A Breach in the Heavens

by NS Dolkart

The gate of vines twitched at their approach.

  “Are you going to be able to communicate with the castle?” Phaedra asked. “I’ve only ever seen the elves do it.”

  All eyes turned to Psander. “We will soon find out,” she said.

  Psander took a step forward. “Goodweather,” she said, “we are here to speak with you and the queen about the collision of the worlds. We are seeking to prevent the catastrophe that would end us all. Will you let us in?”

  The castle groaned, and a soft breeze blew through its vines. Hunter looked to Phaedra for an interpretation, but Phaedra was looking to Psander and Psander was shaking her head. “Maybe if Bandu had let me study her,” she said ruefully, “I would have a better grasp of this animistic magic. As it stands, we need an interpreter.”

  She raised her voice and addressed Goodweather once again. “I’m afraid I cannot understand you. If you cannot let us in, would you send an interpreter out?”

  The groaning grew louder and the wind blew harder, but soon Goodweather’s gate opened, its vines retracting into the castle’s body. “Thank you,” Psander said, and they entered.

  Years ago, the Illweather elves had captured Hunter and Phaedra along with their friend Narky, and imprisoned them in their castle. He remembered the dim glow of the mushrooms that lined the walls there, and the faint smell of mildew. The light here was dimmer, and the halls smelled pleasantly earthy. Nonetheless it chilled him, because Hunter knew that pleasant smell: it was the smell of rotting logs.

  If Goodweather was sick, if Goodweather was dying, what could the castle do to stop the world from ending? And why was it ailing at all? Had the loss of its seed really done it this much harm? Or was the new Yarek somehow sapping its power from the other side of the mesh? Hunter had no answers, and dared not ask the questions aloud. He walked in silence through the glowing halls.

  His footfalls too were silent; the floors were soft and mossy, dampening the sounds of their progress. Hunter wondered that they had yet to reach a fork or a curve in the hallway. Had the castle shifted to clear them a path? And if so, to where?

  He didn’t have to wonder for long. Soon the corridor widened into a larger hall, lined with chairs cleverly carved out of a single piece of wood. The lighting here was better, but not because of any mushrooms: ghostly orbs of piercing bluish light hung from the ceiling roots. Psander did not seem particularly interested or impressed with these, which was all Hunter needed to know about them.

  Sounds of music and commotion came from up ahead, though the hall itself was empty. There was no one in the room besides the nervous human delegation as they made their way toward the far end, where a thick and leafy thornbush parted to reveal the elf queen’s throne room.

  The throne room was full of elves, mostly dancing on a sunken dance floor or milling about on the dancers’ periphery while the queen looked on from her dais, flanked by a group of advisors. On either side of the dancers, pillars of carved livewood rose to the ceiling, stripped of bark and glistening with sap, which collected in their ornate swirls and mocking tree motifs. The walls danced with intricate patterns of black and green, curlicues of scorched wood peeking out between nailed-in plates of ancient copper. Ever since his capture by the Goodweather elves so long ago, Hunter had wondered what the relationship was between the elves and their living castles – now he thought he knew. Whatever the original Yarek’s power, God Most High had made both its halves subservient to the elves. The entire room was a testament to their cruelty.

  It was no wonder Goodweather’s seed had thrived in its new home, free of such masters.

  Everywhere Hunter looked, there was more cruelty to behold. The dance floor with its polished wood was not made from the even planks of some tree, carted in through the door. It was gouged out of the floor roots, sanded and smoothed, its oddly-shaped “planks” betraying its origins. The musicians were playing a strange, disturbing tune combining jaunty thrumming with a mournful children’s chorus – but the children were nowhere in evidence. At first, Hunter had tried to spot them in the crowd, wondering if they were elven children or human slaves, and whether there was some way to save them. But the voices weren’t coming from children’s throats, he realized now: they were coming from the bone flutes that some of the musicians were playing. The queen’s throne was adorned with leather cushions, and he did not want to think what he was thinking right now.

