by Marc Secchia
With one hand resting on the Wurm’s rear end, I turned to glare at Eliyan’s snicker. “Just wanted to hold your hand, Amal-nishka,” he quipped, feigning nonchalance.
She, rather more white-faced than he, matched my glare with one of her own. “What else have we not anticipated, Eliyan?”
The Sorcerer said, “You two are so alike it’s like speaking to a mirror.”
“Just don’t start kissing me by mistake,” I teased him. I had to try to live, even though part of me had died the day P’dáronï died in the Banishment portal. But it hurt. Mata, how I mourned!
“There wasn’t enough ore for the hawsers,” Eliyan said. “We knew they were too short. But we neglected to balance your shield with ours. And we don’t know how deep the ocean is. Torbin has men back there trying to take measurements as we speak. I’d hate to try our shield against the ocean’s might.”
Sanctuary’s lights flickered on as the Wurm burrowed into endless blackness. Down, down beneath the ocean, down beneath the ever-black deeps that separated Birial from Eldoria, accelerating toward the point I had so carefully placed in its mind. The Wurm surged through the rock without care or pause, carving it out with its great magic, leaving a smoothly hollowed tunnel behind us that we hoped would eventually connect Birial to the Eldrik homeland. All that rock turned to magic. Somewhere, somehow, I knew, Mata had to keep the balance. What would be the ultimate effect of all the damage the Wurm had wreaked over its lifetime? We had not the first inkling.
I remembered how it felt to hold P’dáronï of Armittal in my arms, and the beauty of her reconstructed eyes, and wept. I wondered then if she might even that moment be numbered amongst the Transformed. I racked Janos’ brain to learn what happened to Armittalese when they died, but learned nought that was new to me. They went to meet Mata, he believed.
And so we travelled, makh upon makh, for three days. Only our mealtimes served to mark time beneath the ocean. I tried to preoccupy my mind with learning how the Wurm moved, and attempting to grasp how Janos had possibly moved part–or all–of his mind into mine. The Banished ran out of food and began to complain. Eliyan needled me that I should not have healed so many of the Transformed. They had not enough clothes.
But then they began to sing.
I had not realised we were free of Birial’s binding enchantment. I had locked myself away in my thoughts, and not felt the gyael-irfa coming to life around me. I had never heard the hyngreal of Mata-worship. But these Eldrik were returning home, and when they sensed the return of that which was familiar to them, they broke into a song so haunting and beautiful it fairly made my hair stand on end. Such I could have listened to for a thousand anna.
And then, without warning, we broke through into daylight.
The Wurm trumpeted its greeting to the suns, drowning out the Mata-worship for more than a span. But the moment the Wurm stopped roaring, I heard such a cheer rise behind me! The Sorcerers and Warlocks brought Sanctuary to a gentle landing as our transportation picked up speed across Eldoria, until we were fairly flying over the gently rolling hills. Caught up in the carnival spirit, I urged the Wurm to greater and greater speeds. We carved a new pass through the mountains ten leagues north of Eldoran, and three makh later, having covered an astounding thirty leagues before noon was raised, we sighted the hills of fair Eldoran.
After gantuls, the Banished were home.
Epilogue: Names to Remember
Warlock’s Roost, 3rd Glimday of the Thawing, Anna Nox 1705
El Shashi. What a name!
Whisper it reverently, friend. Hurl it as a weapon. Let it fester between vindictive curses, or let it be your benison.
I was called Soulstealer, Kin-Reaper, the Burning One, the Whisperer, the Running Man, Stormtide over Gethamadi, Benok Holyhand, Scourge of the Westland, the Plague-Rider, and, worst of all, Bringer of the Wurm.
But they also call me the Father of the Eldrik.
In the anna following the first return of the Banished, I was almighty busy. Four more trips did we make, Eliyan, Amal, and I, to hunt down the Transformed of Birial Island and succour them. Many did not want to be succoured. But we scoured the hollows and caves until we became heartily sick of them.
We searched for sign of P’dáronï, but from the moment she entered the Portal, wrapped in a translation of her own making around the evil Sorceress Jyla, she was lost to the lands of the living. I bowed my head, steeled my quoph, and ran away for a gantul.
