Ethria- the Pioneer

by Aaron Holloway

  Terr’a’min sighed “Well, it appears we let time slip from us as we indulged. It is time for the ceremony.”

  ----

  The ceremony itself was rather short. As false dawn began to fill the sky, everyone now stone-cold sober due to another mass Cleansing Rainbow released a lantern with a tiny murky white crystal shining light out of it and heating the air trapped inside the lantern, allowing them to float into the sky. “They will reach Barisel by nightfall if the winds stay the way they are predicted to.” Whispered Ailsa in my ear as I released my lantern. “And it usually does, the elves are much better at predicting weather patterns then your people.”

  I nodded and stayed silent as Salina and the small retinue of around twenty souls, including Tim, all walked into the center of the clearing and began to sing. The song was haunting and sad. And the words, though I understood them technically, were hard to understand due to my lack of cultural context.

  The first verse was sung by the soprano voices, and at times the notes they hit were so astonishingly high that I could barely hear them. The morning dew on the leaves shook and fell, covering all of us in the rain that made it seem as if the forest itself was weeping. But always could I understand what was being said.

  Through Lo’sar in the east and across the sea of grass,

  The east wind sings it's pleasant song until our news it grasps.

  Oh pleasant and wild wind from the fells, have you heard the news we have to tell? Of Pina the shaman the Varidian, who gave her life and fell?

  The altos sang then, picking up the response from the east wind.

  “No,” says the east wind “Will you tell me of her? That I might have another tale to tell?”

  Again the sopranos took over, and again the forest wept, even as the sun began to rise behind the two massive Home-trees.

  Yes, gentle wind that brushes the grass from the eastmost swells. We shall tell you this, the story of how brave Pina fell. She saved one of us from a human dart, meant to paralyze, she gave her freedom so they might flee from human lies.

  The alto’s in replay,

  “I’ll carry her tale to her people, west so that they may truly grieve.” Says the east wind as it gently sails over head and fen and reed.

  Again the sopranos sang, but this time joined by the altos.

  From our home in Varidian the west wind blows, hope and growth in powerful storms so that the long grass may grow. “Oh west wind, powerful and strong, tell us of the people of Pina the shaman now lost and gone.”

  Playing the part of the west wind, the tenors sang in reply.

  “I will sing of the people of the gap, who guard fair Varidian green, they are wild as men were before they put stone upon stone for their every need, or found the gold of dwarves who dug, and then felt the deepest greeds. There the people of Pina live, in hovel and hunt with bow under the falls of Barisel that grow many a flower of gold. They are strong and true, their blood is pure, as the men who were brave of old,

  Warriors bred and born in a naked land of mud under an unbroken sky, no sophistry or guile know they who so bold will live and die. The elves of fair Varidian they see as their brothers as only truth they speak. So no lie passes the lips of those of Pina, who speak only what they mean.

  The sopranos, altos, and tenors all sang together, and just the harmony of their voices nearly brought tears to my eyes.

  From the south sea comes the drumbeat of war, as humans marshall and train steel on steel and stain on stain as blood begins to drain. But the south is not all made of dead men of steel and cain, for its wisdom from the sea it still brings in its terrible refrain. Tell us oh south wind, have you seen Pina fair? Has she taken to boat as slave? To the isles of glass? Or further still, tell us where she is found, where her feet touch grass.

  The bases sang as the south wind and brought to mind drums and war and the fall of hammer on anvil. Their voices, while not loud, resonated with the very earth underfoot, and it shook and shuddered, though no one tripped or fell.

  “Pina I see not, as blood and bone are pure, while living song is hidden from me, of this I am sure. Fair Pina lives, else I'd see the bone as white as snow, yet gone from my sight, I hear her no more. Slave or free, I do not know, pray she does not cross the sea. I have not heard fair Pina’s voice call across the green, nor the seas of salt and bitter guile, where even the seagulls feast and flee.

  All of the voices sang together in unity, and it seemed like reality itself shook in resonance with their song.

  From the black gate far north, the north wind ride. We do not seek its council, nor its aid. When the north wind rises, we endure its lies, we will not have memory of fair pina maligned.

  A single elf that I had not seen before, dressed in all black robes, black gloves, and cowled so the sun did not touch him casting shadows so he could not be seen by any, stepped out of seemingly nowhere. And he began to sing alone. His voice a deep baritone, filled with malice and hate.

  “You do not seek my council elves? And all those else in grief? Then heed my warning of the dead, which fair Pina shall soon meet. Pray her passing is one of ease and not one of pain. For if she rises from among the dead, the north gate will have her, we are the living’s bane.

  When it was done, I felt spent, and yet somehow cleansed of everything I had experienced up until then. Though, two things remained with me, a deep feeling that something was coming, something bad, and the dampness in my clothes. A prompt appeared, and I read it.

  “You have been witness to the Song of Calling! A Minor Divine event. Though the words are different with each iteration, and only loosely based on the words prepared by whatever poet or writer presented them at the ritual, the song of calling brings forth the spirits of the Four Winds and allows the choir to commune with them to gain knowledge, insight, and atonement for past wrongs, using the creative energies sacrificed in the poets work to manifest. Effects: Removal of demonic, abyssal, eldrich, or other negative curse or taint effects. 365 day long buff to the villages health, mana generation, population growth, and stability. Details reserved for civic leadership.”