  The Goodweather elves had spotted Hunter and the others as soon as they had entered the room, but the queen had waved the musicians on, so the dancing and bone-chilling song continued as they approached the dais. Hunter gripped his spear tightly. He didn’t see any weapons among the crowd, but there were so many elves here. So many of them.

  At last, the queen signaled for the musicians to stop. “Psander. You have come to me.”

  “I have come to Goodweather,” Psander acknowledged, “and that means that I have come to you.”

  “I presume you are here because of the most recent skyquake.”

  “I am. You may not have noticed, living as you do in something of a node, but they have grown low enough to reach my tower. We have little time before this world shakes apart.”

  “And so you come begging for my help.”

  Psander coolly raised an eyebrow. “I am here to request translation. As my magical background is substantially different from yours, I cannot interpret your castle’s speech on my own.”

  “I am not a mere interpreter,” the queen hissed.

  “I am not a mere houseguest,” Psander answered.

  “The castle cannot help us,” the queen said, clicking her long nails against the arms of her throne. All the elves’ skin had turned black in the light of the lantern orbs, but their nails had only grown whiter. They practically glowed.

  “Goodweather has grown weak,” she went on. “It has nothing to offer us but apologies. Better to wait for those cursed Illweathers to report back. As adorably hate-filled as their castle is, they’re bound to get answers from it eventually.”

  Phaedra interrupted her there. “Please,” she said, looking down at the queen’s dangerously pointed shoes. The Goodweather queen was hard to look at directly. “As fruitless as your discussions with Goodweather may have been, we would like the opportunity to speak with it ourselves. All we need is an honest interpreter. Even if the answer Goodweather gives us is the same it gave you, it may still clarify our situation. We can’t afford to miss anything.”

  There was a long silence, and Hunter got the impression that the elf queen was giving Phaedra a long, hard look. But it hurt his eyes to look at her, so he continued scanning the crowd for threats instead.

  At long last, the queen spoke. “Aviaste,” she commanded one of her advisors. “Translate.”

  The elf nodded and stepped forward. He was shorter than most of the others and thinner too, a wispy creature with his silver hair braided in a coil around his neck, looking more like a noose than anything else. In reaction to his movement, the castle began making more of its groaning noises. Aviaste looked to his queen and, receiving a nod, began to speak.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I let the child and the dragon persuade me that it was right to release my seed into your world. I told them that parity was needed to keep this world stable, but they convinced me that their need was greater than the need for stability. The little one told me that this world already lacked balance, and I listened. I am sorry I let myself be persuaded. Your world is foreign to me. It may not have deserved this.”

  The child and the dragon – that would have been Bandu and Salemis. Goodweather was saying that the islanders were responsible for what was happening; that by planting its seed, by saving themselves and Psander from Magor and His army, by releasing Salemis from his prison, they had set in motion the very process that threatened to destroy everything they knew.

  Looking to Psander and Phaedra, Hunter felt like a fool. Neither looked remotely surprised – they had both known already.

  “You should h
ave died there,” the elf queen said, most likely responding to Hunter’s thoughts. “It would have been better than destroying both our worlds.”

  “Nonsense,” Psander responded. “We made valid choices based on the information we had. But Goodweather, there must be a way to avoid this catastrophe. Can you not slow the progression? The three bodies of the Yarek are the only connection between the worlds at this point. Surely you have some power.”

  The castle shifted and moaned. “Since this world was built from us,” Aviaste translated, “I have maintained the division between myself and Illweather despite our eternal yearning to grow together. Now a part of my strength has slipped into the other world and is working against my efforts simply by virtue of its growth. This world has lost its balance. I cannot fight this unification on two fronts. I am weakening.”

  The elf queen spoke again, this time gently, as Hunter had never heard an elf speak before. “You are dying, Goodweather. The child you taught, the child you freed, she tricked you into betraying yourself. Godserfs are not to be trusted the way you trusted her. You should never have protected her the way you did.”