Well, I left Eldoran–a city lovingly restored to its former beauty by the Sorcerers Council, who for once managed to agree on an important matter. It helped that they had virtually unlimited power to accomplish the task. Truly told, I had little need to run, save from my own ghosts. So run I did, in a manner of speaking. I restarted the trade between Eldoran and Herliki Free Fiefdom. With the benefit of a trade monopoly, as I alone of all living men knew the secret of navigating the Straits of Nxthu, I became unspeakably rich.
But no ocean of terls, ukals, and Lortiti Reals could salve the immedicable wound in my quoph.
Between journeys, I studied every scroll known to Eldrik or Umarite and assembled a library on magic that filled the caverns beneath the Warlock’s Roost so completely, they begged me to have the Wurm carve out new space. This I did. But I found nought to bring P’dáronï back.
I returned to my family, became Benok Holyhand for a time, and presided over the expansion of my network of hospitals just in time for the anna they call the Red Burning, a plague of virulent, haemorrhagic pox that even reached Eldoran. This consumed my energies for a gantul and more as the plague kept flaring up in different parts of the Fiefdoms. In later anna, the scholars would estimate from our hospital records that one in two people in the Fiefdoms, and one in five Eldrik, died during those anna. Without our efforts, the toll would have been far higher.
At some point in time, I know not when, I put P’dáronï away in the depths of my quoph and thought I should mourn her no more.
Ay, I have yet one more name.
I should be called Fool.
On the third Glimday of the Thawing, Anna Nox 1705, I observed a beneficent sunshine warming the gardens around the Warlock’s Roost, and determined that my frail old bones should well enjoy such a day. Grasping my twin canes, I made the makh-long journey without the tower, for I could barely walk any more for the severe rheumatism that plagued me in the cold seasons.
A young Armittalese slave opened the thick wooden door for me. I could not have shifted it myself.
Ay, I did think then of Janos, and P’dáronï, and the rash promise of my youth, that I should free all the slaves. Gantuls before, I had not wished to flout the direct command of the Eldrik Sorcerers Council. They had a better life in Eldoran than in the mines of Ummandor, across the Ammilese March, I convinced myself. Truly told, and I owned the entirety of the slave trade. It had taken six gantuls, but now my agents alone bought each and every Armittalese slave that was offered to market.
I paused beside him. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Benethar,” he said.
“B-Benethar?” I spluttered.
He smiled and bowed in the flowing Armittalese way. “Of Armittal, great Father. How may I help you?”
I squinted at him, as my eyes were going bad. “I knew a Benethar once,” I said. “A great man, who I betrayed. Did you know, boy, it was he who designed the Banishment? A perfectly astounding construct of magic.”
“I’ve read your writings, Father-mine,” said Benethar, bowing again. “I found them most instructive. Would you tell me about this Benethar? You wrote that he was unique, a man of eidetic memory and a Synthesizer.”
“Do you fancy yourself such, boy?”
“No, Father-mine. But I would know, as I believe we might have been related.”
Silently, I held out my arm for him to take, so that I could lean on his youthful strength. A man in his three hundred and seventy-seventh anna must make a few small concessions to age. This young man, so dark a
nd serious, could almost have passed for Janos–of course, I did not remember so well any more. But as we took a slow, steady circuit around the gardens, I could not shake a most bizarre grephe that I spoke to Janos reborn. So I spoke to him earnestly, and with great candour, about the past.
As we passed close by the tower, I heard a loud cry followed by a thud.
“What was that?”
“Quickly,” said Benethar. “Someone is hurt.”
Ay, I tottered along behind him as best I could. I found another Armittalese slave lying half on the path, blood streaming from his head. Benethar knelt beside him, trying to stanch the wound, shaking his head in sorrow. I saw a tall ladder leaning against the tower. The man had a workman’s tools in his belt. I rushed up and touched him.
I stiffened. “Larathi, no–you can’t die now!”
Summoning my power, I hastened to bring him back from the brink.
