by Ted Sanders
Chloe’s mouth went wide.
“Not particularly stupid at all,” Falo murmured, gazing at him warmly. “You raise the very dilemma I faced when I set out to make the Fel’Daera. If an object travels into a specific future, but then you end up in a different future, wouldn’t that object be lost forever? Stranded on some other branch of the expanding multiverse, a branch that the Fel’Daera cannot guarantee?”
“Oh my god,” said Chloe. She poked Horace in the arm. “This is why you were doing those crazy jumping jacks. You were trying to create some super-weird future where the nickel hadn’t gone.”
“Yes,” Horace admitted.
Chloe turned her wild eyes to Falo. “Could he have ended up in a different future than the nickel?” she demanded.
“I do not know what jumping jacks are,” Falo said. “But the nickel has returned. Or rather, we find ourselves in a universe where its existence continues.”
Chloe held up the Alvalaithen. “One time, we sent my Tan’ji through the box. Could I have lost it?”
If the sending of the Alvalaithen was news to Falo, she didn’t show it. She said nothing at all. Instead, she unfolded her hand, and there—to Horace’s great astonishment—a golden replica of the Fel’Daera swirled into existence, perfect down to the last detail. It even seemed to shimmer like the real Fel’Daera, as if the strings of the Medium from which it was sculpted, here near the Mothergate, quivered with extra life. Chloe stared with undisguised awe, letting the Alvalaithen drop to her chest.
As they watched, the double-winged lid of the phantom box swiveled open. A bolt of the Medium darted up from within, forging a twisted path. It rose three feet or more toward the fire-blue ceiling before ending in a glinting point.
“The future, as witnessed by the Fel’Daera,” Falo announced. And then, beside the golden Fel’Daera: a honey-colored dragonfly, wings aflutter. Chloe scooted forward, eyes wide. Falo’s mock Alvalaithen darted around the box—once, twice—and then flitted inside. The lid of the ghostly Fel’Daera swung closed, trapping it, sending it. On the instant, the dragonfly rematerialized out at the tip of the illuminated path.
“The Alvalaithen is sent into the future,” said Falo. “And if that future is realized—if the Keeper of the Fel’Daera walks the willed path—all is well.” She gazed at Horace. The meandering path made from the Medium hung in the air between them, crossing her face like a scar. “But we do not always walk the willed path, do we? Even the Keeper of the Fel’Daera still has free will.” The twisting path shifted subtly, carving out a slightly different future than what the Fel’Daera had revealed. A flutter of nausea passed through Horace, as if thrall-blight were striking him even now. The new path now ended in a different place, several inches away. The golden dragonfly hung alone, stranded. Its wings flickered briefly, and then it winked out.
With a flourish of her hand, Falo waved away the rest of the illusion. The shining Fel’Daera dissipated like smoke. “How can any object be sent safely into the future the Fel’Daera sees?” she said. “How can we guarantee that such an object would not be lost in some parallel universe, along a future path we didn’t or couldn’t take? Perhaps along a path the Fel’Daera itself consumed?” She folded her long hands together and pressed them against her mouth, fixing Horace with an expectant gaze.
“You’re asking me,” he said after a moment.
“I am.”
“But I’m not a Maker.”
“True. I am the Dorvala here, not you. Yet you are a Paragon. And I must tell you, no Keeper before now has thought to consider this problem. I am curious whether you can solve it.”
Horace puzzled it over. She had turned his question back around on him, and he was determined to answer it. He was no Maker, no, but he knew there was a kind of logic here, a matter of engineering.
“You solved the problem yourself, though, right?” Chloe asked Falo.
“I solved the problem,” said Falo confidently. “Objects sent through the Fel’Daera can never be lost.”
Horace blinked. Never lost? But that would mean every path—
Suddenly it clicked. But no—could it be possible? “The only thing I can think of,” he said slowly, “would be to send the object into every possible future. That way, no matter which future you end up in, it’ll be there.”
Falo reared back and clapped her great hands in delight, three times. They cracked like whips. “Excellent.”