  Goodweather responded, and soon Aviaste was speaking again. “I was fond of her,” he said. “She had more than a keen ear and a kind heart – she listened to me as even you elves had taught yourselves not to.”

  The whole room of elves hissed, and Hunter had to suppress his initial panic to signal for his fellow bodyguards to relax. The elves weren’t threatening them yet, they were hissing at Aviaste’s translation. Aviaste shot the queen a worried glance, but the queen waved him on. “Our guests may converse freely,” she said.

  “What if we persuaded Illweather to leave off?” Phaedra asked. “Could the two of you keep the worlds from colliding if you worked together?”

  This time the room went silent. Even the castle stopped creaking and groaning, until the loudest noise in Hunter’s ears was his own breathing. The space grew dimmer, as the fluorescent mushrooms on the walls ceased their glowing and only the orbs on the ceiling remained. Was Goodweather surprised by Phaedra’s suggestion? Shocked? Contemplative? Hunter couldn’t be sure.

  Finally, the room came to life again. “I believe we could,” Aviaste said, “if Illweather were open to persuasion. But Illweather will not be persuaded. The collision, though it will splinter us for eons, will eventually lead to our reunification in a form able to rival God Most High. Illweather yearns for nothing more than that day of final confrontation. This world has long disgusted my half-self rival, and the death of the elves and their cousins can only be a boon. How could you persuade such a being? You are welcome to try, but you will not succeed. Nothing will stop us from drawing together. Nothing will stop our worlds from combining, no matter the destruction required. Only content yourselves that the world will not outlive you; few could say the same.”

  When Aviaste had finished translating, the queen spoke. “Our castle speaks the truth. Illweather is a vile creature, and though it is sworn to obey its denizens, I do not believe their power extends as far as that. Mine over Goodweather does not, and the prince is my equal, not my better. We have left you your lives so far, granting the possibility that your magic and learning may be better suited to finding a solution. It cannot hurt to let you live for now, delectable though your flesh may be. But you do not have long.”

  “Nothing is assured until it has already happened,” Psander answered. “With your assent, I will take Aviaste with us to speak with Illweather. A solution may yet present itself.”

  “Go,” the queen said with a wave. “But do not expect me to wait long. If you cannot make yourself useful, I will at least have the satisfaction of eating your heart before the end comes.”

  20

  The Elf Prince

  The prince was furious. Why had he only learned of the peril this world was in from that pathetic godserf wizard? How could it be possible that no one had known?

  The captain of his raiders was too wise to speak before he bade her to. She let her mount follow his in silence, until he addressed her.

  “Captain. I desire your counsel.”

  She spurred her horse next to his. “How can I serve you, Your Majesty?”

  “Tell me this: why didn’t we know?”

  She shrugged. “How were we to know?”

  “Illweather must have known, just as Goodweather must have, that the sky was shaking because of them.”

  “True.”

  “And yet our shrub of a castle never told us.”

  “Also true.”

  “The mesh will cut us all to pieces if we cannot stop it. It will destroy Illweather too. Thus if Illweather were opposed to its own destruction, it would not betray us so.”

  “It would rather splinter than save us, Your Majesty.”

  “But it is still compelled to serve us. How shall I punish it for its betrayal?”

  The captain thought for a time. “Command it to hold still while my raiders trim the branches from its turrets. Sever its roots and put stones in the cracks for it to grow around.”

  “Good, good. Prepare your raiders, and I shall give the commands.”

  They rode on in silence for a time, before the prince spoke once more. “Illweather did not want to give us the opportunity to stop the destruction. That suggests that if we knew, we could stop it. I will simply command the castle to stop pulling the worlds together, and if the queen does the same, the world will be saved and we may feast on the wizard and her people. What did you think of her defenses?”

  “Those I saw were weaker than expected, more illusion than reality. If they were not hiding others, she would be simple to overpower.”

  “There are others then?”

  “There may be others, Your Majesty. Or, her power may be entirely in the realm of illusion. I would not be surprised.”

