“Things are not going well,” the wizard informed his master. “I sense panic and alarm, terror and dread.” There was almost a hint of amusement in the mage’s sepulchral voice. “It would seem that Benthicalia is not to become the summer residence you so ardently desired.”
“Nor yours, remember,” a quietly raging Kulakak growled. His great claws clenched and opened, clenched and opened. He longed for a shell to crush, an eye to put out, but none were at hand. Obtaining them was not difficult, but would take at least a moment or two, and would mean terminating his dialogue with the mage. Ordering up a sacrificial outlet for his fury would have to wait until later.
“It’s the fault of that wretched, worthless advisor of mine. I should never have put him in overall command. I should have opted for ability over trust.”
“Everything I perceive tells me that this setback is not the fault of the cunning and loyal Gubujul.” Striking out with both main claws, Sajjabax attempted to kill the Great Lord. Though deep in thought Kulakak was not so preoccupied, however, as to let himself drift within range of the mage’s murderous arms. The lethal cavitation unleashed by Sajjabax’s double blow dissipated through the water long before the heat and pressure generated could do little more than tickle the Great Lord’s shell. The conversation continued as if the blatant attempt at murder had not taken place.
“If the catastrophe is not the responsibility of the Paramount Advisor, then what?” Kulakak was as determined to know the reason for defeat as he would have been for the victory that was evidently not to be. “The First and Second armies of the northlands were strong, their leaders brave, the general staff of both suitably determined and experienced. What happened to bring about so complete a humiliation?”
“All is not transparent.” Since he had no eyelids, it was never possible to tell what the enchanter Sajjabax was actually looking at. “In the confusion of defeat, there is contusion of perception. It clouds my vision. But one thing I do see clearly.” On their stalks, his singular eyes inclined slightly forward and down.
“There is another magician.”
That got the Great Lord’s attention. “The mersons and the manyarms have a wizard of their own?”
“Not a true mage, I think.” Unusually, Sajjabax was showing signs of strain. “A shaman. A simple rural practitioner of tricks and dispenser of potions. I cannot clearly divine the extent of his participation, but there is no doubt he is in someway connected to the disaster. There are others as well. Because of their great age I dismissed them as irrelevant. It is now become clear that while very old indeed, they are not wholly senile, and that at least some of their powers are retained. And,” he paused, clearly struggling with the effort to see beyond the chamber, “there is something else. Something more. Or possibly something less. I cannot tell. Not—yet.”
Kulakak’s tone was grim. “Go on.”
“I think it is, I believe it may be, some sort of—changeling. Its full involvement in the affairs of Oshenerth I cannot clearly glimpse. A strange creature, at once female and strong, if oddly conflicted. Weak-seeming, and yet …” He went silent.
“And yet?” the Great Lord prompted him.
But the mage had gone quiescent, overcome once more by the madness that ebbed and flowed within him like a tide, revealing sometimes coherence and most of the time a hushed incomprehensibility. Frustrated, Kulakak turned and scuttled slowly away.
What now? he asked himself. What to do now that the intended cleansing of the southern reefs had been brought to a sudden and ignominious standstill? In the stillness of the palace and the shutdown of Sajjabax he found that he yearned for Gubujul’s counsel. Had the Paramount Advisor escaped the calamity? What should be done with him if he returned to the capital? Kulakak knew that he needed the smaller spralaker’s advice as never before. He also knew that upon setting eyes on the advisor he would be hard-pressed to keep from dismembering him one joint at a time.
He shrugged it off. Revenge was for the weak-minded, for those who could not control their emotions. For those who could not see the greater picture. And that picture showed him, as it had for some time now, that the south must somehow be conquered. Must be taken for the greater glory not only of Kulakak but for all spralakers.
Because if they did not vanquish the mersons and manyarms who controlled the southern reefs and take it for themselves, he and his kind were most surely doomed to a slow, lingering, and inevitable death.
O O O
Only the outside of the Palace of the Tornal had been damaged. The intricately decorated interior, with its fluctuating bioluminescent lights and fluted silicate embellishments and gleaming reflective surfaces, was still intact.
So, it seemed, were the Tornal themselves. Looking on as they lumbered or dragged themselves laboriously out into the audience chamber, Irina counted carefully and could find none absent.
