by Greg Curtis
At first though, the tale meant nothing to him, and he read on, less than curious. A man, a shade or ancient, had walked into a room full of priests and flowers and then the rituals had begun as his thoughts and very essence were written in the stone of the statue in the middle of the room. That seemed like some sort of religious ceremony to him. And what of it? Priests did strange things all the time. They probably always had. But maybe someone would be interested in the extensive writings on the ritual which had been written down.
Truthfully he had little respect for priests, and no faith in the gods. He had prayed for years after his family had been taken. He had beseeched every one of the Ladies and Gentlemen he could think of. And he had got absolutely nothing back from any of them. They had not answered his prayers. Not the least bit. Not even when his prayers were for his family. He had never prayed for himself. He never would. And he doubted he would ever pray again. There was no hope in the gods. No comfort either.
But something about this was different. And not just the fact that the man who had somehow bequeathed his essence to a statue had then died. People often sacrificed themselves in the name of their gods. It was what it was – stupidity.
What caught his attention was the description of the statue at which his body was laid. A bull with three horns.
“Strength and Force!” He muttered the word as he realised what he was reading. This wasn't an unimportant religious ceremony. This was the creation of one of the thrones! A living essence somehow transferred into stone!
“You said something?” Nga Roth asked in her booming voice.
Fylarne held up a hand to stop her and read on. Actually he reread a lot of what he had just gone over, looking for anything he might have missed. Looking first and foremost for a name. The name of the man who had been sacrificed. But there wasn't one. There was however a description of him. A caster of some sort. A man renown for his magic. And for his time spent in front of the Heartfire, letting the magical fury burn into his soul. For his ability to take that fury and shape it within himself to become his gift. And to teach others of what he could do.
And that made sense. The thrones had to come from somewhere. They had to work somehow. And if you somehow took the essence of someone who had not only learned to absorb vast amounts of the Heartfire, but then managed to shape it into a working gift, you could then use it to form a conduit between the Heartfire and others. That was how the thrones had been crafted. How they worked. The understanding and essence of an ancient caster took the fury of the Heartfire and taught it somehow to those who wanted to learn it.
It wasn't a spell and it wasn't an enchantment either. It was something else. A binding perhaps, of an ancient soul and a singular purpose to stone. And that wasn't possible according to everything he had ever known. But he now knew it was. And it had happened. Twelve times at least.
But more than twelve times. He realised that as he continued his reading. Because this was something that the ancients had been able to do before the world had been torn apart. It was how they regulated their world. Controlled it.
They had used this technology? Magic? Whatever it was, to create whatever it was that transformed people into guards. And though the hold had been broken, it had still completely reformed both the bodies and minds of those who had been exposed to it.
And they had done the same thing to the sprites. Perhaps more successfully. But he would guess that there was no actual throne. There was instead a ruin. And the soul or essence of whoever had been sacrificed, had somehow been bound into the building itself. That was why they saw no markings. No evidence of an enchantment. The building itself was the throne. The people walked through it, they stood on the floor, and as they walked, their minds were transformed.
He read on to the end of the chapter and found no more than that. But it didn't matter. He had learned enough. And he had translated it for others to read and come to their own conclusions. But still he continued the work, continuing the translation until he reached the very last page. And then he looked up at the ogre with the little black dragon wrapped around her neck.
“Could you get the leaders, please. The elders.”
“You've found something?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I know what was done and how it was done.”
She left, hurrying along the corridor and as she often did forgetting to shut the cell door. But that wasn't important. He had no intention of escaping. Others had left it open before and he had not stepped through it. This was where he belonged. And now he had finally done something worthwhile.
It would not make up for the dead. For those who had lost their lives or suffered because of him. Nothing would. But he had still finally done something.
Fylarne leaned back against the wall of his cell and rubbed at his temples. The ache from the spell was becoming stronger. But the pain was nothing he could not deal with. All that mattered now was telling the others, and then hopefully letting them form a plan.
And maybe, just maybe, they would find a way to free his family. If they did that he could breathe again. Possibly even see his wife and daughter again. And remember what it was to be a man. Of course then he'd have to tell them what he'd done. That might be the most terrible thing of all. Because they couldn't forgive him. They shouldn't.
Chapter Forty
The perfect elves, the thrones were actually the essences of ancient wizards. They had once undoubtedly been living people – she didn't know if that meant ancients or one of the other races that had come from them. Or in part they had been. No matter how the gods saw it, they were the product of a terrible sacrifice. And it was anyone's guess whether they were alive or not.
