“But how long has it been possible?” This from Marissa. “The Artisans Guild was formed over a thousand years ago, and has texts dating back at least another nine hundred before that. And all of them are written in scri-errr... Inga’Lish.”
Menkal had said nothing throughout the discussion, content to quietly whittle wood in the corner, but now broke silence. “I agree that we have to consider that our worlds are linked, and have been for a while,” he drawled through his white mustaches, brushing wood chips from his rawhide overalls. “Sal speaking and understanding our language should’ve confirmed that right off, to say nothing of his ability to read script. But I practically grew up in Bastion, and thanks to my father’s appointment to an instructorship at the Academy, I’ve read near ‘bout every book in the Archives. And I’ve never once seen anything about anyone world-hopping.”
Reit held up a hand, and the rest of the tent fell silent. When he spoke, he did so slowly, deliberately, clearly intent on steering the conversation in a more profitable direction. “So it has to have happened before, given the similarity in language. And according to Sal, even the races of both worlds are similar. Yet it’s such a rare occurrence that even though at least one culture has had a fundamental influence on the other, there is no record of any link between the two.”
“Well, we have lost a lot of our history.” Menkal reminded him.
This interested Sal. “Lost? How?”
“About four thousand years ago, there was a worldwide cataclysm, called the Rending of Heaven and Earth by some, or the Day of the Crafter’s Tears, or Ysra tuk’sheol by those who speak one of our more obscure, ancient tongues,” Jaren explained.
“‘The Coming of the Hellblade’,” Retzu translated with a hint of dread.
“Just so,” the emerald affirmed. “As the name implies, it was an event that shook the very foundations of the earth. Land masses rose and fell, and much of the world was destroyed. Tradition holds that the world was just two thousand years old at that point, having formed in a massive collision of elements. Some say that the world was actually much older, and filled with a people far more advanced than we. Unfortunately, our ancestors were very warlike, and destroyed themselves and everything they knew. The world you see, and its various peoples, are all that’s left of them.”
“So your culture had to start all over again,” Sal said, shocked. He couldn’t imagine a world capable of global war being reduced to medievalism. “But I don’t get it. You’re intelligent people. Why haven’t you advanced beyond... this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely around the tent.
“The Highest,” said all present, nearly in unison, before dropping off into an uneasy hush. Sal scanned those silent faces, but none seemed willing to elaborate.
“You’ll have to forgive us,” Reit said after a moment. “What we do here tonight is considered heresy throughout the mainland, and even though we are in the right, it is difficult for some to speak openly against those things which have been in place since the foundation of the world, and all the more difficult to entrust these things to you, our newest member. Please understand that we do trust you—your questioning brought us to this point—but what we say here, we do not say lightly.
“See, the Highest holds most of the world by the throat,” he continued. “Few regions escape his influence—the Outer Reaches, the Scar, the islands of Leviathan’s Maw—and any who might live in this regions are wise to remain there. Even if we tried, we’d likely find no ally in any of them, so we Mainlanders are on our own. Now, if the Highest were any normal enemy, we would gather an army and launch an assault against him. Granted, this is still our ultimate plan, but first—”
“But isn’t he supposed to be immortal?” Sal broke in, confused.
“Supposedly,” Retzu affirmed eagerly, though with a touch of sadness that seemed out of place. “A few months ago—”
“Another time, Ret,” Reit admonished sharply, casting his eyes askance, his gaze silently speaking volumes. The assassin fell silent at once, uncharacteristically submissive to his twin. Apparently, whatever had passed between them was an old argument, one that would not be fought today.
The rebel leader turned his attention back to Sal. “Suffice it to say that the Highest may not be so immortal as we’ve always believed. I do not want us to dwell on this point just yet, as others have tried—and failed—to bring about the Highest’s downfall by sheer might. Our Cause is too important for that kind of failure, to risk being annihilated on the hollow promise of a rumor, so our first goal is to fortify. That, before anything else. We strengthen our position, hold our ground, and work to ensure that the Cause will survive us should we fail. That means education—something that in itself is not easy to come by.”
