by Jean Johnson
“Unlike the rhythms of the sea, the tides of fortune can change to misfortune without warning or visible cause,” Kerric retorted dryly. “But in this case, the tides of fortune changing on us might simply be prophecy playing out its course. After all, if one of them is to betray and the other to turn away, then they must have reasons to do so. Some sort of impetus. What do you think could make them do that, Krais?”
He frowned a little, thinking about his brothers. Pelai’s arm around his shoulder both supported and distracted. Shaking his head, he shrugged slightly. “None of us have ever seen our father so upset, so adamant that we should be punished for something the Gods Themselves predicted we could not do. At least, not without descending into such evil acts that hundreds of innocent lives would’ve been lost. But . . . as I have changed, my brothers have changed a little bit, too. Foren has actually started to question the demands of our father, as I have—but he questions what has been happening in a different way that I have done.
“He might end up lashing out in anger if he’s rejected. Or he might not. Gayn . . . has been the one most closely aligned with our father. He may continue in his blind stubbornness to cling to our father out of sheer loyalty, though he has also spoken in annoyance to our father, which is unusual. If it comes to a fight . . . I don’t know if my middle brother is angry enough yet to outright betray humanity, but it’s quite possible Gayn would distance himself from having to choose a side for or against our father, if our father continues to betray Gayn’s faith in him.”
“This punishment thing, would it be awkward for you to be in contact with them while you’re being punished?” Kerric asked. “I’m not sure how your justice system works. Some kingdoms separate their criminals and punish them by refusing contact with loved ones.”
“It’s not that awful,” Krais told him. “We’re not dangerous criminals; we pose no threat to the people of Mendhi, because all we did was fail to complete a task. That means we’re legally allowed to visit our kin each week on Family Day. It might be awkward to contrive a believable reason to visit more often, but not impossible. Ah . . . Family Day is the one day a week—“
The Guardian cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m betrothed to a Mendhite. Myal explained the custom to me. We just had no reason to discuss the punishments of her birthland, since she lives here under my jurisdiction, and not Mendhi’s.”
“Congratulations on the betrothal,” Krais offered. “I take it you want me to keep an eye on my brothers, to see what they actually do?”
“If you can. They’d expect some brotherly scrutiny, I’d imagine,” Kerric said. “Inquiries into their health, their activities, commiseration on their suffering. . . . Things they’ll accept without question from you, going through a similar punishment situation, that they wouldn’t necessarily accept from anyone else. Or at least would find any inquiry that much more suspicious.”
“So . . . what should I listen for, when asking them how they’re doing?” Krais asked the mage floating in that translucent rectangle.
“Signs of anger, resentment, disinterest, disgust . . . and any signs that they’re helping the ex-Mekhanan priests to look up information on demon-summoning,” Kerric recited, lifting a hand into view and raising a finger for each point. He curled them down one at a time, too, as he continued. “Signs of anyone making inquiries into how to open Portals to other universes, how to conjure gods, and anything to do with quelling the current disturbances in the aether so that mirror-Gates and Portals will work properly again, and do so in a hurry.”
At that quip, Krais narrowed his gaze, studying the pale-skinned male. “You make that sound like the shortening of mirror-Gating distances was somehow done deliberately.”
“It was,” Pelai confessed for her fellow Guardian. It earned her a sharp look from Krais. She shrugged, carefully keeping her arm around his bare shoulders. “We had to stop them in Mekhana from conjuring and binding a powerful demon. All across the world, the ability to create Portals to other realms has been deliberately disrupted, to prevent them from acting too soon.”
“It works up to a point,” Kerric added “but then circumstances could change enough that they can find a way around the protections. Those protections are supposed to be good for two years, which means we’d still have a year and a half to go. However, my special mirror can scry into the future exactly one year, and it’s starting to show demonic invasions again. Which means somewhere—most likely in the Great Library—is some text or scroll, or perhaps a tome, detailing how one can circumvent the, ah, dimensional scrambling we did to the aether six months back.”
