Stories from the Mirror Worlds
by
James Calbraith
Published September 2012 by Flying Squid
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Copyright © James Calbraith, 2014
Cover art: Collette J Ellis
Cover art photo: Kiselev A.V.
Proofreading: Janette Currie
Cover Design: Flying Squid
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Fan fiction and fan art is encouraged.
My hair blows long
As I sing into the wind
S.Vega
We sort them according to the hour of their arrival.
Titles, riches, social standing; they matter not. We keep them in identical, featureless rooms, feed them the same bland but nutritional diet. Most of the time we know who they are — those who get brought to us tend to have friends or families caring for them. In the old days we tried to use this knowledge to remind the patients of their previous lives, but the new method turned out to be much more effective. Only when the anamnesis comes unforced, from within, can we be certain they remember everything.
We can’t stop them from trying to remember, of course, — after all, that is the aim of the therapy. And they all try; their guesses are based on little glimpses, mannerisms, gestures, scars… Most of them aim too high — such is the nature of man, I suppose. The men all think themselves knights or warlords; the women, princesses or court ladies. Nobody ever wants to be a fishmonger from a coastal town, or a bathhouse attendant…
Why did the Gods send us the Forgetting? Why does every inhabitant of the Four Isles, regardless of their wisdom, treasures, piety, live in constant fear of one day waking up with an empty mind, like a senseless new-born babe at the mercy of good-willing people?
There once was a time when a man was safe from this plague; a time of legend and myth and song. But few now even believe there ever was such a Golden Age. Centuries pass and neither science nor religion can provide an answer. A philosopher once proposed that, perhaps, the Forgetting will pass once we stop asking all these questions…
The healing process takes time and effort. Meditations, herbs, ointments — and if that doesn’t work, the surgeon-wizards proceed to work directly on the patient’s brain, carefully trying to restore the shattered nerve connections. “It’s easier to raze a city with a spell than to light a campfire” an old wizard proverb says. But what our surgeons do is more akin to burning a single blade of straw in a haystack. It’s really remarkable to see them at work.
Most of the time, thankfully, their skill is not necessary. Sometimes a patient recovers completely, just after a few weeks of strolling in our gardens, listening to the wind and the birds and drinking fresh spring water. Yes, sometimes it is enough.
Halfway through the therapy, many of our patients decide they do not want to be cured at all. They grow afraid of the truth. What if the reality is different from what they had imagined? What if their past hides some dark secret, a crime, or betrayal? Sometimes they can sense the danger. Sometimes the Forgetting comes at just the right moment. I remember a young soldier, unlucky in love. He came to us straight from the noose — a few seconds later and he would have perished. What should we do about a patient like him? The law gives us a free hand; knowing all of the circumstances, the Sanctuary Keeper can decide to stop the treatment. But we almost never do that.
And then there are those whom we cannot help. The incurables. There is something in their eyes, in the way they move and speak, which tells us their memories are gone forever. For them there is no therapy; only the long, gruelling process of learning. We teach them all they need to know to go back to the world outside and we hope for the best, but it’s just not the same as the full anamnesis.
There are even rarer incidents — every Sanctuary Keeper has a few of those tales to tell. Like the dreaded Remission: the Forgetting happening to the same person twice. Or the polyanamnesis; “remembering” several different sets of memories. Yes, there is plenty still to learn about the Forgetting — who knows, perhaps one day we might even discover what it is and why it’s happening to us…?
He had arrived just before noon. We dressed him up in the dull grey robe of the Sanctuary, and assigned him to the Eleventh Group. Sister Kallipsi was his Caretaker. She was young, but already fully devoted to her profession. I had complete trust in her skills and competence.
It was hard not to notice the new patient. Tall, handsome, radiating charm and an almost beastly charisma. He was like a caged wolf or a lion as he prowled the courtyard with soft, yet strong steps; in his mindless eyes there was no trace of the wild fear that was so often present in the newcomers.
Sister Kallipsi was taking care of him with the same compassion and kindness she had for a dozen other patients. Perhaps her smile was slightly brighter in response to his smile; perhaps her touch was a little tenderer.
He took her; treated her as his property, like everything else he had laid his hands on. He followed her everywhere, grabbing her hands whenever he wanted to show her something new, absorbing every new word she spoke. When other Brothers or Sisters tried to teach him, he pouted arrogantly and turned away. Whenever Kallipsi wasn’t around, he reverted to the mentality of the ape chieftain from his first days in the Sanctuary. Only in her presence did the therapy seem to work.
At last, his efforts started to bring forth fruit. She was beginning to spend more time with him than was necessary. I could not blame her. The further the treatment progressed, the more magnificent he seemed — and the closer the two had become, the faster the therapy had moved on.
At last, he remembered his native tongue and letters, the squiggly writing of the distant Duchy of Secrey; the land across the continent.