“But that just seems—”
“Extravagant?” said Falo. “Wasteful?” She held out her hand again, and the golden Fel’Daera and Alvalaithen reappeared, replaying their pantomime. But this time, when the lid of the box closed over the Alvalaithen, a thick cloud of dragonflies bloomed high overhead. Thousands of them, too many to count, a flickering golden canopy against the sea of blue flame beyond. Crooked paths began to shoot up from the shining box in Falo’s hand, like bolts of lightning in reverse. Each time one struck, it ended at a waiting dragonfly. “When you sent the Alvalaithen through the Fel’Daera, you sent ten thousand dragonflies into ten thousand futures,” Falo said. “No matter which path you took, the Alvalaithen would be there.” She let the show continue for several moments, a dazzling thunderstorm—bolt after bolt, future after future, and in every future the Alvalaithen was found again. Then abruptly, she waved it all away. The canopy of dragonflies dissolved into a shower of golden dust that rained down upon them into nothing.
Far from seeming relieved, Chloe looked absolutely furious. Horace thought he knew why. In her mind, there could be only one Chloe, one dragonfly. The multiverse was not a thing she was equipped to embrace, even after their trip through the Mothergate.
“It seems preposterous, I know,” said Falo. “All those replications. All those versions of our instruments. But remember that such splittings, such expansions, are the very flesh of the multiverse.” She turned to Chloe. “Even now as we speak, different versions of ourselves—and our instruments—are splitting off and multiplying along alternate paths we cannot see.”
Chloe hugged herself angrily, as if she could prevent those splits from happening. “That is the absolute worst bedtime story I ever heard,” she said.
Falo laughed. “You cannot have heard many Altari bedtime stories, then.”
Horace was feeling for the Fel’Daera in his mind. What Falo was telling him seemed crazy on the surface, and yet . . . it was perfectly sensible. Logical. When the box sent objects into the future, it was merely following the rules of the multiverse.
“I always knew that sending things through the box was less serious than looking through it,” he said.
“By far,” said Falo. “In fact, though you may not have realized it, anyone can send objects through the Fel’Daera.”
“I know,” Horace said. “Chloe did it before.”
Falo nodded approvingly. “As have I,” she said, “in the years when the Fel’Daera was Tan’layn, when it had no Keeper. But only the Keeper of the Fel’Daera can see the future.”
“Still, though . . . why did you need it to do both?” Horace asked. “I understand wanting to see the future, but why did you need it to send things, too?”
“Ah,” Falo said, as if finding at last a long-sought thing. “That is the story, isn’t it?” She folded her long legs beneath her like a graceful child, her gauzy white robe billowing. Her knees stuck out far to either side, her elbows jutting as she folded her hands in her lap. She became a flower, some extravagant and alien orchid. When she spoke, her voice was a celestial song.
“We are Tan’ji,” she said. “Our instruments belong to us, and us alone. Yet we are not the only Keepers our instruments have ever had. Nor are we the only Keepers our instruments might have chosen, even today. As we speak, there are individuals walking the earth who possess the skills and affinities to bond with our instruments. Individuals who possess the ability to use the powers we call our own.”
“When I first met Joshua,” Horace admitted, “I thought he might try to claim the F
el’Daera for his own. His abilities are sort of like mine.”
“His abilities are not quite like yours, and I doubt very much that he could have claimed the Fel’Daera—especially not when the Laithe was there for the taking. Nonetheless, the fear is a reasonable one.” She pointed at the sky. “Up there, around the world, there are dozens—perhaps hundreds—who could have bonded with the Fel’Daera, or the Alvalaithen, or even the Starlit Loom. In fact, though it pains me to say it, our instruments call to those individuals even now, however faintly.”
“You’re not serious,” Chloe said.
But this was perfectly logical too, Horace knew. After all, this whole thing had started when he himself had stepped off the bus that day on Wexler Street, for no reason he could have named. He knew now that the Fel’Daera had been calling to him.
“There is a gravity,” Falo insisted. “A pull. Most of those individuals who share our abilities will never heed the call—perhaps they are too far away, or the pull is too weak, or they are not open to the same possibilities that you both were when you Found your Tan’ji. But if they had heeded the call, and had gotten to our instruments before us, perhaps they would have become our instruments’ Keepers, instead of us.”
