by M. Bennardo
“You certainly have gone to a great deal of trouble to welcome me.” Chaladon indicated the house, Tharin, Lia. “Why?”
The White Queen tipped her head. “The one I serve wished me to greet you.”
“The one you serve?”
The strange woman blinked, sheathes of marble sliding down over those crystal blue eyes. “Perhaps you will meet her in time.”
Chaladon did not need to touch her pendant to know that this woman was magic; the aura around her was almost visible to the naked eye. She was the source of everything here... the town, everything. Whether a spell, or a thought projection, Chaladon could not say. The Fire Veil warmed in her hands; the sparkle of the golden threads woven into the fabric deepened. She could feel the thing stirring in her mind, beginning to come awake.
“Why? Why... this?” Her eyes went to Tharin. A warm, painful heat flared in her chest.
“Can you not guess, Chaladon the Last?” The words could have been taunting, had they not been utterly emotionless. “Your quest to stop the Ever-storm—the chaos at the center of the world. You seek to defeat the End.” She paused. “In the early days, you and your friends posed no threat. You were young, naïve, untutored—and the dissolution was too far entrenched. And you did as much damage as you attempted to prevent. The Tower of Shalott; the Clock of the Long Now; the Clockwork Horse; the Phantom Train.... You spread destruction and chaos wherever you went.” Her eyes shifted, as if she were looking beyond the world to something else. Chaladon for the first time noticed the shadows clinging to her, like trailing cobwebs of darkness.
“It was much to our surprise when the two of you struck down the third at the Clock of the Long Now. When your remaining companion turned aside in the Garden of Forking Paths, we thought you would not continue. It seemed evident that you too must falter; that you would not succeed in undoing the damage the first Chaladon had done.”
Those crystal eyes remained remote, expressionless.
“We never thought you would come this far. Yet we are pleased at last to meet you.”
The White Queen did not smile; yet there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice. Chaladon herself was reeling.
“We are not cruel,” the White Queen went on. “We seek to give you happiness in your measure.” She gestured with a pure white arm. “We offer you the life you would have had, if you had not chosen to follow your quest across the centuries.”
Chaladon stared at her. The Fire Veil seemed to burn. “I don’t understand,” she said... but she did. So well it frightened her.
“Rest here, Chaladon.” The White Queen’s voice fell like silvery spring rain. “Find peace here, with the mate of your heart. You can wed Tharin, and grow old together, like Bakkis and Phylam in the tales, transformed into twined saplings at the end of their lives. You can watch your daughter grow to womanhood and have children of her own. You can found a new crèche, see your art continue—and end your days surrounded by those who love you. Yes, you will have turned aside from your path—but this path was never your choice, was it? Chalise, your Linemistress, pushed you and Chalira and Chaläestra out into the world, dazzled you with dreams of glory before you even knew what you wanted.... Yet such dreams are the province of youth. Now you know what glory really is.”
“Empty....” Something was caught in Chaladon’s throat. Her eyes stung; she watched the frozen images of Tharin, of Lia, double and treble. “Lonely....”
“Lonely. Yes.” The White Queen sounded as if she had no knowledge of loneliness; somehow, that inhuman chill made her words bite deeper than compassion could have. “You have traveled a hard road, Chaladon. Leave it for another, for whoever chooses to come after you. You have done your share, and more....”
Tharin stood, perfect and timeless, caught in a shaft of sunlight; Lia, her lips parted, one hand upraised. My husband. My daughter.... Triune Goddess, she wanted.... “But it—This—” She had to clear her throat. “But this isn’t real. It wouldn’t be....”
“It is as real as you want it to be—as real as your dreams, as real as your longing. That you longed to stay was evident in every word you spoke to Tharin. It is evident now, in the way you watch him, though you know that he is an illusion. Follow your heart, for once in this life. Stay here, in this bright dream we have made for you, and at last, find happiness.”
Chaladon swallowed. “But I would know.... I would always know....”
“You would know what you allowed yourself to know, no more. If you decide to accept this dream, then in time it will become your reality. Stay here, and within a year, two, it will be the pain of your old life that seems like a dream. Go no further, Chaladon. Stay here. Stay.”
The words echoed like the tolling of a bell, calling forth an almost unbearable yearning. Tears filled her eyes as the White Queen’s voice caressed her.
Ah, Triune, illusion though it was, she wanted this, more than anything she had ever known. Was it not as the White Queen said, that if she accepted this, it would become her reality? The love you feel for Tharin... that is real, and so he is real. She watched Tharin and Lia blur and shimmer, sparkling apart into liquid drops of color. In that moment, she could see it all just as the White Queen had described it: all that would be hers if only she turned aside. Why should it be up to her? Hadn’t she sacrificed enough?
What had this quest brought her but pain and grief? It was true, what the White Queen said—the destruction left in her wake. Did she really think she was bringing good and not evil into the world? After Shalott? After—?
Is this what you felt, Chalira? In the Garden of Forking Paths?
