by Ren Garcia
The dais went up and up about a hundred feet more and stopped. High overhead, the pointed ceiling of the Silver Temple was far away, indistinct. Soft white light shined down from it. He could hear muffled thuds coming from outside.
Davage looked down. He was about fifteen hundred feet from the ground. The dais, getting slightly bigger with each step, continued down until it reached the floor. There was some sort of glittering silver lake down there. Everything else on the ground level was covered in dense mist. Ahead in the distance, poking out of the thick blanket of mist, was a thin silver spire almost as tall as the dais itself, adorned with blinking lights. Syg's temple was certainly colossal in size. He thought to Sight it, but his eyes were so tired. He'll Sight it later.
He could see the tall Black Hat lying still on the steps of the dais about fifty feet down. He checked his pocket—yes the squishy, dirty hand was still there. He found a handkerchief in another pocket, wrapped the hand, and put it back—oh the things he was subjecting himself to for these Black Hats. Bethrael was near her, about sixty feet down. She was crumpled up in a little ball.
He went to go down and collect them. Something splashed as he stepped.
He was standing in a shallow silver stream—silver flowed past his boots and continued down to the silver lake far below. He knelt down and dipped his fingers into the silver. It was warm, slightly bubbly to the touch. Just like Syg's Silver tech that night in her quarters.
He looked up; the stream appeared to be originating at the top of the dais.
He carefully made his way up, splashing as he went. As he approached the top, he could see somebody standing there—somebody with arms outstretched. This must be where Syg used to sit when she was a Black Hat. Sygillis of Metatron … Hammer. Here, alone at the top of this dais is where she sat for years in smothering darkness. He recalled the image of her he'd Sighted from outside: evil, eyes glittering …
Here she was a heartless murderer. Here she committed crimes. Here she was a monstrous, terrible Black Hat snared in an endless nightmare …
Here she sat, dreaming of a light in the dark. His light, she had said as she touched his eyes. Here she dreamed of him. He thought of Countess Monama, the huge woman in black who had been concerned about him, who had told him of what was waiting, and how he had given her no proper regard or thanks. She had been right all along; she had seen this place true enough.
He got his CARG unsaddled and continued.
He got to the top.
It was Syg standing there—an image of her, perfect in every detail, with the exception that it was silver. She had her head thrown back a bit, eyes closed, hair tossed in an unfelt breeze, mouth open in a bright smile. She was even wearing her favorite Hospitaler bodysuit and shawl. She was even shoeless …
It was a good Syg, a happy Syg … the one that he loved.
Loved …
He had never told her how he felt, how she had taken control of his soul. Perhaps he liked the attention and fuss she made over him. Perhaps it was flattering to be coy, to be pursued by such a beautiful, interesting, loving, and yes, slightly dangerous lady. He knew she wouldn't try to kill him or anything of a sort … but her temper was certainly spectacular, certainly something to behold. It was all part of the package—part of what made Syg Syg.
Here she was, an image of the Syg he loved. Where once there was evil, good now prevailed.
Her hands were open, palms up. Silver, in a slow but steady stream, gurgled from her hands. It splashed to the dais and continued down.
As he stared at the image, he thought he could hear sounds coming from far below, a collage of talking and chanting, hammering, and animal noises all mixed together, like the strange, confused murmurings carried on a night wind.
He went back down and collected the Black Hats. He checked Bethrael, making sure she hadn't been injured further in the fall. She appeared no worse off than before.
He continued until he got to the bottom. There was a broad silver pool surrounding the dais. It was about fifty feet from the edge of the pool to the dais and about three feet deep. It was fed from the small but steady flow coming from high above.
Carrying both Black Hats, he splashed through the silver.
He couldn't see the distant edges of the temple; he was in dense mist hanging on the ground that he'd seen from above. Wincing, eyes tired, he Sighted through.
In the distance he could see a dense cluster of buildings laid all around the perimeter of the temple near the walls … all huddled under the whitish light coming from high above. The buildings seemed to bear distinct differences in make and workmanship. He could see some that were barely huts—thrown together crudely. Others were better built, changing from small shack to lodge to house to ornate modern structure—all composed of pure, stainless silver. The spire he Sighted rose up out of a gothic, cathedral-like structure.
He could see a mass of people moving toward him, coming through the mist. They moved easily, like they assumed that they were sneaking up on him. They, perhaps, thought that the mist covered them.
He set the Black Hats down carefully.
"Identify yourselves, please," he said in a clear, loud voice, which, in the cavernous open space of the temple, reverberated back to him amplified.
They were clearly startled. They jumped and bustled about in the mist.
They leveled weapons of some sort at him.