Chloe squashed a pillow in her lap. “But they would have sucked at it,” she growled.
Falo smiled. “Perhaps. We are Paragons, we three, and our abilities are rare. Nonetheless, there are others for whom the Fel’Daera would reveal the future, or for whom the Alvalaithen would flit its wings. That is my point.”
“And so?” asked Horace, not sure what she was driving at. What did this have to do with the Fel’Daera?
“So some of those others, of course, could be Kesh’kiri.”
The Riven. “That would be unlikely, though, right?” he said.
“Somewhat,” Falo said. “It is rare to find Keepers for instruments like ours, especially among the Altari and Kesh’kiri. Our numbers have dwindled greatly. Most new Keepers in recent days have been young humans like yourselves.”
“But some of those humans turned traitor,” Horace said. “They sided with the Riven, like Ingrid.”
“Unable to face the truth about the Mothergates, yes. But the Riven stole the Fel’Daera from you once before, Horace. If they had anyone who could have bonded with it, and gained its powers, Dr. Jericho would have had no use for you. They would have killed you, disposed of you, and given the Fel’Daera to your replacement. The Kesh’kiri detest human Keepers, and tolerate them only when they have no other choice.” She looked back and forth between Horace and Chloe. “The fact that the two of you were captured by the Riven, yet lived to tell the tale, means that neither of you is nul’duna. You are not disposable. There is no one among the Riven who can replace you—at the moment, anyway.”
“So being nul’duna is basically . . . super dangerous, then,” Chloe said.
“Oh my, yes,” said Falo. “Gabriel is nul’duna, though I doubt he’s ever mentioned it. And so is Dwen’dailen Longo.”
“Gabriel?” Chloe said in disbelief. But Horace’s mind was already moving onward.
“And what about you?” he asked Falo. “Are you nul’duna?”
Falo studied his face calmly for a moment and then said, “Not anymore.”
“But you were once. The Riven had someone who could have bonded with the Starlit Loom, and used its powers?”
“Yes. For a long time. Someone with great skills. Eventually that individual was . . . dealt with. But that came later. What matters most is what I did when I first learned I had become nul’duna.”
“You went into hiding,” said Chloe. “Or no—if you were disposable, it wasn’t really you the Riven were after.”
“It was the Starlit Loom that needed to hide,” said Horace.
“Yes,” said Falo. “And not just for my sake, but for the sake of all. The powers of the Loom could not be allowed to fall into the hands of another.”
“Because the Riven might use it to force the Mothergates to remain open.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why we haven’t seen it yet?” he asked. “It’s still in hiding?”
“Oh, but you have seen the Starlit Loom,” said Falo. “Unless you are quite blind.” She leaned forward intently, and for a few confusing moments Horace thought she was going to pluck the mysterious Loom from behind his ear, or tell him that somehow the Fel’Daera was the Loom, all this time. But no, that was stupid, it must—
And then he saw.
The black oval pendant around Falo’s neck. It swung before his eyes, as big as a child’s hand and twice as thick, gleaming and black. Or not black, not entirely. Dots of light moved within it now, tiny and faint, drifting into the depth of the thing like receding stars. It looked strangely familiar, and then Horace realized—it was like the Mothergates, black and endless, a shape seemingly carved from the universe itself.
“The Starlit Loom,” he breathed.
“Hiraethel,” Falo said. “That is her name.” She sang the name breathily, scratching throatily across the R and stressing the long middle A—it sounded like “dear Rachel.” On Falo’s lips, the word was like a wind through a tall autumn meadow, like a whispered spell.
“But this . . . ,” Horace began, staring. “It’s not Tan’ji.” Like all Keepers, Horace could recognize a Tan’ji when he saw one, as easily as he could recognize a human for a human. But this was not Tan’ji.
