by David Pauly
Raghnall seemed intrigued by these words. 'All of your people eventually die, Bran. They can accept it. Why can't you?'
With a weak yet vehement voice, Bran said, 'You may be wise, Raghnall, wise beyond the vision of Men and Elves alike, but you are blind when it comes to the hearts of mortal beings. Can you not guess what I have always wanted?
Raghnall thought a moment, then said, 'No, I cannot.'
'Family,' cried Bran. 'A sense of belonging somewhere; belonging to someone, of believing in something that mattered; a sense of purpose. I was orphaned at an early age. My parents died of an evil plague that came from a Gracie who traded in the far east of Nostraterra. I was raised by distant wealthy cousins. I lacked for nothing, but I did not have any family. I was always alone. I had a few friends, and they provided great comfort at the time, and I didn't understand until much later all that I was missing. I became an acolyte of the Gardens to give myself some purpose, and then undertook my dark journey in the hope of preserving Platonia from harm.
'Magnar represented a danger to Platonia, and as long as he lived, my people were in danger. While they were not my immediate family, they were the only family that I knew. I took the Waters of Life to the Plaga Erebus and poured them into the breach hewn into the conduits of Dark Lightning, destroying the power of Magnar: hoping that with his destruction I could return to a home unscathed by war and anguish, that the tramp of boots from evil creatures would not be heard in the quiet fields or family taverns of Platonia. Yet it was not to be. I came here to preserve my life, in hope of peace and healing. Yet that hope, too, has been dashed. I am dying. I am so afraid that my sacrifice and those of the other Gracies will be in vain! Platonia is still in danger—worse danger than ever. I know it! And there is nothing I can do to help.'
'Your sacrifice was not in vain,' replied Raghnall. 'All that you desired to preserve was preserved. Your cousins and Platonia were saved along with the rest of Nostraterra. Take solace in that.'
'Thoughts of what is past cannot assuage my fears of what the future may hold,' Bran said. 'That is what torments me now. What happens after we die, Raghnall? Where will I go? What will I become?'
Raghnall answered softly. 'Your questions have been asked by many mortals. And many are the answers they have given themselves. All the Spirits that oversee Nostraterra demand faith, but they will not give certainty in exchange; unfair perhaps, but then you mortals are myriad mayflies in a perpetual morning that they—'
'I do not mean to be rude,' said Bran, interrupting, 'but my questions have only one answer. I do not belong anywhere. I have been bereft of kin since I was born. Alas, that is my doom. I only wish that somehow it could have been different. The least of all Gracies has a home to call his own: a family and a place in Platonia. He is secure in the knowledge that, at least within his family, he will go on. Here I am only a name in a song, a heroic figure in a larger tale, a small thread in the greater tapestry. Please forgive me for my outburst,' he went on, seeing the effect of his words on Raghnall and Aradia. 'None of this is your fault. You have heard the maunderings of a dying Gracie who only wanted a simple life that was denied him. I fear now more than ever after my encounter yesterday that Platonia is still in danger. Keep my people and my land safe once I am gone, I beg you both.'
Aradia spoke, still kneeling beside him, clasping his hand in hers, tears streaming down her proud face. 'Bran, I do not have the answers to your questions. The Acies showed me only confused images of Platonia. Your people might be in danger now or perhaps in the future. Nothing is certain. But there is a new ship arrived this morning from Nostraterra. We can ask the crew if they have heard any tales. Hold on while we send a messenger.'
'My lady, I am trying to,' said Bran, 'but I feel my life departing quickly now.' With those words, a deep shudder wracked his body. 'I am so cold, my lady. I am so frightened. I can't see anymore.'
His breathing grew thin and rapid, his chest heaving under the blankets, gasping for air. One final word, 'Platonia,' sighing his last breath in Elvalon.
Aradia wept openly for Bran.
After several minutes, Raghnall said, 'Go in peace, my friends, for the spirit of our beloved friend is now departed. Let us honor him with our memories. There shall be a feast in his honor within Boreas, the holy grove of air, in seven days' time, his body interred in fragrant earth as is the custom of his people, but his coffin will be interred in marble at the foot of the sacred mountains.'
#
Later that day, Aradia found Raghnall standing on one of the small hills contained within the city, looking out over the waters of the harbor. Raghnall turned toward her as she approached, nodding in acknowledgment of her presence.