"I wish you no harm and am eager to avoid any conflicts here. However, if attacked, I shall defend myself and these two whom I protect."
Slowly, cautiously, the people emerged from the mist.
They were all rather large, fit people, the men being tall and stronglooking, the women a bit shorter and slender. They wore armored garments fashioned from silver. They wore large silver helmets that went all the way down to the middle of their backs. The helmets covered their eyes—lensed goggles were built into the front giving them a rather bug-eyed look. They carried long silver weapons, like thick spears. His Sight told him they crackled with energy within.
Some of the men were mounted on huge, bizarre-looking silver creatures. They looked aquatic of a sort, seal-like, standing on large bent flippers, easily fifteen feet tall. Davage recalled seeing them high above the temple, flying.
The creatures had a solemn, almost intelligent look on their whiskered, seal-like faces.
"Who are you?" one of the men asked cautiously.
"I am Captain Davage, Lord of Blanchefort. Well met. And you are …"
The man hesitated, then: "Durman, the Silverian, of the Silver Realm."
One of the women leveled her weapon at Davage. "You are a liar!" She pushed her helmet up and out of her face. "Drusilla am I! Maiden of the Silver Pool," she said. "Captain Davage is of our lore. Captain Davage of the Golden Sword is beloved of our Mother and is a god!"
"Sygillis you mean, your mother. Yes, I know Sygillis, and yes … I do love her as well."
The people seemed shocked. They muttered amongst themselves.
"Yet you are not a god, but living man," Drusilla said.
Davage put his CARG down and leaned on it. "Yes, well determined."
One of the seal creatures came forward and spoke in a strong, clear voice. "And," it said, "you carry two Black Hat females with you." He paused, as if for effect. "Carahil am I. I will point out that it is they who attack us, kill us, breach our walls, give us no pause, and hold us to the ground. You claim to protect them; therefore, you must be our enemy."
"I am not. I fought these Black Hats beyond the walls of this temple, and I defeated them in fair combat. Now, I intend to save them, to turn them from the darkness … as I did for Sygillis, your Mother. She too was a Black Hat, right in this very temple."
The crowd became angry, restless.
"Liar!"
"Fiend!"
"Blasphemer!" they cried.
They advanced a bit, and Davage raised his CARG. It glinted in the light.
They stopped and looked at the weapon, at i
ts coppery surface. It was, other than Davage's blue uniform and hair and the Black Hat's red robes and black gloves, the only color other than silver in sight.
"You bear a weapon from our lore. The color is true," Durman said.
"'Tis as I have said."
"Then, sir, prove it! Prove who you say you are!" Carahil the seal said.
"How so?"
"Our Mother's image, atop the sacred mountain. It is said she will move when her love approaches."
"Yes, yes, she will move," others repeated.
"Folklore?" Davage said. "Folklore is not an accurate method of testing."
"She will move if you are who you say you are."
"And if your folklore is in error and she does not move?"
"Then, regrettably, you will die."
Davage laughed. "I hardly think you here have the means to kill me, when all the hordes outside could not."
"Then why not submit to the test, if we cannot harm you?"
"Will you swear you will not harm the Black Hats? Will you swear to that?"
They looked at each other for a moment.
"Yes, we will swear not to harm the Black Hats until you fail the test," Drusilla said.
Davage thought about it for a moment. He figured, should this situation go bad, that he could Waft down and defend them quickly enough.
"I will agree, then."
The men brought one of the seal-creatures forward.
"Please, you may ride Carahil to the top. It is a long climb on foot."
Davage mounted the creature. It had the same feel to it as Syg's Silver tech. Silver tech flowed through his huge, powerful body.
He set his flippers and soon Dav was aloft, carried high. Two other creatures accompanied him, both mounted by armed men. They circled the top of the dais.
Davage hopped off in the airy heights.
"Off you go," Carahil said. "I'm truly sorry—I have no wish to be your enemy. You seem a good person to me."
"Have a bit of faith, I have learned that sometimes faith is enough."
Davage approached the statue of Syg.
She stood there, still smiling, still happy. Not moving.
"You expect something to happen, do you?" Davage asked from the heights.
"You claim to be Davage of Blanchefort, you tell us!" one of the men shouted back.
He stood next to the image, his boots in the flowing silver.
Nothing, she didn't move.
"You, sir, are a liar! Our Mother does not move!" one of the mounted men said.
"Have a care," Davage replied. "The test is not yet over."
Davage had a thought. He stepped forward, reached out, and touched the image, his hand on her cheek.
And she moved; she moved her head a bit, nestling it into his hand. She sighed audibly.
"She moves!" one of the men shouted down, nearly falling off of his mount. "For the Ages … She moves!"