“So anyone looking into those sections will have to be eyed with suspicion,” Krais concluded.
Kerric nodded firmly, his light brown curls bouncing around his face and ears. “Very much so, but covertly. If we scare away the game in this hunt, we may never see them again, let alone catch them when the time is right . . . and conditions are still favorable for our success.”
“I do know how prophecies work,” the eldest Puhon brother retorted. “My siblings and I used to scare each other with the tale of the man who ran away to a different town to avoid a prophecied appointment with Death in the first location, only to have Death meet him on the street in the other town and happily thank him for sparing the spectre a long and uncomfortable ride.”
“Huh. I hadn’t heard that one,” Kerric murmured. “Anyway . . . keep an eye out for those lines of inquiry. I’d imagine such information is either rare, restricted, or both.”
“I’ll see if I can convince the Elder Librarian to give him full access to the Library,” Pelai offered. “Should I ask the Disciplinarians handling his brothers to lend them to me for that search? I still have to figure out what’s written soundlessly in scrolls, or whatever.”
Kerric eyed her askance. “We don’t want them to succeed, Pelai. Pelai’thia. Sorry. Consider carefully the possible consequences before offering that kind of help. We just want to guide what’s happening onto a seemingly successful but actually ineffectual trail.”
“It isn’t helping if I’m sabotaging their efforts to find what they’re looking for,” Krais pointed out. “From what it sounds like, my brothers may be tapped to help these ex-priests find what they’re looking for once they get to Mendham. I’ll do my best to get them to share what they’re up to, and I won’t tell them what I’m really doing, of course. I don’t want to betray humanity. At all. But I cannot guarantee my success.”
“Try your best, and if you fail, try to survive to the next Convocation, so you can kick the various Gods and Goddesses in the shins,” the other male suggested dryly.
“Will that really help?” Pelai asked, skeptical.
“No, but at least it’ll be entertaining to watch, because I’ll get it recorded on the scrying crystals,” Kerric told her.
Pelai huffed, rolling her eyes briefly. “Anything else you can suggest? Something useful?”
“Not until everyone gets a copy of the latest prophecy and has given it some thought,” the Tower Guardian replied with another -shake of his head. “Even if we end up with twenty opinions from twelve participants, at least then we’ll have ideas to chase down.”
A bell chimed, startling Pelai. She twisted her head to look behind her, but of course she could not see the front door from the family room. “ . . . Someone is here. I have to go.”
“Someone is at your Fountain? It cannot be that open to the public, can it?” Kerric queried, dubious.
Krais, seeing she hadn’t moved yet, patted her arm and rose to go answer the door for her.
“I’m not at my Fountain. I’m at home. The way my Fountain is set up, I can control it from almost anywhere in Mendhi.” Almost control it, since technically she didn’t have all of the controlling spells fused just yet.
“Oh, that would’ve been useful half a year ago,” Kerric muttered running a hand over his curls.
“But then I wouldn’t have fallen for Myal, so . . . Still, any chance I could learn to do it?”
The bell rang again. Pelai rolled her eyes and shifted to stand up. “You’d have to be a Painted Warrior.”
“I’m not particularly fond of what Myal described as a lengthy, painful enchanted inking process, but I think I could handle a tattoo or two,” he quipped.
“And you’d have to set up your Fountain the way mine is set up,” she told him. “Both are needed to function.”
“Uh . . . no. Thank you for the offer,” Kerric told her politely, “but I rather like the way how mine works.”
“After dealing with Guardian Alonnen’s version, I am very grateful for my own system,” Pelai agreed. “I’ll talk to you later, Guardian Kerric.”
“I’ll wish you a goodnight, Guardian Pelai . . . thia. Pelai’thia. I’ll get used to the new name thing, I promise,” he added, before ending the scrying link.