The man gasped, twice, and his heart stopped beating. I had a sense his soul was beginning to drift from his body to the realms of Mata: I had seen death too many times not to recognise the moment.
“Quick,” said Benethar. “Try this. Use your power to
I commanded. To my great shock, the man coughed and began to breathe at once. Soon, with my further healing help, he opened his eyes.
“What happened to me?”
“You fell,” Benethar explained. “Fortunately, El Shashi was right here and healed you before you died.”
“I am forever indebted to you,” said the man.
“You should go rest,” I said. “You’ve had a great shock.” Although, truly told, it was I who had the greater shock. My eyes followed the departing man. “He was dead, Benethar. Dead.”
“He was,” agreed Benethar. “I didn’t know if that would work.”
“How did you know what to do?”
Benethar’s eyes, as grey as flints, met mine frankly. “Because all Armittalese are controlled in the same way, El Shashi, controlled by the Nummandori Overlords. Did you never learn that about the woman you once loved, P’dáronï of Armittal?”
“I … did. I’m sorry if I’m staring, but … do I know you?”
“I’ve held the door for a few seasons,” he chuckled. “But I never found the courage to speak to you, until you spoke to me today. As I said, I think your Benethar is my relative. Or perhaps I am he, reincarnate–I don’t know. Armittalese history seems strangely circular. I have been trying to make some kind of study among our people here without raising suspicions. You see, when Armittalese die, they are returned to the Overlords. You just stopped that now. As you saw.”
My head spun so violently that I sat back on the path and could not rise.
“They return to the … great Mata! They return where? They don’t really die? What happens to them? How do you know this? Who are you?”
“I am Benethar,” he said, and bowed low once more in the Armittalese way. “I’m the one who, I believe, is able to override what the Nummandori Overlords set inside of him. I am he who finds within himself memories not his own.”
“You can override … a magical command structure embedded in the core of your very being? So if I asked you why Armittalese women return over the Ammilese March to have their babies, you’d say …?”
“I’d tell you that babies need to be imprinted by the Overlords, Father-mine. All babies, no exceptions, from the time they lie within their mother’s womb.”
“Let me hold your hand and ask you again.”
I held the young man’s fingers and asked him the question. Similar commands appeared to those which had so memorably controlled P’dáronï, but he appeared able to ignore them or sideslip the commands somehow. I dropped his hand with a shudder.
“Help me rise.”
Dear sweet Mata, after all these anna, the possibility! I hardly dared voice my hope. I must question this boy at length. Did he truly mean P’dáronï would have returned somewhere to these Overlords, to be recycled in a new body? That a young P’dáronï could be growing up, or have grown up, somewhere in Armittal, and I did not even know it? That these Nummandori Overlords controlled all Armittalese by means of these strange commands–to what end? For good? That was difficult to believe.
Ay. I rubbed the lyomflesh on my arms.
My mind raced across the gantuls now. Things Janos had said: ‘… for we Armittalese live long, Arlak, longer even than the Eldrik–and our spirits are not as strongly bound to flesh as the Umarite or Eldrik races.’ Things he had taught me; things I had discussed with P’dáronï, impressions and observations of these slaves in Eldoran. It made sense. They were a race of perfect slaves. Perfectly controlled by the Overlords. Perfectly positioned to spy out every secret the Eldrik ever had–even down to young Benethar, questioning me so innocently. Even he could be spying for these Overlords. P’dáronï, too. Even Janos, unless his essence was irretrievably bound up in the Wurm.
But I owed it to my father, who bequeathed me the ownership of slaves.
I owed it to the Armittalese.
I owed it to P’dáronï.
Benethar said softly, “I am he who asks you to set my people free.”
I wondered what Mata would say to one last act of selfishness. After all, it was She who made me so. Perhaps that should be my final name, for no man of nigh four hundred anna, who could barely manage to walk around a garden without the help of two canes and a young arm, would be journeying across the Ammilese March to confront the Nummandori Overlords. Could any man be selfish enough, and vain enough, to aspire to be Father to not one but two races?
I reached out to the slumbering Wurm. For this, I needed lillia. More lillia than I had required in gantuls.
“P’dáronï! I come, P’dáronï!”