“Of course she is,” said Falo. She reached up and cupped Hiraethel in her hand. The Loom released itself silently from the chain it hung from, as easily as the Alvalaithen. Chloe edged closer, and Falo held the Loom out for them to see. The Loom was tiny in her hand, a smooth oval slab scarcely bigger than Horace’s palm. The starpoints of light within it continued to recede, on and on, mesmerizing. “Hiraethel is the first Tan’ji, the mother of all,” said Falo. “She is perfect, utterly contained. She does not reveal herself unless I wish her to.”
No sooner had she spoken than the specks of light in the Loom reversed course, coming closer now. Swifter and swifter. They became streaks of light, and then those streaks began to bend, veering counterclockwise. They became oval rings, stacked one atop the other into infinity, so that looking into the surface of the Loom was like looking into a bottomless well of circled light, reaching into the very flesh of Falo’s palm.
And then Falo burst into flames.
Or not flames. And not exactly light, either. She became a burning flaxen thing, as if the matter of her flesh had turned to energy, slipping into the simplest version of what a living body could be. She was still Falo, still herself, and her hand still cupped Hiraethel. But skin and tendon and bone did not matter to that hand, nor to any part of her. She was all potential and purpose, idea and intent, knowledge and means—an indescribable golden fountain, flickering like a ghost, the most wonderful and terrible sight Horace had ever seen. The Fel’Daera seemed to vibrate now, basking in Falo’s presence like an island in the sea that gave it shape, quivering like a heart squeezing the blood that gave it life. Horace realized that the sea of blue flame above them had turned to gold.
Beside him, a long soft hiss of air escaped Chloe. He knew she was feeling what he was feeling—that their bodies were so silly, so extravagant, so unnecessary, compared to what Falo had become. What she had returned to.
And then Falo’s fingers clasped around the Starlit Loom, and she faded. Hiraethel became a smooth black slab once more. The room went dimmed and went blue again, though it had never been truly bright. Horace stared at Falo, hardly able to process her. He had seen Brian working the Medium, and been awestruck, but this . . . was something else entirely. And Falo hadn’t even done anything.
“Honestly,” Chloe said breathlessly. “I mean honestly. What the hell are you?”
Falo laughed, a giddy tinkle. “I am just a girl,” she said merrily, and then her voice got mossy, silken. The haloes in her eyes turned to platinum. “But through Hiraethel, I become the conduit. I am the flesh of t
he Medium itself. I am open to the universe, and therefore whatever the universe deems possible, I can bring to bear.” She lifted her chin, indicating the box still in Horace’s lap. “And just so, once upon a time, I brought the Fel’Daera to life. Because my need was great.”
Horace knew these last words were meant for him, a prod and a reminder. Still half swooning, he considered the Starlit Loom again, watching its pinpoints of starlight drifting ever inward. Hiraethel was still so familiar somehow, and now that he was seeing it true, its lovely curves and smooth planes, its perfect oval self—
“Oh my god,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Chloe.
He understood. And this understanding was perfect. It was right. It was sensible and warm, a homecoming. “You had need,” he murmured to Falo. “You were nul’duna. You had to keep Hiraethel safe.”
“Yes,” Falo said softly. “Above all else.”
“But you couldn’t risk losing her, or sending her blind. You had to send and see. The future had to be known.”
“Wait,” said Chloe. “Are you saying—”
“Open the Fel’Daera, Horace,” said Falo, reaching out with the Starlit Loom in hand. “Know why your Tan’ji was Made.”
Horace opened the box. The lid swung open like the wings of an imagined bird. Inside, its smooth oval walls like a coffin, like a nest, like the chamber of a heart.
With her long, delicate fingers, Sil’falo Teneves slipped the Loom into the mouth of the Fel’Daera. Hiraethel slid in perfectly, of course she did, the most perfect thing the Fel’Daera had ever allowed or ever would. The Loom filled the box like water fills a glass, like sunlight fills the day. The Fel’Daera had been made for this, for this and nothing else. Horace swayed, flooded with understanding. The box was a peaceful ship in his hands, sure of its destination. He clung to it.
“You had need,” he said again, not lifting his eyes. “Hiraethel was in danger and had to be hidden. And so you built a device that would let you hide her in the space between days. Out of time and out of reach, where no one could ever find her. Never ever. Not until she returned.”