by M. M. Perry
“They call their city Sanctum?” Nat smirked. “A little on the nose there.”
“The clear men are anything but subtle,” Cass replied wryly. “If we meet any, and let’s hope we don’t because I can guarantee you they won’t be happy finding me this close to Sanctum, you’ll see just how unsubtle they are.”
“They cause you trouble in your lands?” Lasha asked, curious. Droog once again watched her closely. Curiosity was another trait normally discouraged in guardians.
“No. Not really. There are some among the warriors. They are fine people, the ones that are out among others. But when they go to Sanctum, there’s a reason. Sometimes it’s because they are feeling… tempted by something. They don’t like being reminded of their temptation while there. It’s their safe place. Like your… glowing bodies. Kind of…I think. A place to go away from any outsiders, so to speak. But…” Cass paused for a moment, not sure if she should voice her opinions on this matter among people she didn’t know very well. “Some of the people who become Clear Men, some of them are very bitter. Bitter about life, about, well everything. Anyone, anything, really, that they feel represents a life they want badly but for some reason cannot have, they strike out against. Those people also end up at Sanctum. And since they are followers of Porl, they have been blessed with his strength. That combination can make for very dangerous people.”
“I see. Yes.”
Cass could tell Lasha was carefully considering what she had said. In Cass’ experience, it was unusual for a Cartan to be so open to new ideas and she wondered if it was because Lasha was a guardian. Cass’ experience with Cartan women was extremely limited, so she considered it could just be a difference among the genders, but she wasn’t certain. Guardians were even more of a mystery to her. Before this, she had never even spoken to any fully fledged guardians. The closest she’d come before was occasionally seeing a few that were in training and, even more rarely, a glimpse of a robed figure in the cities of Ledina. Cass found herself fascinated by the Lasha, but she turned her attention back to Korick.
“The Clear Men weren’t able to offer help?”
“No. They care little for the problems of the Cartan. But they did act strangely when talking about the seer. That’s really what made me think the rumors of the seer being Clear were true. When I asked them if they knew anything about the seer or the problems with the elves in the Cartan sacred lands, they said they knew nothing. If they had said they’d heard rumors, or even mentioned the extremely obvious, I wouldn’t have doubted them. But saying they knew nothing…,”
“The extremely obvious?” Cass prompted.
“There were no elves in their city. None.”
Cass and Gunnarr exchanged a concerned look. Droog visibly clenched his teeth.
“I’m going to guess this is very strange and bad,” Nat said after noticing his companions’ reactions.
“The Clear Men don’t kill the elves,” Cass said, “since the elves serve as a pretty good deterrent to any women who might be in Ledina. The Clear Men even leave out food for them to encourage the elves to congregate around Sanctum.”
“If all the elves are gone,” Gunnarr continued, “something pretty powerful must have drawn them away.”
“This seer must have changed a great deal since Randon encountered him,” Cass said. “It sounds as if he’s much more than just a seer, and deadly dangerous if what Korick’s heard is true. But I think we should still seek him out.”
“Nothing ever is as easy as we expect, is it?” Nat asked. “Viola is going to be so mad she missed out on this trip.”
“Well, if you must go, then I’m coming with you. I will do what I can to help,” Korick said. “My sword is yours.”
“Are you sure, Korick?” Lasha reached out and touched Korick’s arm.
“Imagine, Lasha. If someone were to roust the elves and the man who leads them from Foundation, what could ever be denied them?”
Lasha looked at Korick for a long moment. Cass didn’t know precisely what was passing between them at that minute, but she had a good guess.
“As you will, then,” Lasha finally said. “Gather your things. We shall seek the seer.”
After her friends departed, Viola took up residence in the captain’s quarters. She spent most of her time skimming the small selection of books she had thought to bring with her for passages about Chort. She hadn’t found much, because she hadn’t thought to bring volumes specifically devoted to him. What she had found so far were stories and tales she already knew. The most common element among the bits she’d found was Chort’s malevolence toward his brother, Hadra. It wasn’t much, but Viola hoped she could at least use it to get a conversation started with him, though that was proving to be the lesser of the challenges that Cass had left her. Manfred had already agreed to help her out. Getting the god to chat with her, let alone Manfred, was the real challenge. As far as Viola could tell, Chort had no interest in engaging with any of them save Gunnarr, and he particularly disliked Manfred. She had wracked her brain the night before trying to think of a way to nonchalantly get Manfred and Chort together and chatting, and it wasn’t until the early hours of this morning that she’d finally hit on a possible scheme.
As soon as it occurred to her, she darted from the cabin and made her way to the galley. She had a special favor to ask of whoever was serving as ship’s cook that day. She found him already preparing breakfast that, based on the sausages and potatoes he was busily frying up, looked to be the usual simple fare. She let him in on the mission Cass had given her, as well as how she hoped to trick Chort into giving up more information than he meant to, hoping he’d be more amenable to the considerable favor she needed if he felt he was in on the conspiracy. To Viola’s delight and surprise, he turned out to be eager to help. She left him to tend to his contribution to her scheme, and headed out to invite her guests to breakfast in the captain’s cabin.