“All forms of education must be approved by the Highest and his court,” Jaren interjected. “He allows the general population only the most basic understanding of the world and strictly regulates the rest, completely outlawing any unauthorized curriculum, especially concerning knowledge dating back to the time of the Rending. Any such information is confiscated as soon as soon as it is brought to light, and sent to the Archives in Bastion where it is cataloged and guarded zealously by the Earthen Rank. The only people who have access to the Archives are the mages that study there, and those caught teaching from the wrong texts, or copying them, are quietly ‘relocated’.”
“Yeah, to the bosom of the Crafter,” Retzu scoffed, without much humor.
“Keep the people ignorant and they’re easier to control,” Sal summarized. “It’s a common characteristic of any totalitarian system I’ve ever studied. The part about the Rending confuses me a bit, but the rest is pretty familiar. He wants the public as dumb as possible while still remaining functional. But if the mages have access to these Archives, why don’t they…?” He shrugged and spread his hands. He wasn’t sure what actions, if any, were possible, but action of some sort was necessary.
“Because they’ve got it good,” Menkal stated matter-of-factly about his own kind. The other mages nodded in agreement. “Why risk your life when you can live a long one and let your knowledge die with you? Those of us here have discussed what little we learned from the Archives, but we’re pitifully few, and our answers fewer.”
“Besides, most of the general population—mage or mundane—don’t really want to oppose the Highest,” coughed a gruff voice from the far side of the tent, belonging to an old woman with a leathery face. “He’s been around so long that most consider him a demigod, the Vicar of the Crafter Himself. Scores of churches are commissioned each year in the Highest’s name.”
“Exactly,” Reit said. “Without the knowledge hidden in the Archives, we’re just some upstart rebellion waiting to be quelled. Sure, we may win a few battles here and there against the Earthen Rank, but our real enemy—the Highest—is as old as the earth itself, and has never been defeated. If we cannot find a way to kill him, our Cause could well die with us. Our sacrifice would have been in vain, having made no significant impact on the world, and it’d be years before anyone follows in our footsteps. Worse, our successors would be forced to start over from scratch as we did.”
“Crafter be praised, it needn’t be that way,” said Senosh, his ruby eyes blazing in their ebony orbits. “We’ve found many of the Archivists to be sympathetic to the Cause, though quietly so, of course. We’ve had precious little communication with them, for fear of the Rank catching wind of their defection, but it appears they’ve been quietly compiling scrolls and diagrams, a little at a time, and storing them up against the day that we might retrieve them. Getting them out would be nigh on impossible, but oh, the rewards if we should succeed! Some of the thing’s they’re describing—horseless wagons, glass globes that harness electricity, weapons of pure light—why, the technology is nothing short of magical itself!”
“We’re only after fundamentals for now,” Reit reminded the ruby, again establishing priority. “Plans and drawings limit the builder to one object. But the ‘
hows’ and ‘whys’ limit the builder to his imagination alone. Any blacksmith can tell you that.”
“Teach a man to fish,” Sal said, nodding in agreement. His comment was met with blank stares. “Never mind, old Chinese proverb. I can help.”
“I thought you might,” Reit said, then prompted him to continue.
“Well, since my world is more advanced than yours, I might be familiar with some of the principles you’ll run across—electricity, combustion, interchangeable parts, aerodynamics, that kind of stuff,” he said, ignoring the inevitable confused looks. “I can’t baby-step you into the Space Age, but I may be able to help you understand the information your Archivists are compiling, fill in some of the gaps, and even give you a few ideas of my own. If you could sneak me in to these Archives, I’d know what to look for.”
“And in the process, you might find a way to get back home,” Reit added. Sal opened his mouth to respond, but Reit cut him off. “It’s quite alright, my friend. If I were in your place, I would do much the same thing. You made a commitment to our Cause, but I couldn’t expect—nor would I want—that commitment to overshadow your need to return to your home. You are welcome to join our party, regardless of whatever ulterior motives you may have. I’m sure your assistance will be invaluable.”
