by Remi Michaud
He accelerated. He followed the road and it followed a river, a wide swath of blue that seemed even from that height to flow with a purpose, to be alive. Another great city, this one much, much larger than the last, spreading for miles, biting deep into the natural, into the true and good, with its stone death and its human infection. And on he went, faster and faster, over lands that were so green that emeralds would have wept with envy, so full of life that he could scarce believe it.
Villages like pricks of a thorn passed, farms and another great swath of forest passed, and then he passed over two towns, tiny from his vantage, that flanked each side of the great river. Beyond the towns, the river spread, grew, widened until it was a great inland sea, as if the towns themselves choked the river. It was a sea so calm that a perfect twin of the sun glared back at him.
The world tilted suddenly; common sense told him that he should slide eastward as though he was on a steep hill and could not keep his footing, but instead he turned left—west. The oddness confused him, nauseated him. He had never paid much attention to the ways of birds. Except as a meal, they were useless to him.
He flew for a time longer along the northern shore over another verdant swath of trees until he spied a bit of brown-gray nestled against the edge of a cliff that tumbled into the living sea. As he began to descend, he realized that he was aiming straight for the brown-gray. Soon, it resolved itself into a town of its own—no, not a town, a compound, a...monastery? He had heard of such complexes but he had never seen one before.
He slowed, saw a long building that kinked in the center so it reminded him of breaking a piece of wood over a knee. A spire rose from the center, a needle that stabbed the sky. He dropped further, and fast too. So fast the world turned to a blur, so fast he thought certain he would be dashed against the flagstones below. His guts roiled like a butter churn—which was strange to him. Did he have guts where he was? But at the last second his descent slowed and leveled off, and he flew to one of many windows set into the pale brown walls.
He flew into the window and all movement stopped so that he seemed to hover in the center of the sparsely furnished room: a cot, more like a pallet on flimsy wooden legs, a bookshelf—almost empty, except for one black book whose title he could not make out but that seemed to almost glow—and a couple of plain chairs around a wooden table. The only color in the room was a too-bright rug with silly geometric patterns in the southern style that covered the center of the floor.
As he hovered, he turned until he faced the door that presumably led to the rest of the main building. Just as his eyes focused on the door, it opened and a man strode in. Tall, very tall, muscular, with dark blond or light brown hair, the man stopped and his brow furrowed. Eighteen, or maybe nineteen turnings old, thought Gixen. Young. The young man scanned the room as though he was trying to find something though there was not much to see. He took two paces toward the cot and turned again, his head swiveling, then he stepped to the desk where he froze. His back stiffened as though he had just heard unpleasant news. Slowly he turned until he seemed to be facing Gixen and though Gixen knew it was not possible, the man's eyes, blue like the afterimage of lightning, seemed to focus on his own and he frowned.
“That is my prize,” his master whispered and Gixen shivered. “That is who you will bring to me.”
* * *
Throughout the spring and summer, industry hummed like well oiled machinery. Harvests were abundant, trade was brisk. The land was blanketed with an air of single-minded attention to work. The people smiled and gossiped and traded and worked together as always but there was an underlying edge as though all understood there were portentous events occurring that would change their lives in ways yet unknown, like an earthquake brewing just beneath the surface.
And the rumors spread as rumors do, like an infestation.
Chapter 2
Jurel had wondered for months what it would be like at the Abbey. Kurin and Mikal had told him stories of course, but the stories differed so drastically, they could have been describing two entirely different places. Kurin, being an adherent of Valsa, the Goddess of Healing, spoke of quiet days in study and meditation. He spoke of the joy and fulfillment inherent in the healing of the ill and the injured. He took on a dreamy quality as he reminisced of days spent poring over texts and tomes devoted to understanding physiology and the various ways to keep each part of the body running smoothly. Mikal, on the other hand, being a follower of the god of war—Jurel, as fate would have it—was a warrior, a swordmaster, and commander of the entire martial arm of the Salosian Order. His stories of life at the Abbey tended to be more...dramatic, involving weapons and action in lieu of meditation. Jurel had not been quite sure what to expect.
As it turned out, the Abbey was rather a dull place. Or, at least, so it seemed to Jurel. Upon arrival some few weeks back, the haggard party was met by a large delegation headed by Abbott Goromand. There had been plenty of bowing and flowery speeches welcoming Jurel to this humble place. Jurel had painted a smile on his face and thanked everyone for their graciousness and hospitality. Goromand had attempted humor: “Of course. It's not every day one gets to play host to a god!” The key word being attempted.
After Jurel attended the necessary grand welcoming feast as guest of honor (by the end of which he had found it nearly physically impossible to maintain his wooden smile), he had been assigned rooms. The Abbott himself had proudly informed him that he would be vacating his own chambers for Jurel's use. Jurel had demurred. He had no desire to displace anyone. Though Goromand had insisted, Jurel continued to decline, asking for only a bed and a table. Disgruntled, Goromand had ordered his subordinates to return his furniture to his chambers.