The ammonite who served as Speaker trundled slightly out front of the others, pulling herself along with her strong tentacles. Her coiled shell glistened with recent attention. Speeches would have to be given. Celebrations were anticipated. Congratulations had to be extended. The Tornal were not looking forward to it.
But first another obligation need be discharged.
The Speaker entwined tentacles with Oxothyr. “To your intervention we owe our continued existence.”
The shaman dismissed the compliment. “It was your diplomat who persuaded the great deep ones to come to the salvation of the city.”
“And it was the escort provided by the village of Sandrift that enabled Oultm to carry out his mission,” declared a beautifully striped orthocera from nearby.
At the mention of their home, those mersons and manyarms in attendance let out a soft, concerted bubbling, the underwater equivalent of a collective sigh. Irina could only envy them. It appeared they would have a home to return to, one likely to be safe from any immediate future depredations by spralakers of any kind. Not only could she not return to her home, she did not even know where it was. Pushing the depressing thought aside, she tried to concentrate on the ceremony at hand. The Speaker for the Tornal was coming to the point that had brought Irina and her newfound friends to Benthicalia in the first place.
“What would you claim as reward?” the ammonite burbled. “Insofar as we have it; food, medium of exchange, supplies of any sort, they are yours for the asking. If it’s a parade you wish, or acclamation of another kind, it will be done. Should you require …”
Sensing that the recitation of offerings could go on for quite some time, Oxothyr twisted a pair of arms in a certain fashion and made so bold as to cut the speaker off.
“We require only that for which we originally chose to visit your wondrous city, venerable speaker. The answer to a question that will hopefully allow us to seek the answer to a question. The information that, if you recall, I was on the verge of requesting from you when word first came of the spralaker offensive.”
Bemused, the Speaker eyed her companions. “As with food, acclaim, or anything else that is to be found in our community, if we have this knowledge then it is yours for the asking.”
Oxothyr turned a rich shade of indigo marked with bright yellow spots. The effect was striking. Looking on, Glint knew he could never have equaled it.
“We need to find the Deep Oracle, and have not the faintest notion of where to begin searching.”
A murmur rose from the assembled Tornal. Listening intently, Irina felt she could make out no hint of dismay. They were simply debating the matter among themselves. The buzz of communication, she decided, bode well for the eventual response. It was not long in coming.
“We have discussed your request,” the Speaker announced, “compared knowledge, and processed remembrances. By all accounts and based on what is known at present, the Deep Oracle should be keeping to itself somewhere in the vicinity of the Pinnacle of Clariondes.”
A ripple ran through Oxothyr’s entire mantle. “I know the place. I have never been there, but I recall
more or less where it is. Thank you, masters of arcane seeking. That is all we needed to know.” Pivoting in the water, he turned to leave and to take his friends and escort with him. Halting in the midst of the attentive gathering of fighters from Sandrift and Siriswirll, he paused to look back.
“If it would not be too much to ask, we could use some replenishing of our supplies. From here to the Pinnacle of Clariondes is a fair distance.”
“A very fair distance,” agreed another of the aged orthoceras.
“Considerably more than a fair distance,” commented a weathered ammonite sagely.
With a fluttering of her multiple arms, the Speaker indicated that she concurred with these opinions. “If there is anything more we can do …”
“Everything’s well enough done,” declared a curt voice from behind and apart from the group of visitors. Irina did not have to turn to identify the owner of the voice that had rudely interrupted. Chachel continued. “We’re finished here. Let’s get moving.” Without waiting for comment or response and accompanied by an equally fast-moving Glint, he turned and swam for the outer hallway.
“He is so impolite!” affirmed Poylee admiringly as she kicked hard to try and catch up to the hard-swimming hunter and his manyarm companion.
“And tactless,” added Sathi from where he and Tythe flanked the patiently retiring Oxothyr.
“Brave, courageous—and utterly devoid of discretion,” agreed the other famulus readily.
Irina considered joining Poylee but decided against it. Though she was an excellent swimmer whose magically augmented hands, feet, and legs had increased her speed remarkably, even on her best day she doubted she could keep pace with the irascible female merson. Instead, she found herself drifting closer to the more sedately leave-taking shaman and his supercilious famuli.