He promised he would stay with her no matter what he remembered.
She came to me after breakfast. Trustful, warm, unsuspecting.
“Alpha of the Eleventh — where is he? I have not seen him in the dining hall.”
I looked at her and sighed.
“He left at dawn. Complete anamnesis.”
She said nothing, just blinked a few times and opened and closed her mouth. I pitied her, but I could do nothing to help.
“He has a wife and a son,” I said, trying to ease the blow. “He’s the heir to Secrey’s throne.”
She slumped and turned around. Passing through the door, she asked, “Did he look back? Did he even once turn his head?”
We are the seekers of Truth. We must not lie.
Now today come morning light
He sails away, after one last night...
TREMORS
A tremor.
It started with a long, grim trembling, one that was felt with the soul and the mind rather than the body. A low rumbling on the edge of perception, a wave of rustling leaves and quivering glass. The air, the rock and the water were all shaken equally by this mysterious surge. All who felt it knew, somehow, that this was not a normal earthquake; that the tremor was piercing through the planet, coming from somewhere outside, from space or another p
lane of existence altogether.
Those who were asleep, woke up in the morning as usual, but subtly changed. Those who felt it during the day gazed around in surprise as if seeing the world for the first time. None of them said a word to each other, none of them asked what had happened; it was as if the tremor was something each of them felt separately. An experience as personal as it was universal.
The gates of the Hollo Academy closed shut that morning and remained so for many long days, not letting anyone in or out.
A small, slender ship, its sails marked with the crest of the League, approached the Kepente harbour. A curious crowd gathered to see it moor up to the pier. A ship of the League was a rare sight this far from the Continent.
Up close, the ship was even smaller than it had at first seemed; barely larger than the day-trip yachts of the nobles. It was a true wonder how anyone had managed to cross the Ocean in something so tiny.
A golden carriage rode up to the shore, of the kind reserved only for the Prince of Kepente’s personal guests. A fat nobleman, dressed in scarlet and azure, climbed out, paced slowly towards the end of the pier and waited. At last, the passenger of the ship appeared on board. He was tall, like all Easterners, well-built but slim. Flowing blond hair reached past his shoulders. He was clad in a plain cloak of dark blue; a long, narrow sword hung at his belt of gold and amber.
He stepped onto the pier, brushed hair from his forehead and looked around. Women in the crowd sighed. His face was as slender as everything else about him; handsome and youthful — he couldn’t have been more than thirty — but his eyes, dark blue, almost black like the waves of the Ocean behind him, were mature. The scars on his face only enhanced his manly allure.
The fat nobleman approached him, bowing.
“Your Highness?” he asked, pointing to the carriage.
The stranger climbed inside without a word.
A few days later the golden carriage trudged along an old, ruined, muddy trail towards the northern edge of the island. There was nothing here but poor, quiet fishing villages, scattered among the pine-covered dunes. The carriage screeched and groaned as if it was going to fall apart at any moment.
The blond guest stared at the wall in front of him, deep in thought, silent. The fat nobleman sitting beside him winced at every bump on the road.
“What an awful trail,” he murmured, wiping his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. “I bet these people haven’t seen anything bigger than a peasant’s oxcart in a generation.”
The blue-eyed man remained silent.
The dense wood parted at last, revealing a wind-swept plain of tiny barren fields, surrounded with low walls of slate. A range of bald hills on the horizon grew into low, jagged mountains. The road improved slightly.
“A few more miles and we should reach the castle,” said the nobleman. “Hard to believe why anyone would want to live here…”
The stranger turned his eyes away from the wall and looked outside. He stared at the mountains ahead, stern-faced. His right hand closed into a fist. Blue sparks shimmered along his knuckles.
The fat nobleman shuddered and twisted his fingers discreetly into a sign against evil.
The castle proper was just a mighty, depressing ruin, a reminder of the days of the First Empire. The current ruler of this inhospitable land lived in a small manor huddled up to one of the remaining walls.
The golden carriage arrived onto the cobbled courtyard with a mighty racket. The servants hurried out of the manor. The fat nobleman frowned, noticing the grey fur of the evarites glimpsing among the livery. Even the blond-haired visitor turned in surprise towards the servants.
“Native slaves? So far west?”
“The Count here is infamous for his… unique taste.” The nobleman did not even try to hide his disgust. “Perhaps this is why he has chosen to live so far away from anywhere else. It must have cost a fortune to get those, as you call them, natives, here.”
Despite their loathsome physiques, the servants were quick and efficient. They led the golden carriage up a stone path towards the wide stairs of the manor. A grey-haired man came out to greet the visitors.
“Count Tarrente,” the nobleman said, not leaving the carriage, “this is Duke Ayaris of the League. I will leave him in your care, for I have urgent duties in the capital.”
“But of course, noble Va Rucay. I would offer you a meal and a bed, but I know my lodgings are far too modest for the likes of yourself.”