Passing through to the front half of her residence, she found herself facing a familiar-looking fellow clad in a soft purple taga. He had a small double-headed axe stuck into the cords belting his garment to his hips. “I know you . . . Jodo Belak, right? But you’re a soldier, not a Librarian.”
“Oh, no, that would be my little brother,” the young man stated, giving her a wry smile. “I am Jodo Dalek, not Jodo Belak. We look a lot alike. I’m a third-shelf librarian under Anya’thia. I work in the Restricted Sections.” He paused and gave Krais, or rather the presence of the other man, a hesitant look before returning his attention to Pelai. “ . . . May we speak in private, Elder?”
Nodding, Pelai gestured for him to follow her to her writing room. Closing the door, she activated the privacy wards and faced the librarian.
Dalek eyed the runes a moment, then nodded and spoke. “Anya’thia sent me here because when Tipa’thia passed away—may Menda write the story of her life in golden lettering—I started to update the cataloguing with your ascension, but realized I didn’t know all of your tattoos. The Elders are always marked as to what sigils are bound to their powers, if any of them are Painted Warriors.”
Pelai frowned. “That’s hardly information that would require a private meeting, Librarian Dalek.”
“No, it wouldn’t. But you are the Elder Mage. The Guardian of the Fountain. Tipa’thia passed a bit unexpectedly,” he explained. “I am to assess which of your special tattoos you have, and if any are missing . . . well, the Elder Librarian has assigned me the task of finding them in the Restricted Section. I’m very trustworthy,” the Librarian added in reassurance. “The information on how to go about recreating the missing ones is kept in the Occulted Scrolls, which are deliberately kept uncatalogued, so unfortunately it may take a week or two to find everything needed. But I am up to the task.”
Studying him, Pelai thought about that. Thought about the word occulted, as in hidden, unmeasured . . . unspoken. Turning back to the door, she opened it and poked her head through. Krais looked like he was contemplating the exact number of leaves on her carefully pruned, miniature spirit tree. “Krais, you have the translation tattoo. Does it handle archaic languages?”
“Of course. Father spared no expense,” Krais reassured her. “It was done when I was fourteen, after my teachers assured him I’d learned proper language skills.”
“Get in here, then,” she ordered, holding the door for him. The librarian blinked a few times. Guessing he was about to protest, Pelai’thia cut it down before a single syllable could be uttered. “I am going to assign my last penitent, here, to assist you.”
“That is highly irregular, Elder,” Dalek countered, not quite chiding her. “I cannot discuss these matters with someone who is not authorized to hear them.”
“Then I’ll authorize it with Anya’thia tomorrow. Krais, there are things in the Restricted Archives that I’ll need you to go looking for, since I still have a lot to do in the wake of Tipa’thia’s passing. Librarian Dalek, please go back to Anya’thia and arrange for my testing to take place at some point tomorrow, along with sufficient time to discuss the problems at hand. Since you won’t talk in front of Krais—and I will respect that—then it will simply have to wait. Tonight, I have a penitent to discipline,” she added, since that was the truth, “and I will not leave that task unfinished. Thank you for helping to remind me to consult with the Elder Librarian about keeping her records up to date.”
Krais smoothly moved over to the front door and opened it. He politely held it open for the brother of the guard who had warned her that Krais and his brothers had finally come home. Outside, evening had fallen, bringing with it a damp scent and the faint patter of rain sprinkling down from the night sky. He didn’t say anything, just held the door politely and waited.
“ . . . As you wish,” Librarian Dalek responded. He bowed his head to Pelai, then moved toward the open door. “I will find out when she can speak with you. I am not completely certain, but I believe early would be the best time. If that is compatible with your schedule, Elder Mage?”
“My schedule is not fixed yet, so I can more easily accommodate the Elder Librarian’s at this point in time,” Pelai stated. “Let her know that I will try to be available tomorrow whenever she is. Thank you for coming.”