When she returned to the cabin from extending her invitations, she was greeted with the scrumptious smells of an extravagant meal. The cook had gone all out. There were six meat dishes simmering and steaming on the table, presented on beautiful silver platters and delicately patterned tureens. Viola didn’t even know the ship had such fine tableware. This was accompanied by three kinds of potatoes, one dish featuring tiny baby potatoes stewing in a yellow pool of herb infused butter, eight different fruit dishes, one of these a beautiful tart with the fruits arranged to look like a flower, and several kinds of breads. Viola found it hard to wait for her guests before digging in, everything looked and smelled so delectable.
Manfred arrived first, which Viola was glad of, since he was her partner in this scheme.
“Well,” the blue imp said grinning ear to ear, “had you told me you were setting this fine a feast, I would have skipped dinner last night. Boiled fish isn’t my favorite. I’m fairly sure it’s no one’s favorite, come to think on it. I’m not fond of life at sea, mostly due to the meals consisting mostly of, let’s see, you have fish, and… fish, and, oh yes, how could I forget about the fish? How did you manage to convince the chef to spare so many rations?”
“Easier than you think. Callan has this ship stocked to the brim. So far not much of the more quickly perishable food has been traded, so it has to be eaten anyway or it will spoil,” Viola said cheerily as she guided Manfred to his chair.
“I’m glad you were willing to help me with this. I know you aren’t fond of Chort.”
“For you, Red, any time. I can put up with that windbag for a while. Especially when these are on offer,” he said, plucking up one of the baby potatoes and popping it in his mouth before Viola could object.
Viola smiled. She was so glad to see Manfred acting his old self again that she gave in to a sudden urge and leaned over, kissing Manfred on the cheek. He was startled by the gesture and blushed a deep purple color.
Before Manfred could respond to the unexpected intimacy, they were interrupted by a rap at the door. Viola strode across the ro
om, but before she was half-way to the door, Chort opened it himself. He swept into the room, the walking stick at his side gleaming in the lamplight. He glanced around the room, his eyes momentarily drawn first to the overladen table, but quickly moving past it to Manfred. The two stared at each other for a long moment.
“Won’t you please join us?” Viola interjected, indicating a chair.
Chort looked away from Manfred. Without a word, he walked up to the empty chair and sat down, immediately proceeding to help himself to several heaping portions from the table.
“You should be more polite, when someone has clearly made such an effort,” Manfred said, his eyes glittering.
“It’s alright. I didn’t make it. Or put it here really. The cook organized all that. I just wanted to have a nice meal with you two is all.”
Chort tucked in to his meal. Manfred began filling his own plate, heaping tiny potatoes onto it. Viola, more comfortable now that they had both settled in, at least for the time being, took her seat. She helped herself to a portion of the beautiful tart, teased out a bite of fruit, and delicately nibbled at it. She was too nervous to help herself to much more. She put the remainder of the fruit down and delivered her first line from the script she and Manfred had worked out the day before.
“I imagine you two have a lot more in common than you think,” she said as nonchalantly as she could muster.
“He is djinn,” Chort said around a mouthful of food.
Manfred looked at her across the table and rolled his eyes.
“I would hope we’re slightly more polite at least. Certainly I’m more refined,” Manfred stated. Viola looked over at Manfred. Against the finery set out on the table, it was even more apparent that he was looking shabbier than in days past. It was obvious even from across the table that his once vibrant clothing was a little duller, that the gold threads in his elaborately embroidered tunic were fraying, and that his shoes had become so scuffed they no longer shone. Viola wondered if Manfred was cognizant of the change or if he was perhaps not thinking of his own present circumstances when he spoke, but more of how his people presented themselves generally.
“Your clothes say otherwise, djinn,” Chort replied.
Chort managed to pack a lot of condescension into the word “djinn,” as a rude lord might address a stable hand as “boy.” To Manfred’s credit, Viola thought, he did not rise to the bait, despite the flush that Viola was pretty sure crept up from his collar, his blue skin deepening to a purplish color again. Manfred didn’t respond immediately. Instead he took a moment to straighten his tunic, then cut a small slice of ham and daintily popped it into his mouth, as if to accentuate Chort’s absent manners.
This particular topic wasn’t included in the rough script Viola’s had worked out, but she decided to let it play out a bit. The djinn’s appearance was something that they had all noticed and, with some concern as to what it might signify, had discussed among themselves, just not to Manfred.
“Viola knows I’m normally much more attentive to my appearance, but circumstances being what they are, some compromises must be accepted. I’m sure you’ve felt the pull as well, god. It isn’t prudent for us to spend so much energy keeping ourselves impeccable, when we’re being limited by the impending war your people are preparing for. But perhaps you have not felt it. Perhaps have become so far removed from the gods you can no longer feel them.”
Chort was now the one who flushed.
“Pull?” Viola asked, unable to contain her curiosity.
To Viola’s surprise, Chort answered her.
