Reign of Immortals

by Marin Landis

  As suspected, the food was a form of mushroom, heavily spiced. Much of Talvar cuisine was such. The word itself a pejorative for his race due to their slight gray coloring. The food was hastily prepared and with little care but he fell upon it ravenously. There was no cutlery, which made him pause. What sort of Talvar would eat without cutlery? His people were notoriously prissy and formal in matters of dining. His hunger though, overcame the dozen years he’d been conditioned and he tore the large flat cap of his food apart with his hands and greedily devoured it. It tasted wonderful as only a person who had done without could appreciate. The food lasted less than a minute and he washed it down with the water, leaning back to feel a renewed purpose.

  Why the food now? Was it delivered at that juncture because he was in a trance-like state and unlikely to notice the intrusion? It seemed unlikely; he slept enough for his unconsciousness to be a common thing. Was it because of the ritual? He was here for a reason; was this a test?

  There were no answers forthcoming, no reasonable deductions he could make on such little evidence so he put it to the back of his mind. To waste brainpower on an unsolvable riddle was fruitless.

  He lay down on the floor beside the bed, having decided that the floor would be a better place to sleep. He didn't expect anything to be different when he awoke and it was not. Having no way to accurately track the passage of time beyond his own memories and guesses, he couldn't be sure that this theory would bear fruit, but he had nothing to lose. He purposely did not do any exercises over what he imagined was the next day. He started to feel hungry again and his lips started to become dry, a sure sign that dehydration was coming his way. No food or drink appeared even when he had a short nap, almost daring someone to deliver food.

  When he had reached the level at which he would become uncomfortable, he sat on the floor, cross-legged in the age old posture of meditation and started to run through the formulas and rites that he had learned throughout his childhood; rites that some would consider unsuitable for a child of twelve. False modesty and behaviors based on emotions were almost an anathema to the Talvar so there was no such thing as censorship and the phrase “not for children” had no meaning. His ability to memorize was impressive even for a Talvar and he was able to race through all of the formulas he knew within two hours.

  The trance he entered when reciting the texts to himself was deep, yet not uncommon for his people. As academics they had worked long and hard to prepare their minds satisfactorily to be ready for vast swathes of knowledge. To speak aloud all that he had raced through would have taken the better part of an entire week. He had contemplated the formulas and rites so often that they occupied a permanent part of his subconscious, allowing him to instantly be able to quote any part of his people’s main body of work; the secrets of demon summoning and the arts of physical transformation.

  So profound was his trance that again, the moment his consciousness was back in its physical seat, he only then knew someone had been in the room. Similar smells to the previous visit and almost a feeling of another presence, though “feeling” was not something he did without concrete data to base that feeling on. Whoever had been in the room left more than just food this time; there was a small bottle of the rosemary based wine that in small quantities enhanced the memory.

  He ate the food quickly and drank the wine, happy for new flavors and some measure of accomplishment that he now understood a little more of what would impress or satisfy his mystery visitor.

  Sjarcu almost jumped when he realized that there was more different to the room that he had first thought. Upon the small table by the bed sat two leather bound tomes. He reached over the bed and scooped them up. Both were dark brown with dark blue bindings, well used although well kept. He handled them gently, due both to the Talvar’s inherent love of books and his desire to keep his captor on-side. He sat cross-legged on the floor, the hard surface more likely to keep him focused; comfort is the enemy of learning and a friend to daydreaming. Carefully, he turned back the cover of the first. Not knowing what to expect he felt a little chagrin to see that the book he held in his hands was one he knew well. In fact, one he could recite from memory.

  The Seven Theorems of Matter was a child’s book, almost on par with the classic bedtime story, Markel’s Ancient Kingdoms. Every Talvar knew this book, though probably not as well as he with his love of Ardomancy; the Seven Theorems a prerequisite of study for that art. He quickly paged through it to ensure there was no secrets handwritten within or words different to the version he knew, Nothing. He mentally shrugged, maybe his captor thought him a dullard. Better to be underestimated then.

  The second book was so similar in size and shape and for a moment he thought the two might be a copy of the other. Until he opened the cover. The script was unrecognizable; a sort of flowery, thick-lettered, cursive form of handwriting. Quite different to the runic alphabet that the Talvar used. They eschewed fanciful adornments in all walks of life, apparel, writing and architecture included.

  Why would he be given two books like these. One he knew by heart and the other incomprehensible. On one hand his gaoler may believe him to be the child he appeared and gave him something simple to read, but then why also give him something presumably beyond a child’s ken? He believed his mystery host to be Talvar. How else would he be able to provide their distinct mushroom based food and the rosemary wine? In which case there would be a reason for the actions and not just as some random frippery. A real reason existed behind the provision of these two volumes and he sat quietly considering it.

  After a few minutes of unmoving contemplation he regarded the books again. They were not just similarly bound and covered but they were virtually indistinguishable from each other when closed. Always the books he had read, a goodly number, had the title on the front cover, often with a sub title to supply a clue to the subject matter for the first time reader. Here that was absent in both cases. These two books were the same book in this peculiarity, but in what else? It was obvious once that leap had been made.

