by Chris Fox
He headed back out into the sitting room, and Aran followed and dropped into a seat across from Pickus, dragging over the closest bowl and giving it a sniff. A heady cinnamon smell rose up.
Aran picked up a spoon and gave the gruel a try. “You’re right. Not bad.” He shoveled in food as fast as he could, a habit he’d picked up quickly after being conscripted.
“So where’s the captain?” Pickus asked. He withdrew a small soldering iron from his belt, then pulled his glasses from his face. He held them up to inspect the bent frame.
“I don’t know. It’s odd she’d leave without a note, but if there’s any single thing that might make her forget to, it would be the lure of this place. She loves knowledge almost as much as Nara does.”
Nara entered the room with a stifled yawn of her own. “Almost as much as Nara what?”
“Loves books.” Pickus bent over his glasses and used the soldering iron to heat the bridge. He twisted the frame, then inspected it carefully.
Aran finished his bowl and set it back on the table. “Voria’s out in the library somewhere, or so we’re guessing.”
Nara eyed one of the bowls dubiously. “What is that?”
“Oatmeal?” Aran shrugged. “Or something very much like it. If you’re hungry, have some. If not, the sooner we find Voria, the happier I’ll be.”
Pickus gave his glasses another twist, then applied the soldering iron again. “I’m going to stay here while you adventurous types go do your thing. I’m, uh, not a huge fan of spiders.”
Nara gave the table a wide berth and moved to join Aran at the doorway into the library. “I think I’ll pass on the spider goop.”
They entered the library proper, and Aran started walking toward the center. Before long, they encountered one of the arachnid creatures.
Aran approached. “Custodian?”
“Hmm?” The creature’s many eyes swiveled in his direction.
“We’re looking for one of our companions—Voria. Brown hair. Blue coat.”
“Ah, yes. She has just completed her audience with Neith. Yours is next, I believe.” The spider raised a leg covered in bristly spines and pointed it at a massive set of double doors. “Go there. Enter one at a time. Neith will make all clear.”
Aran looked to Nara, who shrugged.
“Thank you.” He bowed to the spider, and they moved off.
Nara walked beside him, leaning closer to speak. “These things creep me out. Do you think there’s any chance they’re lying?”
“There’s a chance, but until we see the major, we won’t know for sure.” Aran frowned as he walked. “I don’t like not knowing, and I don’t like splitting up. Even when we’re not being attacked, I feel like we’re about to be. It’s like I can’t put it down.”
“I know what you mean. I feel like we’re being watched. Always.” She shook her head. “At least I know you’ve got my back.”
“Always.”
They finally reached the doors, which were larger, more intricate versions of the ones he’d seen in the Tender’s palace. They opened silently inward, showing cavernous darkness.
“Ladies first?”
“Yeah, no.” Nara laughed. “Good luck, sir.”
“Oh, now it’s sir.” He started into the darkness, settling his helmet over his head.
The doors closed silently behind him, separating him from Nara. Aran’s hand shot into his void pocket, and he snapped his rifle to his shoulder.
“You’d likely have more success with the blade,” something rumbled from the darkness. The words rattled his teeth, even through his suit’s dampeners. “A spellblade could, theoretically at least, harm me. The rifle cannot generate a spell powerful enough to bypass my natural defenses.”
Eight fires slowly warmed to life, and Aran realized they were eyes. They provided enough light to see the outlines of the creature, but most of it was still clothed in shadow. His mind filled in the arachnidrake’s awful details.
Aran lowered the rifle. “You’re even larger than Drakkon.” He withdrew his spellblade in his free hand, but he made no threatening gestures with it. “I take it you’re the goddess Neith?”
“That name is…adequate.” The spider-goddess prowled closer, flapping tremendous wings as she scuttled forward. “Do you know why I have brought you here, to this place, at this precise moment?”
“Because I’m a tool,” Aran answered instantly. He didn’t like it, but that didn’t make it any less true. “You have a specific purpose for me. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“I brought you here so you could be reshaped. Your abilities, at present, are inadequate to your purpose. In exchange for accepting this purpose, I will also grant you that which you most desire.” The spider-goddess leaned closer, and Aran took several hasty steps back. “I will show you your past.”
“You can restore my memory?” Aran perked up instantly. “I was told that was impossible—that the memories are gone.”
“I cannot restore your memory. Or rather, doing so would require magic of sufficient strength to draw attention to this world.” The spider-goddess shook her head. A single spiny hair tumbled loose, crashing to the ground not far from Aran. It was nearly as large as his armor. “However, I can show you specific moments in time—your formative memories. I can reconnect those memories to your neurological system, so you will regain full control of your martial abilities.”
“So I accept my role in your plan, and you give me back some of my memories?” Aran surprised himself with a laugh. “You’ve orchestrated all of this, haven’t you? Our arrival on this world. Me being mind-wiped. Even Nara.”
“Indeed,” the goddess said, her voice thrumming through Aran’s armor. “Each event surrounding your arrival here has been carefully orchestrated since the atoms that comprise your body were still part of a star. Your assignment to the Wyrm Father known as Rolf was my doing. As was your involvement with the Heart of Nefarius, and later the Skull of Xal.”