  When I was done reading, I minimized it and looked over at my barbarian friend, he was leaned up against a tree with his eyes closed as the sun emerged in its full glory bathing the entire clearing in warmth and sunlight.

  I walked over and kicked him awake. Lightly, of course, I didn’t need to lose the leg to an overreaction. “It's over,” I said when he opened his eyes, I saw they were bloodshot from emotion, and exhaustion. I nodded and sat down next to him without saying another thing. I laid back and closed my eyes. I was out like a light.

  [End of Part 1]

  Interlude 1: The High-Priest

  “Let [others]... believe as they wish—the wise among them will find goodness and solace in their faith; the fools will be fools no matter what they believed. - Jasnah Kholin, Stormlight Archive, Brandon Sanderson.

  Father Ruderal, formerly of the Temple of Dominus the Sun God in Eastern Harvest at the foothills of the Iron Peaks near the border with the dwarven kingdoms along the coast of the same name, looked at the broken leg of the young boy, and tisked.

  “You should really be more careful Sivil, this is only a minor fracture so you’re lucky, but no more playing around wagon wheels that are moving.” The boy nodded sadly, wincing in pain. He was barely seven years old, but he was tall for his age, and strong, and would be sorely missed by his family while he healed. “I’ll wrap it, and you should be right as rain in the summer, in a few weeks as long as you stay off of it and let it heal.”

  After tending the leg as best he could, the elderly priest stood, dusted off his knees, and looked at the father of the young boy who had brought him to Ruderal after the accident. “Here, give him these leaves to chew, only three at a time, and no more than six in a four hour period. Give them to him if the pain gets too much that he can’t sleep. If after six leaves he still can’t sleep, bring him back to me.” The priest handed over the small sac
k of dried bitter leaf and shook the father's hand.

  “Thank you, thank you Father Ruderal. I don’t know what we would have done without you. But, uh…” The father paused as if trying to not seem rude, but needing to approach a difficult subject.

  “Yes? Speak it, man, don’t leave it there. Dominus is a fair-spoken God it is true, but so is he a plain-spoken one. Do not hide your thoughts from me if it concerns your son's healing.”

  “Yes Father, it's just that, um, can’t you, you know, fancy up a bit of that magic you had when we first started out? You know mending bones and healing cuts?”

  The old priest sighed, “Priests of Dominus are given dominion of spells of light and healing, this is true. But just as Dominus is the God of such things, so is he a God of laws, rules, and order. Even the priesthood must operate within our designated spheres of responsibility, and I am far from mine.”

  “So…”

  “So, it means that while yes, I still have some recourse and claim to Dominus’s blessings, this far from my designated area of responsibility, those blessings and my claim to them, are diminished.” The old man patted the concerned father on the shoulder and bent down to help him carry his son back to his wagon so the caravan could get moving again.

  “Uh…” The father stammered, still confused. “What does that mean, exactly, Father?”

  “It means my son, that yes, I have my healing magic. But just a lot less of it now, than before.” The man brightened at that, finally understanding what the priest was saying.

  “So can you do a bit of the classy kind to heal him up quicker? I need him to help pull the wagon case the horse I got kicks the bucket at the first snowfall.”

  The priest sighed and shook his head. “No Greg, I can’t” The recourse to the young fathers first name stunned the man slightly. “I need to save the spells I do have access to for the worst cases. If your horse dies, let me know, I'll look at the situation then, okay?” Greg nodded and bent down to help with his son.

  ----

  Father Ruderal kneeled down later that night in his tent in front of the tiny altar he erected every time they camped. The altar was white and made of a single thin slab of marble about the same size as a scroll, it had the runes of light, life, and creation on them. The aspects of Dominus that Ruderal found the most appealing, and he prayed. He begged Dominus for guidance, for a restoration of his full power so he could bless the people he had been sent to shepherd. He pleaded with his God of laws, and light, for any help he might send. His prayers were filled with a quiet faith, the type that moved mountains when properly paired with the right authority, but here in the wilderness, he had no such authority.

  As he prayed, he felt the tether, the thin line that linked him to his God, slowly fade away into a grey, inactive state. It wasn’t gone per se, the tether had not been severed or cut, but there was nothing that ran along the line of communication anymore. The priest's heart broke, and he sobbed on top of the altar, knowing that he had been forgotten, abandoned.

  Not because his God was evil or uncaring as some in the great march north thought, but because of the dictates of Dominus’s own rules that his God could not break, even for a faithful priest like Ruderal who had been forced away from his home by decree of the Arch-Bishop and Grand Cardinalic Council.

  As Father Ruderal thought about it, he realized his God had not abandoned him. In truth, Ruderal had been forced to leave his God, in order to obey the orders of the priesthood of that very same divinity. An absolute and paramount ordinance of faith for members of his order.