Davage felt a tear come to his eye. He missed Syg so. Without thinking about it, he embraced her as he normally did.
And the image embraced him back, her silver flowing down his coat.
Carahil joined Davage atop the dais and rearing up, began joyously making an "Earp! Earp! Earp!" sound.
A cheer and a clamor erupted from below.
Weeping, Dav looked the image in her silver eyes. "I love you, Syg …" he said.
The image blossomed into a huge smile and tenderly held him by the chin, catching his tears. She kissed him on the cheek; her silver lips were warm.
Other seals came up to soar in the heights. Mounted men shouted with glee and waved their weapons in the air. Men and women bounded up the stairs to witness this event … this miracle.
Perhaps their prayers had been answered after all. Perhaps there was hope.
11
DRUSILLA
They brought Davage down from the dais in a clatter of armor and adulation. It was something of a dangerous, jostling trip as the Silver People struggled to see him, to touch him, to touch a god. If one were to fall off the dais, it was a long way down.
Davage insisted the Silver People take care of the Black Hats, and they responded without hesitation. They did what they could for Bethrael. They set her arm with silver splints and were concerned about her head. Her temple continued to hemorrhage. Here, as with the League, the medical arts were somewhat neglected, since the ElderKind were engineered to be healthy. They could not stop her bleeding; the clock was still ticking. She needed a Hospitaler and soon.
For the tall Black Hat, they bound her in Silver, where she sat quiet, broken, and empty without the dark thing within her.
Soon, he was whisked into one of their elaborate structures.
He was led to a silver room, the floor covered with thick silver rugs. Durman and Drusilla came in with him.
They bade him sit and then began removing pieces of their armor, Davage assumed they were wishing to make themselves comfortable. He was amazed, shocked even, as they continued removing items of armor and clothing until they were down to stark naked. They wore nothing but jeweled silver necklaces.
Apparently, a few old Hulgismen traditions died hard, he mused.
They both flopped down on the rugs and sighed.
"Will you free yourself of your clothing, Captain, and be comfortable?" Drusilla asked.
Davage sat down. "No, no, I am at ease, thank you."
Free of their silver raiments, Davage again was shocked: the pair of them were the spitting image of Syg—red hair, green eyes, large nose—it was all there. Drusilla, in her nakedness—the nape of the breasts, the turn of the hip—could have been Syg, with the exception that she was a bit taller and had no Shadowmark.
"You are the image of your Mother," Dav finally said, composing himself.
Drusilla smiled. "Truly?"
Indeed. I'll be seeing her again soon, if all goes well. You can see her as well. It will be like looking in a mirror. I am certain she will like that."
Drusilla and Durman looked at each other, and their faces grew dark.
"Have I said something wrong?" Davage asked.
"We need to share some things with you, sir, if you will hear us."
"I am yours. Please proceed."
"We have much to tell you, though I will try to be brief," Drusilla said. "I shall skip through the usual lore and legends. We know that we once existed in this place as mindless creatures—that this place was once dark as pitch. We scrabbled about in the dark, and our mother sat atop what is now the silver mountain. She was a demon, evil and terrible, and we lived in fear of her. We were her slaves, and she killed us at her whim."
"And then?"
"And then she left, she went away, and the darkness parted and all became as you see now. Our Mother returned to the mountain a short time later, became silver, and she bled the sacred blood—our life's blood."
"Can you tell us what happened when our Mother left? Do you have any knowledge in that area?" Durman asked.
Davage smiled. "You're doing fine so far. What do your stories tell you?"
Drusilla spoke up. "They say our Mother went out one day to do evil, and the Lord of Swords—yourself—saw her from heaven and fell in love with her, even though she was evil and heartless.
"And the Lord—you—dragged her, screaming, into heaven and tried to turn her. At first she would not listen, she wanted to kill the Lord, but you were kind and patient. You looked at her with your glowing eyes and the darkness in her soul fell away. Our Mother became good, and she fell in love with the Lord of Swords. Now they live together in heaven," Drusilla said. "I have seen these things. I have experienced them as our Mother has."
"Regardless of Drusilla's authorship, I am certain our stories are silly, Captain," Durman said.
"Not at all. Very accurate, truly remarkable, I must say. And I will not burden you with the banal mundane truths. The only exception that I can offer is that your Mother—Sygillis—is no demon, and I am no god. I am Elder-born and nothing more."
He unsaddled it and showed it to him. "Not a sword—it's called a CARG. It's the family weapon of my Line."
Durman scooted forward. "May I, sir?" he asked, holding out his hands.
Davage handed it to him, and he almost fell forward. He was not expecting the weight.
"By the Mother," he said, "it is heavy. You wield this in battle?"