As was his custom, he finished with his helm, pulling off the Gwelom slowly, carefully, tasting with an immense pleasure the fresh air on his face, his mouth, his cheeks.
He wanted to throw the mask away and present himself openly to everyone, but he had to wait for that. A relic of civility that he hoped would disappear, with time. He breathed deeply, and the noise of it disgusted him. He sounded like a choking dog. Though he hated the feel of it, at least the helm helped hide his struggle to survive.
He closed his eyes, concentrated, and was reinvigorated; he felt powerful, awake in his heart, body, and limbs. His muscles and ligaments unknotted, and he breathed easily. He had felt this thousands of times, but the joy of such power coursing through his body always made him feel him more than himself. He felt like power incarnate, without blemish or flaw.
He walked over to his bed and lay on the rich tanned skins that covered it. Chebree was already there, naked, immobile, silent. Impatient, and hoping to finish as quickly as possible.
Saat put a hand on her forehead and caressed her face. Chebree shivered and stopped breathing. Not from pleasure, but from feeling the High Diarch’s hand. His horribly wrinkled skin, so thin she could feel his bones. He smelled of graveyard soil.
Our enemies have their doubts, my friend, Somber warned him with a thought.
Saat immediately closed off a large part of his mind. He had done it for so long, with such consistency, that the god didn’t even notice.
What are they doing? he asked, still embracing the high priestess.
They talk a lot. They plan. They want to see Nol.
The old man won’t help them, Saat assured him, moving his body. And how do they plan to accomplish such a miracle?
The Sola portal. They will open it.
You have no idea if they will. You can’t see into the future.
They will open it. We have to kill them.
Patience, my friend. Say they go to Sola, and they get past the Guardian. Maybe they even see the old man. So what?
Nol will tell them of the Adversary.
Saat hesitated.
They won’t get that far. I will send a company of gladores after them. They will never reach Nol, but they will still be sent to another world!
This time Somber paused.
You should let me kill them, he repeated angrily.
There are too many risks for you, my friend. If one of these men is the Adversary, he could—
I’ve had enough of waiting. Somber cut off the connection.
The High Diarch was alone with his thoughts, busy with a tense, inactive Chebree.
As he awoke, Somber had acquired a personality slightly different from the one Saat had prepared for. He was like an adolescent revolting against his parents, but stronger and more intelligent. He was still loyal to their common plans and friendship, though, and that was the most important thing.
Looking at the priestess’s face, Saat thought of how ignorant were even his closest companions. Ignorant of his real project. Ignorant of their own power. Their heritage.
Chebree would probably never understand why he wanted to have a child with her, more than with anyone else.
It was understood that none of the heirs would sleep as they waited for Lana to finish decoding the journal. Given the uncertainty of the near future, the nearby presence of an enemy army, and their curiosity to see what was in Achem’s journal, there was far too much tension for even the briefest of slumbers.
To pass the time, Grigán and Bowbaq decided to curry the horses. It was a substantial task, and they figured it would take up enough time for Lana to decipher the text. Yan launched into a discussion with Corenn on the subtleties of magic. Léti joined the warrior and the Arque, and Rey stood nearby without offering to help. In their circle, they debated the art of combat.
“Someone with an obvious weak point will often aim their attacks as if their adversary has the same problem,” Grigán said to his student. “If he attacks your legs, attack his. If he threatens your left side, concentrate your efforts there.”
“Now I understand why you always go for the head,” Rey joked. “It’s your weakness!”
“Should we try it out now?”
“Now he threatens me!” the actor continued. “I preferred you in the Land of Beauty. We were friends then, you remember, Grigán?”
“A moment of weakness, Mr. Kercyan. It won’t happen again.”
Bowbaq was too preoccupied to pay attention to his friends’ verbal jousting, and he left his brush with Léti, to instead join Yan and Corenn. At least he could participate in their conversation and try to forget, momentarily, that he had no idea what had happened to his wife and children. They were still in the heart of Arkary, thousands of leagues from where he stood.
“Drawing force from outside of yourself can help you avoid the languor,” Corenn explained to Yan. “But I need to remind you that the technique is dangerous. So much power can make you lose your head, make you drunk on it, make you believe there is no end to it—but there is. The power is not endless. Any object can reach a point where it shatters, which creates a vacuum of force. In this case, you can die or have a long episode of apathy.”
“I understand,” Yan nodded, mentally summarizing the lesson the Mother had given him.
The technique wasn’t that complicated. He just had to concentrate on the object from which he would draw power, accumulate the power, then concentrate on the spell’s target and apply his Will, unleashing the gathered force to act on one of the four elements. The difficulty wasn’t the operations themselves but their succession. To fail at any stage could kill him.
“As an anecdote,” Corenn continued, “some famous mages always used the same objects, which they kept with them at all times. Crystals are preferred—sapphires, emeralds, rubies, diamonds—but of course a grain of salt has the same properties, or almost the same.”
Yan agreed. Effectively, precious gems could hold an immense power; he had felt it himself when working on Léti’s opal. Working with the same object made it familiar, which helped transfer power, and Yan was drawn to the benefit of avoiding the languor. He promised himself he would try it when he came across a bit of flint, if he could find any.