  He placed them on the floor side by side, open to the first page. Looking from one to the other. If the unknown script’s letters represented individual sounds as well as diphthongs, like his own Talvar script, then the second tome was not merely a different alphabet but a different language. While that would seem an obvious fact, he was trained to verify facts and not just believe in conclusions any more than was necessary. He was able to check a supposition therefore he did.

  With nothing else to do, it seemed a reasonable activity to translate then, the alien alphabet. A writing instrument and paper would have, on the surface of it, made the task much easier and quicker, but he was able to use the Eime. His father had ensured he understood this much vaunted practice and encouraged him to learn and utilize it when he could. With words the exercise was easier than with events as letters contained no subjectivity, while events often were experienced differently by multiple viewers. The Eime itself was merely an advanced memory trick. The word itself was the same as a Talvar word for the night sky, the vast reaches of the unending blackness, the space between the worlds.

  Sjarcu started by mentally opening a doorway to the Eime in his mind. It was a infinitely immense black area with pinpoints of light in the far distance. He then started to pull from memory, sentences from the Seven Theorems and placing them in the vast space, visualizing them as outlined in orange fire. He chose sentences that were similar to each other, in form and structure and also in intent and meaning. He then searched in the unreadable volume for what might be the corresponding sentences. While punctuation was of course different, sentence breaks seemed recognizable.

  Again and again he did this until he had mapped out the entirety of the pair of books. He placed what he believed to be matched pairs together in the unending emptiness and when he believed he had a word or set of words that were a definite match, he copied them to a new section and highlighted them in blue flame.

  Using this painstaking process
he was able to roughly translate this unheard of language. Of course, he had no idea how it sounded, but that didn't lessen his feeling of triumph when he had finished and could read the previously unknown script. The entire exercise took him several hours and he was incredibly weary and sleep and food were high on his list of requirements. No food being present he settled down on the floor next to his bed and slept the sleep of the satisfied, happy that he was making progress. Towards what, he didn't know, but often the doing the is more righteous than the lust towards a result.

  When he awoke again it was very warm in the room, the books were gone and had been replaced by a box of dark wood besides which was a lantern. That was welcome, constant darkness was depressing even for his people and made it difficult to maintain a sense of time. It was a typical Talvar design, functional rather than attractive yet the simple lines and superior craftsmanship rendered it pleasant to look at nevertheless. The metal frame was thin, specially tempered glass kept to a maximum for light distribution, it had a basic switch function which internally conspired to create a spark and ignite the gas within. Simple inventions like this would be seen as sinister by outsiders, although it didn't help that the Talvar also specialized in Elemental and Demonic summoning, bindings and controls. He hoped that the lamp wouldn't offer any heat as he was incredibly warm and could feel the sweat on the back of his neck. He was also becoming very thirsty.

  Activating the device he looked around and saw that the room was exactly as he had imagined it would be in the light, so there was little to have been learned. This should have been his first clue.

  What should have been his second was the added presence of a wooden club which leaned against the door jamb. He had missed this in the darkness and it was not his priority. That honor belonged to the mysterious container.

  The box was roughly two feet square and entirely without ornamentation, closed with a metal latch of the kind one flips up to open. Imagining instantly that there may be something to drink within he flipped open the box and flung back the lid.

  There was a blur of motion and a sharp pain in his arm. He stepped back in fright and he noticed a green flash of movement in his peripheral vision. The pain in his arm overwhelmed his surprise within seconds and he realized with some dread that he’d been bitten. He looked down at his arm and had to search to see the puncture wounds. A snake bite, this much was certain. He'd never seen such a creature but had studied natural history and understood the nature and form of all orders of beasts, common and fantastical alike. Most snakes, he knew, were not dangerous and only few had fatal venom. What would be the intention behind putting a harmless snake into that box? What would be the point of killing him now though?

  Such thoughts were time wasted. The snake was loose in the room and judging by the excruciating pain he was experiencing, its venom quite possibly fell into the fatal category. He knew that snakes were not aggressive, generally. This one had presumably attacked due to being surprised and frustrated at its imprisonment and he drew from this that he was in no further danger. He considered briefly, finding the creature and crushing it with the club he had found, but decided that he needed to reduce his heart rate rather than increase it with physical exertion. He took deep breaths, entering a state of meditative calm, quieting his body, slowing the spread of the poison.

  His mind now was clear and he acted with pure logic and experience. He reached into the box and pulled out the other item within. A sheet of parchment. His arm cramped up with agony and he let out an unbidden yelp. Up his arm towards his shoulder the venom crept, arm rendered virtually useless and he let it drop to his side, the paper dropping to the floor. He didn't let his temper get the better of him or take hasty actions; either of these would speed his demise. Keeping calm, he bent down to collect the parchment with his good hand and examined the writing thereon. The script was utterly familiar, though he’d never seen it before today; in fact there were many dozens of words in exactly the same script still burning brightly in his Eime. Quelling his curiosity regarding how the words might sound, he consulted the immense bank of words and phrases to somehow make sense of the single sentence represented by the alien script on the page he held. Working through the thousands of permutations took mere seconds and the meaning of the words was almost immediately clear.