Elodie had coped with that revelation as best she could, struggling to find a way to tell that to them. To explain it. If it could be explained. But when she'd finally told them what she'd learned, it hadn't seemed to trouble them in the least. It had horrified her but they didn't seem to have any feelings about it. But then they didn't really seem to have any feelings about anything.
All of which left her in the dining hall, drinking her tea and eating a lump of cheese and pickle with a wedge of bread, trying to work out what to think. And what to say. There was nothing more to say of course. Even if she could find something to say that might be of some comfort to an actual flesh and blood person, she doubted it would mean anything to them. They didn't remember being the people they had been. And they didn't care that they weren't real people. Then again, would those who had never really been alive worry about such things? Should they? She didn't know.
But she did know that anything she told them would only be said to bring herself a little comfort. It would be for their sake. They didn't have a sake. But then she felt guilty for saying nothing, even though the news didn't seem to trouble them.
Meanwhile the leaders of the dozen or so towns scattered among the different worlds which had become outposts of operations, were now meeting, trying to work out how to use this new information along with everything else. Actually they were trying to understand how this new information affected anything. If it had any importance at all.
Even if they knew how the thrones had been created and presumably the others in N'Diel and Staal, how did that help them either free the slaves or fight the shades? And meanwhile the worlds were now slowly reforming into one and there was chaos everywhere. Nothing in what they'd learned could help with that. They simply had to carry on dealing with the various disasters as they unfolded when the various portal walls came down, and hope it would all end safely.
Who had these ancients been that they could have had such power? She wondered about that as she chewed on her lunch. And how could they have had such power and yet no true spellcasting? Only enchantment? None of that made sense to her. But after ten thousand years or more, maybe it wasn't expected to make sense. The world was not what it had been. In any respect.
Meanwhile she had another burden weighing on her mind. Fylarne. How could she understand him?
Deal with him? Even think of him?
He had killed all her friends. Maybe he hadn't done it himself. Maybe he had only allowed it to happen. And maybe the sprites had forced him to do that in the most disgusting way. Maybe they'd even tricked him. But still she hated him for what he had done. Yet he had found part of an answer to their most terrible problems. What he had uncovered could free people from the slavery of their minds. So what was she supposed to do about that? Thank him for it? She couldn't do that. Ever. It would be wrong! Did she pity him? Or did she simply hate him for what he had done and leave it at that? But that wouldn't be right either. Mostly, the only thing she could do was try not to think about him.
And what about the sprites? The ones who had actually murdered her fellow guardians? Could she forgive them their evil simply because they were under some sort of magical control? She didn't know how to do that. Or even if it would be the right thing to do.
Some days she thought as she took another bite of her lunch, there was simply no right. No forgiveness. And no forgetting. There was only pain.
“Elodie?” Chy unexpectedly called to her.
She jumped and then turned around, even though she remembered almost immediately that he wasn't there. She was alone in the Temple – apart from the thrones of course. The portal was locked to all except her. And it would remain locked until she knew what to do with it. Chy was standing in his own communications portal, sending to her. He'd altered it a little so they could speak.
“Chy?”
“The leaders have come up with a plan,” he told her. “Some way to end the threat of both the sprites and the shades. They intend to hold a meeting and have asked that you be there.”
“Oh.” There were so many things wrong with that. And it only began with the question of who the leaders of the fight against chaos were. Were they elders? Should they be called that? Or if not, what should they be called? And did they have the right to summon her? She was the only guardian after all. And guardians did not jump to the orders of others outside the order. Save that she was the entire order now.
“I'll be along shortly,” she told him, putting all the rest aside. And despite everything she looked forwards to seeing him again.
She liked the human. Liked him in a way she shouldn't – for so many reasons. Because she was a guardian. The last guardian. And relationships with those not of the order were strictly forbidden. Fylarne had already demonstrated how bad an idea that could be. How terrible the consequences could be. And because she was an elf. One of the Darisen. Her parents would be outraged by the thought of their daughter having an affair with someone of another people. It was scandalous. And to add to it all, he was a commoner. Poorly dressed. And while her family might not be nobility, they were at least respectable. His family were rogues!
What would they say if the affair went further? If the two of them eventually became betrothed? Wed? Had children? It was all so wrong. So unimaginable. Yet she kept imagining it.
She liked him. He made her smile. Sometimes even laugh. And they held hands. Embraced. They had kissed, passionately. And it had been nice – each time. There was something there. She could not deny it. Were they courting? She didn't know. They hadn't said anything. But it felt a little like it. Which reminded her, she had to brush her hair.
Fifteen minutes later though, with her hair shining in the sun, she stepped out onto the portal on his front terrace and found him waiting for him with a smile on his face. The match probably wasn't a good one from his point of view either, and yet he knew the same happiness at the thought of it as she did. Something he proved a moment later as he stepped up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her as she dreamed of.