  He wept bitterly, his tears falling to the lifeless altar whose runes had once held the light of faith and reinforced the tether of devotion, now empty, dark, meaningless.

  A hand that glowed with silver light touched his shoulder. “Ruderal” The voice, quiet, soft, was not the voice of thunder, but one of raindrops on a silver lake. “You have served Dominus faithfully, and he would reward you in kind if he could.”

  The elder man turned and looked, and beheld the visage of a woman bathed in Silverlight, skin as blue as the mountains in spring at noon Sun. Her feminine form was tall and slender. Her smile was for him the priest somehow knew. That smile shone with grace and power greater then he had witnessed with his own waking eyes, except maybe the day of his initiation into his priesthood.

  “But Dominus wars within himself, there is great wickedness that has wounded the heart of his priesthood. A darkness that grows ever stronger.” The priest had no idea what to do, so, he bowed, prostrating himself on the floor, still on his prayer mat, still holding to the altar with one hand that had once brought him such solace and deep meaning. “The light that once burned away the darkness, is overshadowed by fear, greed, and hate.” The silver figure touched his cheek, tenderly, kindly, and the priest knew this was a divine being.

  Ruderal knew the same way he had known that Dominus was such a being when he had seen the burning heart at the very center of Eastern Harvest Cathedral as a boy. When he had been given charge to tend the golden heart faithfully, it only reinforced this knowledge, the deep as bones feeling that he was in the presence of true divinity.

  Every time he had washed the golden heart, the effigy of Dominus in the eastern lands, he had felt this same divine power filled with love, respect, gratitude, and grace. Even for a boy like him, who was just there to wipe the dust from the counters, wash the dishes, and sweep the floors. It was that experience that spurred him on into holy orders in the first place. And here it was, again.

  “I can not help him, though I wish I could. Dominus was kind to me and my people once, long ago, when our world ended.” The divine figure stared off into space for a long moment before speaking again. “But, I would help you, if you will have me. I can do nothing for you and my people here in the south. But the more you travel north, out of Dominous’s domain, the greater my hold over you can grow. The greater aid to you I can be.”

  The priest thought rapidly, heart beating frantically. Thoughts of all of the people he now served, powerless, and Godless, flashed through his mind. If an accident, a real accident were to occur, he would have no one, and nothing to call upon for aid. All those people would look to him with pain, fear, and hope in their eyes, and he would have no way to repay that faith.

  After a long somber moment of reflection, he uttered one phrase heard by only Kertoss. But in the coming centuries, all of Ethria would take notice of. “What must I do?

  Interlude 2: The Necromancer

  “Man produces evil like bees produce honey.” - William Golding

  The children cried as they sat in their cages. The cave was damp and cold, and many of them had cuts and bruises, they were hungry, and most of them had, either out of fear or necessity, soiled themselves. Their goblin captors had little care for them, barely passing them water skins to drink, and a piece of half-burnt bread once a day or so.

  Every time a child lost control of their bowels for whatever reason, the goblins chittering laughter mixed with the sound of their sobbing and bounced off the cave walls in a strange echo. And every time they stopped laughing they scrunched up their noses. Goblins hated the smell of human, especially the things they leaked.

  The necromancer didn’t care for the smell of human, or the smell of goblin, or really anything at all anymore. “Shh, child. Everything is going to be alright.” The necromancer said to the child it was leading away from the others. “Be quiet, or the goblins will hear you. I will take you to a place where you will be safe, warm, and clean.” The child nodded, holding back sobs even as large tears rolled down her cheek. This one was very young, maybe six or seven winters, if that.

  The necromancer lead the child through halls and corridors before entering a room half cave, half-cut stone, with a long cold stone slab at its center where the two pieces met.

  “Here” the necromancer bent down and picked the child up, setting her on the long slender table. “Let me look at you.” The necromancer tisked sadly wiping away the grim
e, feces, sweat, and tears on the child's face. “We should give you a bath, yes?” The little girl nodded.

  “Mommy always gave me baths, and I didn’t like them.”

  “And what do you think of baths now?” The necromancer asked, voice as soft and caring as it could make it. The child only nodded and raised its arms expectantly. The necromancer, having learned what this meant by trial and error, removed the shirt of the little girl before retrieving a washcloth in a water basin next to the stone altar.

  As the necromancer washed the child, it sang a song. One of the few tidbits it remembered from before its long hibernation, since before it's waking only a few months ago. It was a tune that it was sure its own mother had sung to it as a child. The necromancer hummed this song, and the child a little unexpectedly, began to hum along with it.

  The necromancer smiled. “You know this song?” It asked, and the little girl smiled and nodded. The necromancer removed the child's soiled trousers and cleaned the rest of the little girl before putting a clean white gown of simple wool over her head, covering her nakedness and warming her.

  “It's itchy” the little girl complained as she scratched at her body.

  The necromancer chuckled, “Yes, yes it is. But don’t worry you won’t have to wear it long. We’ll get you a nice cotton shirt, and trousers even, once we are done getting you clean. Now, lay down I need to wash your hair.” The girl obeyed, and the necromancer took the child's hair and laid it flat on the stone, some of it overhanging the altar behind the girl.