“I have a question,” he said. “If, after you have drawn the power, you don’t cast a spell, what happens?”
“I have no idea,” Corenn admitted. “I’ve never thought of that.”
“Can I try?”
“Absolutely not! Don’t you think you should master the skill first, before trying something new? Remember the apathy after your experience with Ifio!”
Yan looked at the little monkey perched on Bowbaq’s shoulder. They were so used to her presence that they often forgot she was there. He remembered penetrating the monkey’s mind and taking possession of her body. He had done the same with the Zü, in the Holy City of Ith.
He still had no idea what these actions had done to him.
“The deep mind is the place where the soul attaches to the body,” Bowbaq said before Corenn could interrupt him. “If you can reach it, you can insert your own mind and steal a body. It’s what the ghost did to me in the library.”
“But what happens to the invaded spirit?” Yan asked, hoping to soothe his conscience for what he had done to the Zü. “Do they suffer?”
“From frustration, yes, a lot. They revolt, they cry out. But they can’t do anything while the intruder still dominates.”
“Can the power structure change?” Corenn asked.
“Yes, that happens, sometimes. There are two cases. The erjak can lose himself and become a prisoner to the foreign body, but with no power over it. He will stay there until the body’s death, or until he takes control again.”
“That’s horrible!” Yan commented.
“Yes, and it’s also possible for the invaded person to flee into the erjak’s body. There are tales of men acting like wolves, bears, or other animals, until the spirits find their proper homes.”
Whenever he thought of that moment, he felt shame and sadness, though he knew that he had only done what the situation required of him. None among his friends had the desire or the audacity to reproach him for it. They could see his respectful fear of his own powers, and this was enough to keep them quiet on the subject.
“I finished,” Lana announced suddenly, tears in her voice. “Sage Eurydis, but how they suffered!”
“‘Would Saat have gone mad,’” Lana read, “‘if he hadn’t discovered the powers of the gwele? Even if Vanamel and Pal’b’ree hadn’t followed Lloïol, the cursed little imp, into the third pit, we would have been put in danger sooner or later by Saat’s folly—’”
“Friend Corenn, I don’t understand,” Bowbaq interrupted. “What does it mean? Who are all these people?”
“It’s only the end of the journal,” Corenn reminded him. “The explanations must be in the pages we lost.”
“It’s like that right up until the end,” Lana confirmed. “It seems that our ancestors weren’t alone in Jal’dara.”
The Maz waited for more questions, then began reading again.
We would have been put in danger sooner or later by Saat’s folly, with consequences much more serious than the sorcerer’s death. However, despite the scorn we felt for him, we tried to come to his rescue, and three men died. Three men chosen by their people to represent them to the young gods.
I don’t feel much regret for Vanamel; the prince, in my humble opinion, deserved his fate. But I cried for Ssa-Vez and for Fer’t the Solenese, two wise and honorable men who had gained our confidence and were an integral part of the group.
Nol cried with us when only eight returned, after twelve descended into Karu. He confided in us his regret that his neutrality prevented him from interfering. But we had been witness to his powerlessness so often that we could not hold it against him. He was He Who Teaches, and that was the extent of his power.
The children, still placid, circled around us. Like always, and despite our seething emotions, we tried not to influence them, instead letting them watch us, touch us, and listening to their incomprehensible babble, hoping that one of them would speak directly to us, as they had done to Tiramis, Fer’t, Moboq . . . and Saat.
One of the oldest suddenly noticed the bloody bandage around Arkane’s stump. The courageous king tried to smile, but his other injury, to his head, turned it into a grimace.
Rafa suffered from his burns and occasionally sighed in pain. Each time, the children turned and stared at him, worried.
Two smaller ones grabbed Tiramis by the hand, but the Mother was oblivious and did not respond with a caress, as she had done before. The courageous Yon set the Kaulienne down on the soft grass and patted the shoulders of the young gods, as if consoling them. It wasn’t enough.
None of them were smiling now. The smallest started to cry, soon followed by all their elders. The gods were crying. A disaster for mankind.
“You have to leave,” Nol announced. “The Harmony is broken.”
He was only saying what we already knew. Staying would have disastrous consequences.
Arkane needed to be healed. Even in Jal’dara, an injury like his was serious. I can’t imagine what would have happened if the king had died at the feet of the growing gods.
Nol brought us directly to the portal. At the time, it surprised me, but what ceremony could I have expected? The children would rapidly forget us, or at least we hoped so. And we had no one else to say good-bye to, other than the valley’s doyen.
As Nol approached the archway, the portal activated. The whistling, the light, the fog. We tended to forget that Nol himself is an Eternal Guardian for Dara’s portal.
The fog in the portal’s vision soon lifted, revealing the titanic trees in Oo’s forest.
“And the Wyvern?” Pal’b’ree the Wallatte protested, as Nol pointed to the other side.
“In your world, it’s the Season of the Earth,” the doyen assured him. “She is probably sleeping.”
“Wasn’t she supposed to be doing that last time?” the Eastian retorted before walking under the arch.