“No offence taken, dear Count. I must depart in haste. May the Shadow of the Great Dragons save you from trouble!”
The nobleman failed to notice the Duke wince at the words of the traditional farewell. The golden carriage turned around, leaving the blond stranger alone with his new host.
“He will never reach the capital before night,” the Duke said, observing the tired horses. “Why wouldn’t he wish to stay here?”
“Va Rucay is a man of many assets,” said the Count, “but open-mindedness is not one of them. Between your magic and my evarites… we must have been too much for the poor Baron.”
They sat at a long table of dark wood. A vine, sculpted by some old master, coiled and twisted around the table’s edge, cascading down in rich clusters of fat, juicy grapes.
“Is it truly the last one?” the Count asked, pouring blood-red wine into a goblet of thick green glass.
“I feel it so,” replied Ayaris. The Duke was sipping his wine like he did everything else: slowly, carefully. He seemed tight, full of some unspent energy. “The last of the males on the Archipelago.”
“Hard to believe. In my mountains! Still, it only shows how remote this place is. The farthest end of the Archipelago. There is nothing farther but the Winter Isles. Perhaps it wishes to hide there?”
“That’s why I have to move fast. I leave tomorrow morning.”
“Why leave for after-tomorrow what you can do tomorrow, eh?” The Count nodded and poured himself more wine. The alcohol disappeared inside him with no effect, as if his body was a leaking barrel.
“Tell me, my dear Duke… if I may be so bold —” he started, but Ayaris raised his hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“I know what you want to ask,” he said grimly.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not as if I like the beasts — mischievous, villainous beings, ruining the crops, killing cattle and sometimes people… But don’t all living creatures have a right to live the way the Gods made them?”
“The dragons” only purpose is to kill and to be killed. They are the disease of this world. And I am the only cure.” The Duke’s fists clenched and sparked; it was the first time the Count saw him angry.
Tarrente sighed. “I can see you need rest, Duke. Perhaps you should go to bed — tomorrow will be a trying day. My daughter Sonnai will take you to your chambers,” he added as a beautiful young girl entered the dining hall, smiling shyly.
Ayaris raised his eyebrows. The girl did not resemble the old Count in any way. She was graceful, tall, her hair were as gold as the Duke’s. She could not have been born on the Archipelago.
“It’s a long story,” the Count said, chuckling into his fist at the Duke’s surprise, “remind me to tell you all about it when you are back from tomorrow’s quest.”
THE LAST OF THE MALES
The Duke woke up in the middle of the night. He sat on the bed and listened. Even before the unmistakable whooshing noise tore through the darkness, he knew; he could feel the subtle change in air pressure and temperature. He reached for his sword and, just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the castle walls shook with tremendous force.
The alarm bells rang out, the manor filled with noise, shouting, running, clamour of men hastily putting on armour and weapons, and of women wailing. All these sounds, however, were muffled by the ear-piercing screeching and a roar that brought death to all who heard it.
Calm and meticulous as always, Ayaris dressed slowly, put on a mail shirt and the dark blue cloak. He opened the bedside ches
t and took from it a golden helmet adorned with two sharp dragon claws.
The moment he stepped outside, the wall of his bedroom shattered and a dragon’s arm appeared for a moment in the breach. The Duke passed down the crumbling corridor, passing panicking servants and guards. He climbed down the stairs to the main hall, where the lord of the manor was trying to bring a semblance of control to the chaos and gather a few soldiers into a fighting force.
Ayaris approached the Count and touched him on the shoulder.
“Get everyone out of here. None of your people stand a chance against the dragon. Go towards the mountain.”
Tarrente nodded and started shouting orders at his men. Ayaris moved towards the courtyard. He turned back one last time and saw Sonnai, like a bright star in the darkness, descending slowly down the stairs as if unaware of the destruction and death around her.
The Duke stepped outside and looked up. The dragon noticed him, a small figure of blue light in the darkness. For a moment the two enemies eyed each other, but then the dragon’s attention turned to something beyond the walls of the ruined manor. A group of refugees was running towards the safety of the old castle. Had they reached the mighty ancient stones they would have stood a chance, but the dragon was faster. It moved like black lightning. A tongue of flame coiled around the rear guard of the Count’s soldiers. Claws and teeth tore the burning bodies apart.
The old Count appeared with a naked sword, trying to hew through the black scale, but the dragon only waved its tail as if swatting a fly. Tarrente fell against the wall with a thud and slid to the ground.
At last, Ayaris reached the beast. He knelt on one knee, pointed his sword toward the dragon and whispered a spell. A bolt of lightning struck from the tip of the blade. The dragon roared in surprise and pain and with a flap of wings it leapt above the ruined keep. The Duke crouched by the Count. Blood covered the old man’s face, thick and dark like the wine he had drunk the night before.
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