“The pull he speaks of,” Chort said, unwilling to allow it to seem that the djinn was more conversant with godly affairs than he, “is the drawing of power back into the gods. Everything they have created, or have effect over, might feel it somewhat. Some things will feel it more than others, each to the degree they are wedded to the power. But even if you are not touched by the power of the gods, you might notice it. Temples will start to look as if they need repair, no longer appearing timeless. Golden statues in the image of the gods will lose their luster. And creatures created by the gods will begin to look and feel less magical. I of course do not feel it, because I am not a creation of the gods.”
Chort stared at Manfred, challenging him to refute anything he had stated. Manfred merely curled his fingers around his fork and stared at his plate.
“Manfred, will you be alright?” Viola asked.
“I will be fine. As I told you, Apsos did not only use his own power to create us, he took all the power of Xenor and put it into us. It’s really just an appearance thing. It doesn’t reflect my own power. I never used any power to look the way I do. No djinn did. We didn’t have too. We were just made that way. I can’t really change what I look like without a huge amount of effort. It’s… part of the curse I guess you’d call it.”
Manfred waved his hands over his body indicating his clothing.
“This is how Apsos wanted us to look when we left our cave. While in our cave, on the other hand, we appear dressed more shabbily. Apsos meant to convey some deep and meaningful message in that dichotomy, I’m sure, though my people have never really figured out what that message was supposed to be. Apsos might be one of the most powerful gods, but he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. I’m sure he thought his meaning was abundantly clear.”
Viola noted that at this insult to his father’s intelligence, Chort’s grip on his staff tightened, though he said nothing.
“Wait, when we first visited your cavern, you told us some council made you dress in the finery,” Viola said.
Chort snickered but Manfred managed to ignore him.
“I might have fibbed. I had just met you, after all. And… to be honest we aren’t particularly fond of pointing out all the ways we were screwed over by Apsos.”
Viola nodded understandingly before she asked her next question.
“Apsos built that cavern, too, then?” Viola asked, again wandering from their carefully planned conversation. She had intended this morning to be devoted to pumping Chort for information, but Manfred was offering her glimpses into the djinn’s history that he never had before, if he was indeed being truthful now, and she’d seen only things hinted at in many of the books in Callan’s substantial library.
“We assume he did. When we woke after he transformed us, we were above ground in the desolation that is modern Xenor. In all this finery,” Manfred said with a chuckle. “We didn’t pay too much attention to the state of our attire, given our surroundings, and then panic set in when we realized that fully half of us were missing. We were fair focused on looking everywhere for our sisters, daughters, wives and friends those first days following the change. It was during our search for them that we eventually stumbled upon the cave. I suppose it’s possible it could be natural. Or maybe it was just a place that Apsos scooped out a host of metals, gems, and minerals that went into our making. That’s also a possibility. Though he clearly had some sort of intention with it, as I said, we don’t wear these clothes down there. We can’t even change into new ones. Anything different we put on simply transforms into the same little plain clothes you saw when you were there.”
“You can’t change how you look at all?” Viola asked.
“I know. Seems right unfair, doesn’t it? All this power and I still can’t be a blonde after all,” Manfred smiled weakly at the lame joke. “Personally, I think Apsos believed allowing us to control our appearance would have defeated the purpose of this… punishment. If we could just appear however we wanted, then there would be no true penance for our hubris, as if losing all our loved ones wasn’t punishment enough. Though we can…for very short periods of time and with immense effort, revert to our human form.”
Manfred went quiet, staring into his wine goblet. His voice dropped in volume as he spoke the next words, pain lacing them unexpectedly.
“Another… punishment for us. We can be human long enough to regret no longer being human. Long enough to kno
w what our life could be like, if we had never made that bargain with Apsos, but not to enjoy it. Almost before we can settle into our old form, it is ripped from us all over again, denied to us until we are strong enough to try once more. Like some foul drug.”
Manfred’s face went dark. Viola could see there was something else that he was thinking about—something buried deep down that had harmed him dearly. She wanted to go to him and comfort him, but she knew she might not have the opportunity to talk with Chort again. She decided to push on, hoping she’d have another chance to pick this up with Manfred in private, and tried to steer the conversation back towards her real goal. She looked away from Manfred to find Chort staring at him with renewed interest.
“Well,” Viola began awkwardly turning the conversation back to her prepared remarks, “I guess what I meant was that you were alike because you are both, at least as far as I can tell, being ignored in this war. In my eyes, underestimated as well. I’m surprised with everything on the line as it is, that they haven’t courted every possible opportunity when it comes to allies. And you seem to be natural allies, as well. Since you,” she gestured with one hand, palm up, in Manfred’s direction, “have already thrown your lot in with us and we are, for better or worse, stuck with Timta. And you,” she mirrored the gesture with her other hand toward Chort, “I’m guessing would be on any side that is against your brother.” She brought her hands together, wondering if the theatrical gestures were a bit over the top.
Manfred and Viola had discussed the possibility Chort wouldn’t know that the other djinn had thrown in with Oshia. Viola was hopeful Chort would speak up. If he objected to Viola’s inference that Manny, and by extension the djinn, had sided with Timta, it meant Chort was in contact with at least some of the gods. If Chort went along with their assertion, Viola would know that he was out of the loop for sure, which would be a great relief for all of them. Chort finished chewing a rather large chunk of potato and swallowed it hungrily before chiming in.