretting the question, as the She’Har woman projected her idea to them visually.

  The vision she presented was as vivid in its clarity as it was shockingly lewd. Matthew shuttered his mind instantly, breaking the link. He fervently hoped none of the others had caught a glimpse of his first, less-than-civilized response.

  Meanwhile, Karen was blushing so furiously her cheeks were purple, and Elaine turned completely around to hide her face. Irene was making gagging noises. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she announced.

  Only Lynaralla seemed unaffected. “Was it a bad idea?”

  “Yes!” The response was uttered instantly by the other women, while Matthew merely grimaced.

  Karen punched him. “The answer was yes.”

  “Of course,” he told her. “I was just embarrassed.” Looking up, his eyes went to Lynaralla for a moment.

  Karen punched him again, harder this time. “Don’t even think it. In fact, just erase that memory completely.”

  Unfortunately, Matthew had perfect recall, thanks to the Loshti, and he suspected Lynaralla’s vision would haunt him for some time to come, but he knew better than to say as much. “I already have,” he answered instead.

  Irene had been taking deep breaths, but she paused to give Lynaralla a serious stare. “Later, you and I need to have a serious talk about jealousy and interpersonal relationships. I think you have some very bad misconceptions regarding men and women.”

  “Especially regarding brothers and sisters,” added Karen sharply.

  “Karen, please!” barked Irene. “I really am going to be sick.”