He didn’t even say good-bye to us, we who had saved his life. His only worry was to escape the rebellious Guardian that had decimated the emissaries from the east three days before the Day of the Owl. Of eight sages sent by the barbarians, only two made it to Jal’dara, and Fer’t the Solene wouldn’t be leaving.
“I had proposed to him to open the portal on Tuze,” Nol commented as the vision of Oo faded. “Or the one in Walloranta, or Greloes. There was no reason he had to return to the Oo and the Wyvern.”
“What did you tell him about the Season of the Earth?” Moboq asked for clarification.
“It started a few days ago, in your world. Time is sovereign over all things in the universe,” the doyen explained. “But there are places where it is less active.”
“What are you trying to say?” Duke Reyan asked, concerned. “How long have we been here exactly?”
“Six dékades. In your world, you understand. If you hadn’t gone into Karu, I would have sent you back earlier. I am sorry.”
We all glared at him in silence. Our stay had felt five times shorter.
Nol gestured and the arch’s mist disappeared, revealing the dark cavern on Ji. It seemed like the right time to say something, but I couldn’t find the words and instead walked through the door after a small wave and a final glance at the marvelous valley.
It stayed visible for a long time. But as we stood in the cave’s cold water, we felt sufficiently melancholic to turn away and stop staring longingly at our lost paradise.
Then Duke Reyan walked at the front of the group toward the light. Once we had sufficient light, we fabricated a stretcher for Arkane. Tiramis was still in her trance when we reached the escorts, who had waited for us, though we were seventeen days late.
The rest is history. Our vow of silence caused us dishonor and grief, to varying degrees, but we put up with these evils without complaint. They were nothing compared to the torment the secrets brought us—they were nothing compared to the cruel curse we all now suffered under.
The power of Jal’dara had made us Gweloms, in only a few dékades. What would happen after several moons? Years? I can hardly think of it.
The idea of a long life was nothing compared to the almost certain loss of our fecundity. I think that we all hoped to fight the curse, the only way one can.
Except perhaps for Arkane. The king of Junine already had an heir, and contrary to us, had resigned himself to his fate calmly. If he was the first to disappear, I think it’s because he didn’t want to fight anymore. To him, death was a welcome peace. Arkane had embarked for Ji as the king of the Baronies; he came back with one arm, dishonored, and constantly worried. If we knew the same spiritual hardships, at least we were physically fit.
Whatever it was, after failing to reach the other Emaz, I concentrated my life on making descendants. I, who had been celibate my whole life, took Mièlane, one of my students, in Union. We left for Mestèbe, as far from the Holy City and my memories as possible. Never did my young wife learn the truth of this sad adventure; at least, not until now. I hope to Eurydis it will always be this way, that none will share my burden. To the Emaz who are my intended audience: leave her, and my children, in peace.
We lived together for five years before we finally had a boy. Perhaps the powers of Jal’dara had faded with time; perhaps the goddess had heard my prayers. I learned at our next reunion that Tiramis and Yon had also been blessed with child. We celebrated these events as anyone would, though our joy was sullied by Arkane’s death, which came that same year.
Luckily, our sterility was only partial. In their own turn, Reyan, Moboq, and Rafa had their own heirs. How can I explain, after all those years of anguish, the overpowering joy we felt at each of t
hese births? More than personal joy to see our lines continue, we rejoiced to give humanity a chance for the Age of Ys and Nol’s Harmony, even if it is thousands of years from now.
If Vanamel and Pal’b’ree hadn’t descended into Karu, if they hadn’t met the Undines, we would have been ignorant of our responsibility. And it would have been better that way. The burden of Jal’dara’s secrets was already heavy enough to bear, but since we did know, we couldn’t help but rejoice, seeing the second generation expand and grow.
Our only fear, now, is that they will also be Gweloms. Our children, will they be able to have their own?
I suppose I won’t benefit from a long life after all. I won’t ever see my grandchildren, if there are any. Can our heirs prosper in ignorance of these evils? Will they respect the Moral of Eurydis and the memories of their ancestors?
We will never return to Jal’dara. But we show our sons and daughters the portal, which every time resonates from our presence, on each Day of the Owl. We do it to show the child gods how much we love them. And how similar we are to them.
“I didn’t understand much of that,” Bowbaq admitted when Lana set the pages down. “A Gwelom? What’s that? A sort of sickness?”
“I think,” Corenn tried to explain, “that Maz Achem called anything that had been altered by Jal’dara a Gwelom. But we understand only a part of what it does to humans. We don’t really know what those powers are . . .”
Seeing her friends’ bemused expressions, Corenn could tell that her explanation hadn’t clarified Achem’s nebulous tale.
“More simply: anything that stays in Jal’dara long enough is influenced by the place and becomes a Gwelom. For a human, this translates to a longer life and a partial loss of fecundity. The principle of this change, what Achem calls gwele, escapes us . . .”
“And that’s where you are proposing to bring us!” Rey said, jumping up from the ground. “Who wants to become one of these damned Gweloms?”
“Our ancestors were,” Grigán reminded him. “Didn’t you hear? That didn’t stop them from having children.”
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