  Demon blood

  Burning

  Binding venom

  Without hesitation he walked slowly to the door, reached slowly for the club and lifted it carefully, resting it on his shoulder. He then turned to regard the room in full. Where would a snake hide? Under the bed.

  As a rule, Talvar do not harm living creatures without a good reason. This very literal belief among them set them apart from many other cultures. Consequently they did not eat the flesh of beasts, nor did they wage war. On the flip side to this, when they did consider it reasonable to take a life it was done without mercy. This ensured that crime was low in Talvar society, anti-social behavior was not tolerated and should it be determined that a member of the community was superfluous or harmful he or she would be executed almost instantly without warning. It was so rare as to be virtually unheard of but it was one aspect of their culture that chilled many other more “enlightened” peoples. Here, therefore, the fate of the reptile that had bitten Sjarcu was in no doubt.

  The venom was moving, slowly, up his arm and he was starting to feel more nauseated as time went on. The afflicted limb was useless and he didn't want to expend any more energy than necessary, so moving the bed was out of the question, as was crawling beneath it. He needed to flush the creature out and quickly. Sjarcu retrieved the empty rosemary wine bottle from the corner and lay it on its side near the bed. He didn't even want to look under the bed, the roughly ten inch gap dark beyond a couple of inches. One bite was more than enough. He could feel his breathing becoming more labored as the poison took its toll; his movements not helping with keeping his heart rate down.

  He kicked the bottle, his big toe shot a spear of pain up his leg, his thin leather shoes not reinforced in any way. He ignored the sharp shot of agony to remove his conscious expectations, falling into the Kehan, the state of watchfulness that precludes assumption and inspires reaction. His body, despite his toe, despite the poison coursing through his veins, despite his heavy, swinging arm, in a state of calm readiness. The small bottle clinked noisily on the hard wooden floor, smashing as it hit the back wall, so hard was it kicked,

  With much less speed than he was expecting the snake emerged from under the bed, seeking a calmer refuge. It was thinner as well than he had imagined, having the girth of his middle and index fingers held together. The creature was light green in color with red markings in its angular head. Under other circumstances he would marvel from a distance at the incredible diversity of living things and think through how it would have adapted to have such a form. Like the Talvar, Nature did nothing by accident and his people appreciated that well. There being an excellent reason for his next action, he took it without regret. The snake hadn’t even cleared the cover of the bed when Sjarcu’s club smashed its head into the floor. There was a solid crunch as its skull was crushed. The body whipped around once and then was still.

  There was no time for reflection. Sjarcu didn't understand the instructions perfectly, so incomplete were they, but he knew that time was of the essence, his chest pains testament to that.

  He reached over, feeling dizzy, to pick up the lamp. He understood well the workings of these inventions, having dismantled and reconstructed half a dozen of them as a child. The gas or oil fumes were ignited by a spark and the moment he smashed the lamp against the bed’s frame he knew it wasn’t the right type of ignition mechanism for him to create fire outside of the lamp. In fact, by smashing the lamp he had rendered it useless. He could feel the panic rising in him, his breath quickening, his heart pounding out of control, the venom coursing its way through his body and his inhalations came with a new wheezing sound.

  Almost reflexively, his body fell away, hi
s mind taking on a new state. K’sha. The Little Death. He'd, of course, read about it and studied it, but it was forbidden to most to attempt it. For there was scant need. To place oneself into a trance state where the mind is free to wander but the physical body is left in a catatonic state, is mostly pointless. For the times when it became necessary; madness, surgical procedures, difficult childbirth, there was a herbal infusion that would assist the transition. He wracked his brains to remember what it was but the lore was so esoteric, he hadn't seen a need to retain that information. So vast was the body of knowledge a Talvar was expected to learn, often superfluous data was deliberately and systematically forgotten. Many of their greatest scholars had been lost to Mok’Sha, the Grand Death, a fate worse than actual death and this could be directly attributable to too much learning. Too much unfocused learning. Without wondering why it was happening he started to work through the benefits.

  Seeing his own body from somewhere ‘outside’ he could control his physical host without the pain of his protesting limbs, increasing his efficiency rate and reducing the chance of breaking down into failure. There was also the matter of Ardomancy. He was a prodigy in this field. Outsiders would term it magic and the Talvar didn’t dissuade or correct this opinion. They viewed others as superstitious and unintelligent on the whole so were happy to preserve mysteries. His puissance in this skill would enable him to channel energy through his physical form so although the lamp was no help, he could provide the necessary spark after all. Without draining the last of his strength. Were he still materially bound, such a exertion would surely have finished him off. His visible aura was dull, giving further indication of his weakened state. To a bystander it would look as though his body was sleepwalking; it moved jerkily and without the niceties of a closed mouth or normal posture. Sjarcu could barely look at it and was sure that had he a physical stomach it would be churning.