El Shashi would run again.
Glossary
Alldark week–Midwinter, a period of 24-hour darkness that lasts 10 days, when the close, slow-moving moon (Ulim, also a god to some) largely eclipses the suns for a period of ten days. Traditionally a time of great fear, when people refuse to leave their homes and carry out rituals to appease the gods and ward off evil.
Anna–A year, consists of 11 seasons–however, several ‘seasons’ are more events on the calendar such as Doublesun Cahooday. The seasons are: Alldark Week, The Thawing, Youngsun, Sowing, Springtide, Highsun, Doublesun Cahooday, Richness, Harvest, Glooming, and Rains.
Akki-Ayali–Roymerian warrior-God.
Argan oil–Type of oil pressed from hard berries grown in Damantia, commonly used as a lamp oil in the Fiefdoms.
Armittalese–Race inhabiting the land of Armittal beyond the mountains called the Ammilese March. They are little understood, being slaves to the Nummandori Overlords and also sold as slaves to the Eldrik. P’dáronï and Benethar are notable Armittalese characters.
Athocary–A practitioner of basic medicine in the Umarik Fiefdoms, often a fraud. El Shashi changes this through his campaign of education via the Solburn Monks.
Amaranth marble–Distinctive green-veined marble beloved in Eldrik architecture.
Baltagia tea–‘Poor man’s tea’, herbal brew common in the Umarik Fiefdoms.
Banishment–Deliberate cleansing of the Eldrik race under the doctrine of Lucanism propounded by the Sorcerer Lucan. Meant to purify the Eldrik race leading them to a heavenly state called the hyngreal. A caste of Interrogators identify the impure and unworthy in Eldrik society. The Interrogators test each child at the age of seven and twelve, ostensibly to determine their prime occupation and talents, but also to remove those who fail for any reason. Those removed are forever wiped from memory and records, not even mourned for they are imperfect, but simply and irrevocably excommunicated to Birial Island.
Barkdeer–Woodlands deer, eats bark during the cold of Alldark season in order to survive.
Belion–The secondary sun, or
white sun, scorches the world at the time of Doublesun, but does not appear above the horizon for most of the anna.
Benethar–Armittalese slave, works for the Sorcerer Lucan.
Benok Holyhand–A name used by El Shashi to hide his work amongst the Solburn Monks.
Bindwort–Bitter medicinal herb, grows in swampy places.
Birial Island–Place where the Eldrik Banished are sent, a magical prison.
Birthingday–The day of one’s birth.
Bitterwort–Medicinal herb.
Blackbeast–Mythical black wolf-like creature, said to stalk the byways of Roymere preying on unwary travellers. Various remedies are prescribed: for example, wearing charms, putting spring onion in one’s boots at night, and burning lyrithbark in one’s campfire.
Brazen–Tree common to mountainous regions of Roymere, Hakooi and Elbarath, distinctive red blossom at Springtide.
Bragazzar–An aromatic wood prized for its softness and rich texture, much used for carving and decorative furniture.
Brith buns–Hakooi round bread, made with herbs and peppers.
Bruke trousers–Herliki trousers cut just below the knee, made of a soft flaxen thread, usually tan in colour.
Burshingling–Most commonly describes a bow of greeting held low, during which the left hand his held behind the back and the right is waved back and forth, the fingers wriggling to signify showers of Mata’s blessing.
Buskal–A Roymerian custom, signs made with the right hand to signify Mata’s mercy, pleading, peace, rejection, or friendship.
Darkthorn–Thorn bush, switches of tied darkthorn are used to whip criminals in some parts of the Fiefdoms.
Days of the week–There are seven days of the week: Levantday, Sayth (the day of rest), Rushday, Joinday, Glimday, Xarday, and Rimday.
Digit–Umarik unit of measure, being the length of the top digit of the Hassutla of Hakooi’s thumb.
Dioni and daimi orisons–Songs of praise traditionally sung to Mata at sunrise and sunset from the village or town’s Songstrel spire.
Doublesun–During summer and autumn, the secondary sun (Belion, the white sun) becomes visible in the skies–hence Doublesun.