For an eternity, she hovered on the cusp of decision. The White Queen’s eyes watched her, crystal blue and endlessly deep. Triune, she ached....
She drew a breath, gazing at Tharin and at Lia. She started to speak—
—then swung the Fire Veil up over her head.
It crackled to life in her hands, the quiescent presence within it leaping up hungrily, and became a sheet of flame. For the first time, the White Queen showed emotion: she took a step back, uncertainty entering those crystal eyes.
“I won’t.”
The Deep Dance flowed through Chaladon’s body as the fabric flowed through the air: unfolding, blooming outward through her limbs until it met the power embedded in the Fire Veil. She swept it through a fluttering, flaming arc, and fire lashed out.
“Tharin is dead.” A lance of flames struck the man who should have been her husband, the man she’d loved, the man she’d left, and he burst apart into a thousand glistening shards.
“Challia doesn’t exist.” Another lance, and the daughter she had never borne was reduced to a pile of fragments.
“All of this can never be.” The veil swept and roared around her, flames stoking flames, surging into a maelstrom. The power was flooding through her now, and as swiftly as fire, her own emotions flashed into rage. She wanted to burn it all, all—the town, the lying forms that were not her husband, not her daughter, the coolly hateful face of the White Queen. Chaläestra, for forcing her dance-sisters to kill her. Chalira, for leaving Chaladon alone to follow this cold and hateful road. Chalise, for sending the three of them out, knowing that they could never return. Chaladon the First, the founder of her line, for—so the legends said—challenging the Triune at dancing, and thus loosing the Ever-storm on the world. Ah, her rage mounted higher and higher; the inferno roared in her ears. The house was gone, a mass of flames. Heat howled at her from all sides, clutching at her with greedy claws, but wrapped as she was in the heart of the dance, she felt none of it; nor did she feel the tears that blurred her vision. There was only the raw fury inside her.
“Never!” she raged, seeing only the flames themselves. “No.”
The flames climbed up, up, striking into the sky; and through the blaze, the barrier surrounding the town gradually became visible, called into existence by Chaladon’s will. Tongues of fire beat against the barrier; it shimmered, weakening. She could sense it,
a solid wall, blocking her power—both that of the dance and that of the Fire Veil—and it fueled her wrath. She hurled her strength against it, smashing into it as waves smashed upon the shore. The barrier went with a deafening, rolling roar that seemed to shake the earth to its foundations, jarring Chaladon so that she missed a step.
And then, the fire was gone. Not even ashes were left.
* * *
Chaladon reeled in sudden exhaustion. It was always the way, after a great exertion of power; one never felt the cost until the dance was over. She staggered, caught her balance with the grace of long training. The Fire Veil subsided, once again simply a piece of fabric. Trembling, she tried to catch her breath.
Nothing beside remained. Around her, in every direction, the lone and level wastes stretched far away. There was not so much as a scrap of board or nail to prove that the town had ever existed: emptiness surrounded her—rocky soil, with tangles of scrub brush and wiregrass as the only break in the brown land between the boulders and stony outcroppings.
Above her, the rift in the sky loomed.
The Fire Veil hung, wilted, in her hands. As if in a dream, she wound it around herself again, knotting it at the back of her neck. Her eyes went over and over the vast barrens, searching for any sign, any trace of the life that had been there before.
Did I dream it? Or... did I destroy it? It would be fitting if she had. They had destroyed so much else.
The words of the White Queen echoed in her mind: You spread destruction and chaos wherever you went. She shivered, cold, under the scarred and screaming sky.
Perhaps... she should turn back.
But she could not. The world that she had known was long dead. Only the road ahead still lay open.
Find me, Chaladon. Chaladon the Ninth. Chaladon the Last. Find me there, at the Edge of the World....
Chaladon the Ninth, last of the Deep Dancers, woman out of time, took a long breath. She tightened her veil and checked the balance of her sword on her back. She saw that her pack lay at her sandaled feet; she picked it up and settled it across her shoulders. A glance at the sun showed her the direction. She positioned it on her right side, then swept her gaze one last time over the nothingness around her. The town... her husband... her daughter.... Gone.
Yet the quest remained.
She took a moment to clear her head, then set out: a long, firm, distance-eating stride that had carried her across miles and centuries.
Onward.
Copyright © 2013 Dana Beehr
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Dana Beehr has a degree in anthropology and has been writing since she was in high school. “Dreams of Peace” is her second published short story. She currently lives with her husband in Southern Michigan.
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COVER ART
“News from the Horizon,” by Tuomas Korpi
Tuomas Korpi is an illustrator, production designer, and matte painter from Finland. He has worked in the entertainment and advertising industry since 2005, including the last three years as an illustrator, designer, and visual director at Studio Piñata, a Helsinki-based animation and illustration studio. In his work he aims to combine the vivid impressionistic style and lighting with digital media and environment design. He likes to think of his personal works as frames from yet-to-be-made movies that leave the viewer space for their own imagination. See more of his work at tuomaskorpi.com.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1076
Published by Firkin Press,
a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization
Copyright © 2013 Firkin Press
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