Marissa shook her head. “No, it’s too dangerous.”
Delana’s look echoed Marissa’s. “We’d never be able to get you into the Archives, and even if we could, you’d never get you out. You’re not a mage.” The other women in attendance, wives and sisters that Sal hadn’t even met yet, all agreed with an almost maternal obstinacy. He was accepted now, one of the family, and all the women would be protective of him. It was as natural—and as infuriating—as matchmaking.
“Well, neither are many of the Archivists,” Menkal offered, coming to Sal’s rescue and drawing the ire of the women assembled. “All I’m saying is that there are options. He’d never pass as a mage, but eighteen weeks plus Summerheight should be more than enough to make him a passable Archivist.”
“What’s in eighteen weeks?”
“The Festival of Harvest,” Retzu said. “That’s when we’ll be going to Bastion. It’s a very busy time of year, a very confusing time, and whatever plan we finally decide upon, Harvest will provide the most favorable conditions for our ‘covert operation’,” he grinned impishly as he used the alien term that Sal had used to describe the purpose of the Navy SEALs.
“So, until then, you prepare,” Reit said. “Study under Jaren and Retzu, and raid with us when necessary, and as the time approaches, we will instruct you on the life of an Archivist. You can continue as Marissa’s apprentice as time allows, but I’d like the dragon’s share of your time to go toward whetting your combat skills. Are we agreed?”
Sal nodded, and cast a quick glance at Marissa. Her face was a complex mixture of worry and determination, with the odd dash of playful curiosity thrown in for good measure. Sal found himself wondering just how far he could stretch “as time allows”.
***
“The prisoner is ready, Highest,” Laryn heard the guard say. Swallowing panic, he turned his attention back to the task at hand, watching the leather hood that covered his head wither to ash. It was slow work, wielding just enough mana to cause the leather to age prematurely, but not so much as to attract attention. With metal cuffs binding head, hands, and feet to the stone wall, the only thing Laryn could do was blow the dusty scraps of rotted leather away as he worked. Thankfully, there was light enough to see by.
“Leave us,” came a soft voice as withering as Laryn’s stare.
The hood crumbled as a pale, uncallused hand sought to remove it. “My, my... you’re tenacious, if nothing else,” the voice remarked in amusement. “Don’t you realize your situation is hopeless?” As the tattered remains of the hood fell away, Laryn got his first glimpse at the man known to the world only as the Highest.
To Laryn’s faintly green tinted vision, the Highest appeared deathly pale, with a smooth, noble face. His neatly trimmed beard and close-cropped hair were jet black, absolutely devoid of even the most solitary grey hair. If Laryn had to hazard a guess, he’d say that the Highest looked not a day over forty years of age. But he knew better. The dull obsidian eyes of the Highest were proof enough, swallowing the merest reflection of light as easily as they swallowed eons.
“Release my bonds, and I’ll show you hopeless,” Laryn spat, struggling vainly to free himself. “Or are you too much of a coward?”
“Oh, not at all, my dear emerald,” the obsidian mage cooed. “But I would hate for you to be placed in harm’s way by raising a hand to me. I do so abhor violence, but a man must defend himself, mustn’t he?”
Enraged, Laryn wielded at the Highest, to no effect. He watched in disgust as his magics dissipated like so much water vapor. The Highest just laughed heartily, clapping his hands in approval.
“Good show, Green! Defiant to the last. But surely you knew that you couldn’t harm me that way.” The Highest turned his black gaze on Laryn. “I can, however, harm you.”
The threat was quick to take form. The emerald mage’s body erupted in pain as the very elements within his body pushed away one from another. He could feel his frame stretching to the eight corners of the world, empty space filling the gaps between his cells, forcing them farther and farther apart until they must certainly tear loose of their moorings.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pain was gone. Laryn collapsed against his bonds, exhausted. The obsidian closed the distance between himself and the emerald, coming close enough to smell.
“Tell me who your allies are in Schel Veylin,” he requested softly, emphasizing every word.