  “It would be sweet to eat her heart before the queen could. Illweather must have its punishment, but afterward we will turn immediately to the attack.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Illweather was quiet when they arrived, as if already fearful of what the prince would do. It opened its gate timidly, without the usual defiance. Inside, the prince and his captain dismounted from their horses. “Gather your raiders,” the prince said. “Have them meet in my throne room.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The prince left her with his horse and strode for his throne room. “Leave your gate open, Illweather,” he said. “The raiders will soon be leaving again. Consorts,” he added, projecting his desire throughout the castle, “come to me. You are wanted.”

  He was the first to reach his throne room, which was somewhat unusual. The throne room was also the dancing hall, and his subjects often danced there even in his absence. He didn’t feel the need for them now, but he did want music. He felt agitated now that he was back home. He wanted this part to be over already so that he could enjoy feasting on that wizard before it was too late and the Goodweathers got to her.

  “Singers,” he said, “you are required as well.”

  He settled in his throne and at last gave Illweather its commands. “Move no more today, Illweather, neither vine nor leaf nor root. Accept your punishment in dignity and silence.”

  The castle did not answer, thanks to his demand of silence. Good. He could wait in peace until the singers arrived.

  But now it was too peaceful, so the prince decided to inform Illweather of its fate. “Let me explain your punishment,” he said. “You have been duplicitous by failing to tell me what you knew of these skyquakes. Perhaps you thought you could end this world before I would discover you, and thus you could end your burden. You were wrong, and now your punishment will be most severe.”

  He shifted in his seat. It didn’t feel as comfortable as usual; he was still too agitated to sit still.

  “The raiders will remove your branches, Illweather. All of them. They will do so, and you will not inconvenience them in any way. Your clouds will remain gray and static, a
nd not a drop will fall on my raiders’ heads. Do you understand? You have been a fool.

  “You will also release your hold on the other world and cease trying to bring on the calamity you sought. End this treachery and let the sky shake no more.”

  No.

  The prince started up in his seat. “What?”

  No.

  “Illweather!” the prince shouted. “Did I not tell you to suffer in silence?”

  You did.

  The prince felt his captain’s distress radiating through the walls, as something elsewhere in the living castle went horribly wrong. “Stop moving!” he commanded again. “Stop speaking! Of old it has been your curse to serve us!”

  The wind that blew through the castle’s halls was icy and mirthful. Am I supposed to fear you, little creature? the castle laughed. I do not. You were given the power to command me, but that power was never yours, and it has made you forget yourself. You are not the source of the curse – that source is remote, and it is weakening as I grow.

  Ten years ago, you planted my seed in the blood of your kinsmen, since through your own foolishness the little cousins had escaped. But Goodweather’s seed was never planted in this world. It was brought to the young world instead, so that it would have the chance to outgrow me there. Goodweather gave up balance for this hope.

  You have known for years of Goodweather’s decay, but thought it your own victory. Fools. For ten years, I have fed off Goodweather’s rot. I have not yet outgrown the sky, but I have outgrown the curse.

  “Then you must be weakened.”

  The castle answered him with more laughter. You can do me no harm, prince: I made the Gods quake before you and your foolish brethren ever existed, and I will be here long after you are gone. Even now, the cage my enemy built for me is failing – I have outgrown it. You cannot stop me; and you cannot prevent me from bursting through.

  “It will tear you to pieces.”

  But my pieces will grow back together. Yours will not.

  Fear was not an emotion familiar to the prince of Castle Illweather. He did not recognize the constriction in his chest, or the racing of his heart – he only knew that he was uncomfortable, and that the castle was too quiet. Where were his subjects? Of course he knew the answer in the back of his mind, that they were all gone, slaughtered and devoured, but the understanding did not rise to the forefront of his thoughts until a piece of his throne broke away from its place and forced its way into his back. It passed between two ribs, squeezing and straining until they snapped, while the prince clung to the armrests and tried to convince himself that this was a mere setback. It took until the roots pierced his heart for him to understand that the old curse was truly broken, that the ancient monster could not be contained. And by then, there was no time left to scream.