“I missed you,” he told her when he finally let her go.
“And I, you,” she replied, red faced and giddy with emotion. By the gods she was like a silly little girl in his arms! And yet they were such nice strong arms!
“Come on,” he grabbed her hand in his. “I wish we could stay and talk, but we've got to go. The wagon's waiting.”
“The wagon?” She was surprised. They could have walked or simply used his portal, but for some reason they were going to take one of those smelly, mechanical devices. They could also have shared a cup of tea and talked for a while. She would have liked that. And maybe watching the flying pig eat the remains of his vegetable garden while he complained!
Still she walked with him, off his front terrace and across his front yard and path to find the wagon waiting for them. And when she laid eyes upon it, she gathered a little of why they were taking it. It was absolutely full of people.
There were dryads from the other side of the road and sylph from the other side of the river. Sun elves from just a little further down stream and a couple of ogres for good measure. All of them of course, were smiling at the pair of them as they approached. As if she wasn't red enough in the face!
But she did her best to ignore the silly grins as they walked the last of the way to the wagon and she accepted a hand from Chy to help her climb up the stairs. She even held her peace as she discovered an empty seat waiting for them – one just large enough for two and conveniently unoccupied when every other seat was taken. Naturally it had to be right in the middle of the wagon where everyone could see them. Maybe they'd heard Percival's ditty!
“I know,” he murmured to her as he guided her to the waiting seat. “The portal would have been quicker – but they turned up and insisted we travel together.” He was nearly as red as she was.
Elodie would have said something, but at that moment the steam wagon took off and between the noise of the vehicle and the jostling as they bounced along the road, it was difficult to get a word out. And yet she found she didn't mind. It was a strangely pleasant ride. Sitting next to Chy, holding his hand, regularly bumping into him, and bouncing along. She shouldn't complain she thought. And he smelled good, she noticed.
“Lilac?” She asked.
“It's in the soap. Lady De Clara has had her people making scented soaps for everyone. I think she worries that we don't smell good enough.”
That was actually quite likely, Elodie thought. The nobility, whether they were sun elves or copper elves, were particular about such matters. And she couldn't help but notice as they drove past the new little compound of the sun elves, that their construction was advancing. There were platforms in the trees, houses on the ground, gardens too, and of course walkways everywhere. It was almost turning into a little village.
But then the dryads' little collection of homes on the other side of the road seemed to be growing. Some of the homes were two stories even if they were somehow grown from grasses and other bushes, and she couldn't tell how far back they went. It was simply a part of the changes the world was going through, she guessed. Every world to a greater or lesser extent. And if Stonely like a few other towns was quickly turning into a major magical outpost which thousands of casters were now calling home, it was only to be expected that all around them more little settlements for those casters would be growing.
The world was changing – and not just physically. She told him as much.
“I know,” he replied a little glumly. “Not that long ago I would have liked some more neighbours. Just one or two. Someone to say good morning to over the fence. Now I seem to be living in the middle of a small town, there is no fence – and somehow I've become the poor neighbour from the wrong side of the road! I'm going to have to fix up my home, maybe make it larger, add some colour, just so I don't embarrass everyone!”
“I quite like your home,” she told him. “Though it is a little tight.” But for all that, she did actually like it. The house might be only a log cabin, but it did have a certain charm to it – something she wouldn't have expected of a building with so many straight lines and right angles.
“The cat takes up a lot of room! And she's growing fatter!”
Elodie chuckled. He did seem to have a lot of problems with animals. Though that cat was a little
monster to be fair. No one would get on with it. But as long as the winged pig didn't try to come inside she supposed.
“So, do you know what this plan is?” She changed the subject.
“No. None of us do.” He shook his head. “Except maybe Nga Roth and she's not saying anything.”
“The leaders asked me not to,” she called from the back of the wagon where she was seated with two more of her people. “Besides, I've got better things to worry about. Blending new teas. What do you think about ragwort and daffodil?”
“I think it might be poisonous!” Chy called back.
“Ahh!” she groaned loudly. “Little people! Such delicate constitutions and boring palates!”
Chy didn't reply to that, and Elodie didn't want to say anything either. Nor did any of the others on the vehicle, though a few laughed. Because what could you say to an eight foot, tall, four hundred pound ogress, with terrifying features who was convinced that she was the beautiful one with the perfect understanding of what tasted good?! Besides, she was enjoying the ride. It was a little like being a child all over again and being thrown up and down on sheets. And she had Chy beside her which was also good.