Once he was settled in his cozy little room, which consisted of a small but comfortable bed, a simple yet sturdy table, a bookshelf filled with dozens of titles ranging from simple treatises on farming techniques to more esoteric subjects (like the one that purported to discuss trigonometric considerations in kinetic manifestations of arcanum—even the title gave him a headache), and a thick, expensive rug from Kashya, he had settled into a rut very quickly.
For the first few days, he had wandered the compound aimlessly, sometimes joining in with the sparring soldiers under Mikal's sharp eye, or lending a hand to the construction crews who were rebuilding the southern face of the Abbey. The latter had not lasted long; as soon as word of his identity spread to the construction crews, they refused to let him so much as lift a finger, horrified at the very notion. As if he had not carried a ton of stone just the day before. They had begged his forgiveness while fawning at his feet.
Fawning! At his feet! Honestly! After he had demanded for the fifth time that they stop treating him like a crystal vase—and after he had been ignored for the fifth time—he had stormed away, utterly disgusted.
Goromand and several of the chaplains had subsequently tried to engage him in discourse. On one such occasion, he had happened upon them while they were discussing philosophy and had asked Jurel's opinion on some of the finer points of theology. Jurel had stared blankly at them, understanding approximately one word in three that they spoke.
That was when things went from aimless to mind-numbing. He soon discovered that a tutor had been assigned to teach him everything from languages, to history, mathematics, alchemy, theology, and arcanum. The discovery of his new tutor came early one morning when the sun had barely peeked over the horizon; a timid knock at the door woke him. When he grumpily swung his door open, there stood a gaunt man of middle age and little hair, fidgeting at a large tome he carried while constantly pushing little round spectacles back up the bridge of his nose and restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot.
The brother bowed with bird-like tics and jerks, smiled nervously, adjusted his spectacles, and introduced himself as Brother Andrus. He was a devotee of Maora and had been selected—much to his deep honor, he assured Jurel—to be the one to expand Jurel's education.
That first morning, Ju
rel had slammed the door in Andrus's face and went back to bed.
Later, he had been visited by Kurin who had suggested it might be for the best if Jurel knew a little more about the world. Jurel had heard the rebuke in the gently spoken words, but he had argued nonetheless. What more did he need to know? He could tie his own laces, he could handle a sword, he was even a passing fair reader. Kurin had simply stared at him dolefully. He sighed, and agreed not to slam the door in Andrus's face again.
Now, weeks later, Jurel sat staring out his window into the verdant fields beyond the Abbey proper. In the distance, a band of ragged children silently gamboled under the smiling sun. Behind him, sitting at his table, Andrus continued to prattle on about some obscure mathematical principal. Jurel did not listen. He did not hear the silence that suddenly filled the space behind him as he watched the sunbathed vista that spread before him.
“Will you please pay attention, milord?”
“Hmm?”
Jurel turned, realizing belatedly that he had stopped paying attention some time ago, and focused on Andrus.
“I'm sorry Andrus. My mind wandered. What did you say?”
Andrus sighed and ran his fingers nervously through the thin gray wisps that remained of his hair and resettled his spectacles on his nose.
“You must pay attention, milord. I know this is boring to you but it would behoove you to face the world with knowledge.”
“I know Andrus. It's just-”
“You are a god-” his eyes flickered as he said this; Jurel wondered what that meant, “-and perhaps that means the knowledge I impart is useless to you-”
“No, it's not-”
“-but I think you must start somewhere. I know we are mere mortals and we must seem so small to you, but we are doing the best we can, milord.”
If anyone else had said that, Jurel might have suspected sarcasm. But he knew Andrus well enough by now to realize that sarcasm simply did not exist in his nature.
Jurel sighed and raised his hands placatingly. “Andrus, it's not that. I'm not bored because this is beneath me. You've taught me so much and I am grateful for it. It's just a beautiful day out there and I want to go do something. Use my hands, work, maybe spar a little in the yards. That's all. I'm sorry.”
Andrus sniffed. “Perhaps if you paid closer attention, these lessons would go more quickly and you could get out earlier.”
Maybe Andrus was capable of a little sarcasm after all.
* * *
Much of what he did at the Abbey that summer was boring. But he needed it. He needed to keep himself occupied. If he did not, then his thoughts inevitably turned to the spring just past and his time at the temple in Threimes. And Daved.
I love you son...
He simply did not have the necessary defenses to keep that memory from driving him mad.
I love you too, father.
He had to keep busy.
Chapter 3
There was one thing to be said about Brother Andrus: he was persistent. He was also a fidgety, prissy little man who knew a great deal about everything—and knew it—which only made sense; after all, he was a devotee of Maora. The area where Andrus did not seem to have any knowledge whatsoever was on how to be interesting. He had the singular ability of rendering even the most interesting of subjects to a procession of raw facts that were so dry they puffed dust. Jurel had never known anyone to have the ability to cause suffocation with mere words.
But by the gods, he was persistent.
Every day, over the last month, at some point during the interminable lessons, Andrus would shut his massive tome with an authoritative clump, adjust his spectacles, and say, “Now Jurel, we turn to the subject of arcanum.”
At which point Jurel would inevitably groan.