'Did you ask the Elves who came from over sea if there was anything to substantiate Bran's fear?' asked Aradia.
'Not yet,' he replied. 'I was waiting for them to sleep and wash away the burdens of the mortal lands.' After pausing for a moment, Raghnall asked, 'Why was Bran so afraid his sacrifices had been in vain? Despite the attack of the dark creature, it is located far away from the civilized regions of Nostraterra and no threat to Platonia. Besides, Magnar is no more. The Hraban, his terrible Black Cavalry, perished before the walls of Titania. The great Southern army that was once united in purpose and destruction fled in dissaray, pursued by the armies of Men. All of the Elemental Spirits and wizards that aided Magnar have been defeated, their avatars and bodies destroyed. The Dark Elves, who survived the war, were sent fleeing into the utter east. Even if they are allies of this blue creature, there is no indication that they will attack Platonia. None of great evils that once sought to dominate Nostraterra survived the fall of Magnar. Bran succeeded beyond his knowledge. Not only did he help destroy the Fountain, but he saved his own land from destruction. He asked us to protect Platonia after his passing, and I intend to do so, but until this attack I did not fear that any Dark Magic was left in Nostraterra. Men are the most powerful race there now. They, too, lost much in the war. I believe that they will do well by the rest of Nostraterra.'
'How can you believe that the powers of Men are preeminent and all other ancient powers removed after the attack upon Bran and me?' Aradia asked in turn. 'Clearly even an Air Spirit can be mistaken, or perhaps deluded. As the attack showed, there are still beings greater in power than Elves alive and well in Nostraterra. While the beings may now be in the far-east, how long will they remain there? Even if those terrible blue creatures stay put, there are mortals in Nostraterra who covet what the Gracies have and will stop at nothing to possess it.'
'Most Men are honorable and trustworthy,' Raghnall said. 'Are you saying that the rule of Men, even those such as the Westmen, is flawed? That they are incapable of governing themselves?'
'No,' answered Aradia. 'I am saying that while Men are capable of governing themselves—although that, too, is open for debate—there is no guarantee that Men will govern the other creatures of Nostraterra with wisdom. Not only the other mortals, but all the Elves in Nostraterra will fall under their sway. What of them? Even Celefin, Elf Lord of Phoenicia, and my son, Marcellus, must bow to the weight of Men. Men alone of all the races of Nostraterra survived the Great War essentially intact, their cities still standing, their people alive and well. All other races will have to determine how they will live under the dominion of Men. Men, given half a chance, have always fallen into darkness. How can I expect them to succeed this time? Will they become benevolent leaders or despicable tyrants? Regardless, they will have power above all others in Nostraterra, and where will that power lead them? These are the questions I will be asking the Elves who have returned,' said Aradia. 'Will you join me in asking them?'
'I will do so within the boundaries of my authority,' said Raghnall. 'You would be wise to exercise great caution in this matter. While I will not betray your confidence to my Air Spirit brethren, you walk a fine line between independence and exile. You have seen that you’re impulsive, though well-meaning instincts led you astray. You would be wise n
ot to defy the will of the Council in this regard.'
Aradia laughed. 'I cannot tell you the extent and nature of my defiance of the powers throughout the ages. They neither frighten nor disturb me. I will deal with them when the time comes.'
#
The next day, she met Raghnall at the end of the pier in the harbor of Solana. Aradia rose from a white stone bench where she had been gazing out to sea in hopes that her visions and Bran's fears would not be verified by tales from the most recent arrivals from Nostraterra. Raghnall nodded to her and gestured for her to resume her seat, then sat beside her.
'I have spoken with the crew of the ship,' he said. 'It seems you and Bran had reason to worry. Nostraterra is in danger again. When the great evil of Magnar was vanquished, you and I, along with others of the Greater Elves, thought that evil was gone forever from that long-suffering land. One thing we overlooked, however, according to your visions through the Acies and my interviews, is the unifying effect of Evil.'
'What do you mean?' asked Aradia.