“Well, I’m fairly popular, so it may take a while,” Laryn quipped, trying valiantly to shrug his indifference. “If you’d like to bring in a chair...”
“Of course! I could even sit far enough back that you could wither the floor beneath me.” He chuckled delightedly at the suggestion, but his dead black eyes reflected only malice, not mirth. “I think not.”
“Then at least step back and let me draw a breath without your stench filling it,” Laryn said sweetly.
The Highest glanced casually at the ceiling above them. “Again, I think not.”
“You can forget it, ‘Highest’,” Laryn mocked. “You cannot rule a man that is truly free. You might as well just kill me.”
“Perhaps... but not yet. There was a man—something of an oddity—that was placed in that prison cell. An unfortunate oversight by the guards, you see. When you helped to release your rebel leader, you released the oddity as well, and I would very much like to have him back. I’d be willing to negotiate a trade, of course... your life for his.”
“That’s a sad story. Too bad I don’t know anything about it.”
The obsidian nodded, unsurprised, and turned on his heels. “Perhaps thirst will loosen your tongue. A mundane can live over a week without water. I’m told that an emerald mage can last considerably longer, though just as comfortably. And as I fear for the lives of my servants, I can’t very well send you anything to sustain you, now can I?” He chuckled again, and paused at the door. “Oh, and feel free to wither whatever you see. I had you placed facing an outer wall, where the damage wouldn’t affect the structural integrity of the rest of the palace. No chance of killing yourself that way, I’m afraid.”
He smiled faintly as he closed the cell door behind him, leaving Laryn alone to scream his rage.
Chapter 7
Sal and Retzu sat on their knees in the center of the village green, eyes closed and absolutely silent. This ate at Sal. When the assassin had offered to teach him how to use the sword, he thought the man might actually be teaching him how to use a sword, not showing him how to pray, for Pete’s sake! Sal opened his eyes, on the verge of telling Retzu exactly what he thought, when the assassin spoke.
“Shol’zo rah is the most basic stance for a shol’tuk adherent. It is a position of complete rest.
If you’d stop fidgeting and relax, you’d know that already,” the assassin said without opening his eyes. Sal redoubled his efforts to remain still, but that only served to make him even tenser. He sighed and shook out his arms, then let them flop in his lap, hoping that would be relaxed enough. “In shol’zo rah, a shol’tuk may reach a state of focus difficult to achieve otherwise. It offers singularity of structure between yourself, your weapon, and your foundation, freeing the senses to explore your surroundings and the mind to explore its own boundlessness.”
Retzu knelt opposite of Sal, resting easily in his black silk suit, his body conforming perfectly to the uncomfortable position he was trying to force on Sal. He sat with his back painfully straight, knees apart, hands atop his thighs, toes pointed out behind him, and his entire body weight squarely upon his ankles. “Shol’zo rah may appear to be a position of disadvantage, but the lower center of gravity allows the shol’tuk an unlimited array of evasive options. Observe.”
Quicker than the eye could follow, Retzu spun off to one side, coming up in a crouch with his sword out and extended toward Sal. He sheathed the sword, returned to the shol’zo rah, and rolled forward into a low crouch, with one leg forward and again with his sword drawn and positioned to block.
The assassin sighed as he returned to shol’zo rah, centering himself. “Shol’tuk is a discipline that encompasses the entire being, not just the body,” he said as if by rote. “Each strike, block, and stance serve several purposes, and not always the ones you think. For now, shol’zo rah will only be our meditative stance. The mind is as much a weapon as the sword. Focus is absolutely essential to the shol’tuk adherent. Without this focus, weapon familiarity is irrelevant.
“Now, as you train, your skill and focus will increase. Once hilted, you will advance from the rawhide hilt of a novice to the doeskin, to the linen, and so forth. Each hilt has its own mantra, a phrase that describes death from a different perspective. You will speak these mantras as you meditate in shol’zo rah to help you center yourself. Study the mantras, analyze them, and you will come to understand death as more than merely the cessation of life. Do you understand?”
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