Andrus's monotonous drone that day, a thorough dissertation comparing various political ideologies, petered out and he shut his tome. Pushing his spectacles up, he said, “Now Jurel, we turn to the subject of arcanum.”
And, as always, Jurel groaned.
Arcanum, Andrus explained, was simply a process by which humans tapped the power of the gods. Through meditation and devotion, a person could connect to his or her patron god. A sort of conduit is created—the exact nature of which was unknown but there were several groups working on theories, Andrus assured him—through which a limited amount of arcane power flowed.
“And what exactly is this arcane power then?” asked Jurel, interested despite the dry bird chirp tone in which Andrus spoke.
Andrus hesitated. “We are not entirely certain. We know what it can do. We know how to use it, but we cannot say exactly what it is. Like the conduits, the power itself is being studied by many.”
“Any theories?”
Andrus adjusted his spectacles and shrugged. “Some believe it is the power of the gods. Some believe it is more than that. The latter group believe that it is the power of the universe itself and the gods are embodiments of various aspects of that universe—life, death, knowledge and so on. The arcane power that we tap, therefore, would be a miniscule fraction of the universe's power, filtered through various levels and delivered to us through a constricted vessel for our use.”
Andrus gazed in consternation at Jurel. “This is why I have difficulty understanding your recent inability to touch your power, Jurel. All things considered, it should be as natural for you as, say, walking.”
“Yet I can't.”
“So it would seem.”
They stared mutely at each other across the table for a moment before Andrus shifted. Adjusting his spectacles, he said, “Right then. We will try. This time, I want you to really concentrate.”
As if Jurel had not the previous dozen times they had tried this.
“Now Jurel, open your mind. Let me in.”
Jurel had never understood this part of the process. It was something that Andrus always did but Jurel had never been entirely comfortable with it. It always felt like an invasion to have another muddling about in his thoughts. Up until now he had kept his curiosity to himself but Andrus was there to teach him after all.
“Why?”
“Why what?” Andrus looked nonplussed.
“Why do I have to open my mind? Why do you have to join with me?”
Adjusting his spectacles, Andrus said, “Two reasons. Number one, it facilitates your connection. I know what I am doing and can guide you. Number two, I can help you avoid the hazards.”
“Hazards?”
“Well, yes.” Andrus gave him an astonished look. “Do you not know of them?”
Jurel glared back flatly. “No. It would seem my tutor neglected to mention them to me.”
“Well...I...well.”
Andrus began pacing the small room, adjusting his spectacles as he went. After gathering his thoughts, he stopped and spun to face Jurel.
“I apologize. It seems I have been remiss. I should have been more diligent in my duties.” He sighed. “Yes, there are hazards when one seeks out his source. The human mind is filled with pitfalls and traps that vary in seriousness. Some will do no more than cause your concentration to fray and keep you from tapping your power. Others are much more serious. If you stray off the proper path, you may be driven mad, or even sent into a deep sleep from which there is no waking. I believe the Valsans call it 'coma'.”
Jurel leaned back with a sour smirk. “Sounds like fun.”
“That is why a novice always has an experienced teacher for guidance.”
Andrus resumed his seat. “Now, open your mind.”
With a sigh, Jurel closed his eyes. It had taken him a week to figure this out; opening one's mind is harder than it sounds. But it came easier with each success.
Soon, he felt Andrus's familiar presence floating beside his consciousness.
“Remember Jurel: concentrate.”
He steeled himself and allowed himself to float in his own mind. He searched. He knew what to look for; they had done this many times. Ahead of him, shining in the distance w
as what appeared to be a star. Jurel fixed his sight upon the star and moved slowly forward.
As always, it was a difficult process. He felt as though he was being buffeted by gale winds as he slowly clawed his way toward the shining beacon. Memories and emotions roiled like storm tossed sea currents threatening to blow him off course. Voices whispered from the darkness—
I love you son...
—causing him to tremble. There was incredible pressure here as though a mountain was pressing down on him. He was sweating from exertion, gasping burning air, though his body had not moved a muscle.
“Steady, Jurel. Steady.”
Jurel inched forward, the shining star growing slowly. So slowly. Images began to form before his eyes, the whispers becoming more insistent, more cutting.
Valik, a hate filled expression: You're a coward Jurel! A useless pig shit coward!
Jurel turned away and pushed his way forward.
Erin, beautiful blue eyes dulled by hurt: You left me Jurel. Why did you leave me?
I didn't! I didn't want to!
“Ignore it Jurel. It's not real.”
Again he turned away and pushed forward.
But he was not yet finished. As the light grew in his mind's eye, another image flashed before him. He stopped short and stared in horror at the visage that emerged. Blunt, rugged features framed piercing hawk-like eyes.
No. No, not you.
I love you son...
The severe expression softened, a smile spread across the blunt features. Jurel drifted closer. His horror was splintering. In the cracks was a happiness he had not known he was able to feel. The form of Daved materialized, expanding until he was fully there. Daved reached out a hand.
Father, I...
I'm here son. I've always been here.
Father...
“...rel! Jurel! Come back! You must not touch...”
Jurel brushed away the annoying buzzing noise and began to reach his hand forward. He smiled.