'When Magnar was a power in Nostraterra,' said Raghnall, 'Men, Dwarves, and Elves put aside most of their differences and allied in a common goal to defeat him and his army. Now, without such a pervading evil, all sentient beings have been free to revive old differences and create new strife from them. Each race has its divisions, and now, without an external enemy, they may descend into chaos and war. Strong-willed leaders, wishing to enhance their own glory, will emerge here and there, carving out petty realms and tearing asunder the stable fabric of Nostraterra. In the end, our mysterious enemies, whom you glimpsed from afar, may succeed with new dark armies, creating a realm worse than that of Magnar.'
Sinking onto her knees from the bench, Aradia looked up at Raghnall. 'What can we do? I am not yet fully healed, and my magic is forbidden me again for a year, presuming that it will be reinstated even after that time.' Aradia conveniently did not mention her new magic that depended upon the Breath Flutes, but she would have to be even more careful now in practicing than she had been before.
'There is time, Aradia, for us to think of a course of action that will free Nostraterra from the darkness without and within,' Raghnall said. 'We must remember that the Acies, while powerful, will show things that have not yet come to pass and may not ever come to pass.'
'Yes, but the Blue Shape attacked through the Acies. That was no glimpse of a possible future. That was here and now. That was real.'
'True enough. The danger is real. But the future is not set in stone. Still, we cannot tarry. We must speak with your brother, Dorphin, who is sympathetic to you, and take his counsel in great secrecy, lest all our past efforts and sacrifices be rendered useless.'
INTERLUDE
Fourth Age: Year 147—Mid-summer
Creon, King of Eldora and of all the Westmen, gazed implacably down at the man responsible for the breach of peace in Occupied Shardan. Gronthin, a rebellious upstart from the far Shardan province of Parnin, lay as he had for hours now, spread-eagled over an enormous ant hill in the Shardan wastes, his naked brown body coated with honey and sugar. The man writhed uselessly against the ropes that held him in place as the fierce stinging ants of the desert introduced him to agonies that Creon wished only to prolong. The Eldoran king did not bother to disguise his smirk of triumph at the spectacle of this treacherous, callow man who had dared oppose him.
A thin, dry wind was blowing on the high plateau. Scrub pines and sand dunes sprawled haphazardly under a brilliant, cloudless sky of dark blue. The only sounds were the shrieks and groans and maddened mutterings of the condemned man, and the busy scratching of the pens of the royal scribes as they recorded every detail for subsequent review. The sour and stale odor of sweat from men and horses hung heavy in the air, unmoved by the wind. Only the faint hint of resinous oils from the pines alleviated the stench of overheated bodies, honey, and death.
Gronthin was not the first to taste justice here. The bones of other Shardan rebels and criminals gleamed dully amid the heaped sand of other insect mounds. Skulls scoured free of flesh gazed up at the sky with empty eye sockets.
Creon spat. No matter how much water he drank, he couldn't clear the grit from his mouth. Though he wore the lightest of silks, still he was sweating like a peasant. This was a foul land. No wonder it bred traitors and assassins.
Discontent and evil always sprang from the South, whether it was the terrifying might of Plaga Erebus or the incessant rebellion that lurked within the heart of every man not historically allied to Eldora. Time and again, Creon had crushed the uprisings in Shardan and Hagar, only to see them sprout again, vile weeds in his otherwise tidy garden. The original wars of pacification had gone well, but with heavy cost. Shardan had fought stubbornly and tenaciously. Only after fifty-nine years of struggle had the great Treaty of Jelani been signed; by the Northmen from Kozak, the Westmen from Eldora, and the lords of Shardan. The Great Peace of the South, as it was colloquially known, had lasted for decades, until this one rebel leader had threatened to bring it all crashing down by assassinating the King of Shardan and the Eldoran ambassador. Gronthin had been captured immediately after the murders, but the damage had already been done, the example set. He'd claimed to have no memory of the attack, and he had stuck to that absurd story throughout his interrogation, revealing nothing of value. It was that intransigence, as much as his crimes, that was to blame for the grisly manner of his execution.
Now, as the day began to wear to a close, the stream of words from the prostrate, writhing figure became more disjointed and unintelligible. Gronthin suddenly paused and drew in a rattling breath. Creon leaned closer to hear his dying words. Wrinkling his nose at the stench and ignoring the fierce heat beating up from the sands despite the shades held over his back by sweating servants, Creon waited with grim elation for the foul creature's final croak. The creak of leather saddles and the sounds of boots moving as the guards tried to shift their cramping muscles without leaving their assigned positions seemed impossibly loud to Creon, and he began call out irritably for silence. But then Gronthin began speaking again. His voice was cracked but strong, and his words were in the native Shardan tongue, unknown to Creon.