A polite nod, and the librarian left. Krais held the door open for a few more moments, though, peering into the rain-damp night. He hesitated, making Pelai quirk her brow, then finally shook his head and shut the door.
“Someone was coming along the path,” Krais clarified, “but they headed to one of the other residences, not this one. Will you be moving into the Elder Mage’s residence at any point?”
“It’s tradition,” Pelai pointed out. “But it’ll take a few more weeks, I’d imagine. Tipa’thia’s staff will be sorting out her belongings, tending to the details of her will, packing up things for shipment to distant relatives . . . and then I’ll need to pack up my things and have them moved over to the Guardian’s quarters, figure out where everything will go, what furniture I can keep versus what is already there, and whether or not I can replace any of it . . .
“Not that I have a lot of things,” she continued in a murmur, looking around her at the walls, the spirit tree in its glazed pot on its carved table centered under the skylight, the writing room behind her, the guesting salon across from it, and more. “I do know I do not have nearly as many personal items as Tipa’thia did. I don’t know where she got them all. Her quarters were flat-out cluttered.”
“I’ve been in and out of the homes of all the other Elders many times, and had the chance to ask questions about that sort of thing,” Krais told her, surprising Pelai. “I heard that a lot of the clutter was the result of gifts. Some will have come from staff who worked for her, and others from people who wanted to curry favor in some way, for some project or task that she could influence positively for them . . . or negatively, for a rival.”
“Huh. I’ve only been in and out of your father’s house five times. In and out of Tipa’thia’s scores of times . . . and in and out of Anya’thia’s twice.” A touch of humor twisted her lips into a wry smile. “I guess I’m not a very popular woman.”
“You’re a very intimidating woman,” Krais corrected her. “It’s part of being a Disciplinarian. My father hasn’t been invited into very many homes, compared to my mother, my brothers, or myself. People are afraid of how a Disciplinarian might judge them on the details of their home, how clean or dirty, how cluttered or sparse . . . It hasn’t stopped them from giving him gifts, though most of those were from subservients, I’ll admit.”
“Mm. Well, I don’t accept gifts from penitents, and since I don’t take in subservients, that’ll never happen,” Pelai decided, moving back into the house.
“But you will have staff,” Krais pointed out, following her to the family half of the residence. “Normal sorts of servants, the kind who will cook and clean for you simply because they’
re paid to do so, once you move into the Elder Mage’s halls.”
“I hadn’t considered that, before now,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose. “I’ve never had normal servants, though my father does have extra workers helping out at his bakery. But that was only ever in the bakery, the kitchens. They never picked up anything upstairs, where the private rooms of the family are located. And these days, it’s mostly just my brother and sister and their families helping him. They’re family, not staff.”
“Normal servants won’t expect you to beat them for pleasure, or give them explicit details on exactly how to perform a task, overseen by you every step of the way,” he reassured her.
“I know that,” Pelai stated, giving him a sardonic look. “I mean I’m trying to get used to the idea of others picking up after me, making my bed, so on and so forth. I know why they do it, so I can be spared from having to spend physical or magical or even just mental energy on such things . . .”
“They’ll also do it for the glory of serving the Elder Mage,” he pointed out. “The most skillful, honorable, powerful mage in Mendhi. You’ll have people fighting to serve you just so they can say they have served you.”
“Oh . . . ! Splatter it,” Pelai muttered, wincing hard and rubbing at her pinched brow. “I just realized I’m going to have to start putting up with arcane duels a couple times a year. Not that they’ll have a chance of winning, because Tipa’thia made me promise I’d never limit myself to just my own powers. She said she got at least three idiots a decade who took the duels seriously, too, the kind that always thought that if they won, that would make them the Guardian. It’s always the most powerful ethical mage in the nation, not the most powerful, period.”
“All this time you’ve been training, and you didn’t realize it?” Krais asked dryly. “Years of apprenticeship under Tipa’thia?”