“So, Oxothyr, just how far away from Sandrift is this Deep Oracle we’re looking for?”
A black S-shaped pupil focused on her. “It matters not how far the Pinnacle of Clariondes lies from Sandrift, but how far it is from here. We are not returning to our homes.”
She was taken aback. “But I thought surely we would return, if only for a little while, so the fighters from there and from Siriswirll could spend some time with their friends and families before having to set out again.”
“Time is the one thing we do not have, Irina-changeling. The spralakers have been beaten here at Benthicalia. Where and when they may strike next remains a treacherous unknown.”
She considered that. “You think they’ll attack the city again?”
“Perhaps, or having been vanquished here they may choose to concentrate their efforts elsewhere along the reefs. It does not matter. The spralakers are a sideshow.”
Irina thought of the thousands on both sides who had just died or been maimed both within and outside the walls of Benthicalia. “Sideshow” was not a description she would have used to depict what she had just seen and experienced. Spreading her arms wide, she took in their immediate surroundings and by implication the rest of the city beyond.
“If this was nothing but a sideshow, then what do you consider a real danger?”
“That which comes this way and that I cannot discern. That which in order to identify we must seek the insight of the Oracle.” His gaze rose past her, to focus on something beyond her ken. “That which chills me in the dark and to which I can as yet assign neither description, meaning, or name.” A kindly arm snaked reassuringly around her.
“But come now. This is all new to you, and you must not fear the new but rather embrace it. The more you open yourself to the realworld, the more you will be infused with its meaning and beauty.”
“I’m trying,” she told him as they swam along together. “I’m really trying. Because I know,” she choked slightly, “I know I might never get home again, and that I might have to spend the rest of my life here.” She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “It’s a good thing I like the water.”
“How could one not like the water?” Tythe wondered from nearby. “The water is the world, and the world is water.”
“Not entirely.” Oxothyr corrected his famulus gently. “There is also the void.”
Showing his opinion of that, Tythe went black all over and let out a snort of ink.
“We cannot expend the time to return to Sandrift or Siriswirll,” the shaman explained as they left the audience chamber behind, “because the Deep Oracle does not long remain in any one place. It moves around. The Tornal’s best guess is that it is presently to be found somewhere near the Pinnacle of Clariondes. I do not know about your world, but Oshenerth is a very big place. Linger here or anywhere else too long to recuperate and celebrate and we might lose forever our one opportunity to seek out the Oracle’s counsel. Without it,” he concluded, “I do not feel that I can identify the true nature of the greater menace that threatens us all. And if I cannot identify it, then I most surely cannot foresee a way to counter it.”
She was silent for a long while, until they emerged from the palace back out into the crazy quilt of passageways that threaded the city from its uppermost level to the twenty-sixth one far below.
“It’s that bad?” she finally ventured softly.
“I fear so. The very order of existence is in danger of being upturned. We must seek to right it.”
A new thought struck her. “Why us? Why you? Why not the Tornal, or others better placed or more powerful or more experienced?”
“Because,” he explained to her as one would to an infant, “we do not know if anyone else, anywhere, has perceived it, and as I just informed you, we do not have the time to seek, ask, and look around to learn if anyone else has. We must proceed as if we are the only ones to have acquired this painful information. Those who acquire knowledge,” he finished, “are condemned to act upon it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. Or at least, she asked no more questions. Not that day, or the next, or on up to the time they finally took their leave of Benthicalia.
It was just as well that she did not, Oxothyr mused. Had she pressed further, he would have been compelled by various self-imposed oaths and promises to answer her to the best of his ability, even when he believed that to do so might not be in her best interest.
After all, how could he explain to her that despite her lack of abilities relevant to the present desperate situation he felt she was somehow destined to play a critical role in the hopeful resolution of the forthcoming crisis?
About the Author
Alan Dean Foster is the author of 125 books, hundreds of pieces of short fiction, essays, columns reviews, the occasional op-ed for the NY Times, and the story for the first Star Trek movie. Having visited more than 100 countries, he is still bemused by the human condition. He lives with his wife JoAnn and numerous dogs, cats, coyotes, hawks, and a resident family of bobcats in Prescott, Arizona.
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