'What is he saying now?' demanded Creon of his interpreter.
'He is not making any sense, my King,' the man said, looking up at Creon, who, at well over six feet, towered over every man present. 'He is saying, "The dark one is coming, the dark blue one whose powers can move heaven and earth. Atanar save me from the pain, save me from the white men." He continues to repeat this over and over again.'
'Atanar? Who is that—another rebel?'
'I have never heard the name before,' the interpreter replied.
'Bah. He is raving.' Creon looked at Gronthin's brown skin, blistered and red from the ferocious sun despite Gronthin's origin in the deep desert. Gronthin had spent the first hours pleading for mercy and water, than begged for a quick death, before finally lapsing into raspy, intermittently coherent mutterings. Creon noticed that his shadow had fallen over Gronthin's body, and it occurred to him that he might inadvertently be comforting the condemned man. The notion filled him with fresh rage, and he stepped forward, drawing back his boot to deliver a vicious kick to the cowardly assassin who had, however briefly, fanned the flames of rebellion again.
But before he could deliver this final insult, Creon suddenly felt a wave of tremendous fear rise up in him. As the veteran of a hundred battles, he was no stranger to fear, but always he had been its master. Not now. The icy cold terror that raced along his spine was like nothing he had ever felt before.
Without thinking, he turned and ran away from the staked-out man, leaving his aides, guards, scribes, and interpreter behind as he stumbled across sand and broken stone, breath rasping from sun-dried lips. Only after a few hundred yards was he able to master himself sufficiently to stop. Looking back, he saw nothing that had not been there before the blind terror had overwhelmed him. Angry at himself and feeling conscious of having humiliated him
self before his inferiors, he began striding back.
He had not taken more than a dozen steps when he felt the hairs on the back of his arms and his head stand straight up. An incredibly loud, high-pitched sound, such as tens of thousands of mosquitoes might make, pressed upon his skull from all directions. He halted as though he'd run into a wall. But in the next instant the sound was gone, vanished as suddenly as it had arisen. Creon shook his head. The fear threatened to return, but he fought it off. Some of his guards, he saw, had started toward him. He motioned them back irritably even as he advanced again in their direction.
Then, out of nowhere, a bolt of lightning split the dry desert air just beyond the figure of Gronthin. It hit the sand with a deafening crack, throwing up a cloud of sand and smoke that completely obscured the rebel. The dark cloud did not disperse. It hung in mid-air, a foggy void from which, like some demonic exhalation, a rush of unnaturally frigid air. Despite his distance, Creon shivered at the icy blast. His men, closer, reacted with panic, as did the horses, straining against their tethers and whinnying loudly. One animal broke free and came straight at Creon, fleeing blindly in its terror, just as he had done a moment earlier. Creon had to throw himself aside to avoid being trampled.
He hit the sand, rolled, and regained his feet to a chorus of screams. He turned toward them . . . and staggered. Not from fear but from sheer disbelief. A vast blue figure, man-shaped yet over ten feet tall; emerged from the fog. A great cloak draped its body; its face was hidden by a large cowl. It hovered above the sands of the desert, and tendrils of lightning emanated from its form, slaying all who were near.
Even as Creon watched, muttering a prayer to the Earth Spirits, a bolt flashed toward him. It fell just short, though the tremendous thunderclap nearly bowled him over. He felt the heat of lightning on his face and braced himself against a tremendous icy wind that began once again to blow from the void. A great black cloud billowed from the shape, concealing all but the figure itself as several men, trying to flee, were slowly and inexorably dragged into the maelstrom. Arrows snapped and hissed toward the Blue Apparition but were reflected back toward the men who had sent them on their way. They screamed as their own arrows cut them down. Creon watched the bodies of the slain float above the sands, seeming to respond to subtle arm gestures of the shape, moving in a macabre dance as it drew them into its blue cloud. Gronthin's tortured form was ripped from the sands, his hoarse voice lost in the tumult as he disappeared within the black cloud.