“I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about.”
“You will. Very soon. But first, the reshaping.”
Immense magical power radiated outward from the spider-goddess. It wasn’t at all like the wave of violent energies that had burst forth from Marid, or even like the cold light of Xal. This was controlled, measured. Guided by a living god.
The power thrummed into Aran, infusing his armor, then moving within to transform him as well. Where Xal had been a fight not to be drawn into a chaos that would destroy him, Neith burned pure and steady, the cleanest of all flame.
“Your armor has more complexity than your spellrifle or spellblade,” Neith rumbled. “I can infuse it with far greater strength and speed, but the ability must be fueled by fire magic. To aid this, I impart to you the magic of flame. With the mastery of this aspect, your destructive capabilities are complete. You can now be forged into the weapon you were always meant to be.”
Aran noted that the spellrifle didn’t change at all.
“Yes, it is limited. Marid has already touched it, and the weapon possesses no room for further enchantment. Your blade, however, does.”
Aran’s spellblade flared white, and waves of intense heat warped the air around the weapon.
“This magic will ensure that the weapon will pierce the scales of all but the mightiest of Wyrms. This ability, and those imparted to the armor, are chosen to address threats you will encounter in the near future. You are as well-armed as I can make you.”
“Not yet, I’m not,” Aran countered. He returned his rifle to the void pocket, but kept the sword out. It had changed in more than just the new ability. The blade had grown smarter. He could feel its mind, and their connection. Aran looked up at the goddess. “You said you could give me part of my memory back. You want me to be the best servant you can make? Give me back my life, and I will happily fulfill my role.”
“Sit, mortal. This will not end quickly, and there may be some…discomfort.”
38
AN
SWERS
Aran fell backward into infinity.
The universe spun out around him, and he perceived a million billion new senses. He understood that time wasn’t linear, but neither was it cyclical. It was an explosion of possibilities leading endlessly in all directions.
All secrets were clear—every scrap of knowledge generated by trillions of lives over millions of years. Neith’s mind encompassed an impossible span of information, making even Xal insignificant.
Yes. Neith spoke into his mind. You perceive as I perceive. The impression will live inside you, a constant reminder of the scope of what you battle for.
They zoomed through space and time, tunneling through reality with a truly frightening ease. They arrived at a large, purple world orbiting a golden sun. Power pulsed rhythmically from the world, and part of Neith recognized and called out to that power.
My younger sister, Virkonna, Neith explained. She slumbers on that world, protected by her children’s children.
“Why doesn’t she wake up?” Aran asked. He couldn’t feel his body, and wasn’t sure how he voiced the question.
But Neith responded. Her slumber is a manifestation of crippling grief caused by the death of our mother. It is not an easy thing for me to accept, even after all these millennia. It was much harder for Virkonna. She was closer to mother. The blow at her death was…incalculable. My sister will only awaken at the end, yet she will be present for the final battle.
The world grew slowly larger until they were close enough to see ships lifting off from the surface. Only most of the “ships” had wings. Dozens of dragons flitted to and from the planet, spellfighters streaking in little clusters behind them.
“A world ruled by dragons?” Aran asked in wonder. Some of the ships were of Inuran design, and tiny figures in spellarmor flitted around some of the dragons. “Working with people?”
Such was once the way of things. The dragonflights protected this sector, and many others. Each Wyrm Father or Wyrm Mother ruled their own world. Some warred upon each other, but for the most part there was peace. Until Nefarious shattered that peace, and Krox dealt its deathblow many centuries later.
“Why are you showing me this?” Aran asked. They dropped through high orbit, zipping past dragons, down toward a mountainous region below.
We witness your past.
They dropped down toward a golden pyramid surrounded by several warring armies. Soldiers on all sides wore the same loose, flowing outfits, and all carried primitive melee weapons. The only thing to distinguish each side was the color of the patch sewn onto their shoulders.
The people themselves were varied, some dark-skinned, some light. They must have come from a variety of climates and regions, all brought together here for whatever had sparked their war.
To come to be chosen, Neith explained. It unnerved Aran that she could hear his thoughts. My sister takes a very pragmatic approach to her children. Only the most fit are elevated.
Two of the armies—one side with black and scarlet patches, the other with gold and blue—pushed toward the top of the pyramid. Aran’s perspective zipped closer, and he could make out individual skirmishes now. The style used by the combatants was familiar: Aggressive, mobile. They leapt and kicked, flowing around each other in a deadly dance. Some were as old as forty or fifty, but most were young.
The perspective fell toward a boy no more than fifteen. He wore a blue-and-gold patch, and fought alongside several older soldiers.
They were surrounded by black and scarlet patches, pressed steadily backward toward the edge of that level of the pyramid. Abruptly, one of the black-and-scarlet patches was lifted into the air. A bolt of blue-white lightning shot down from the tip of the pyramid, lancing into the floating woman’s chest. Power crackled around her, then a torrent of light burst from her eyes and mouth.
She landed, then straightened. Magical electricity crackled around her hands now, the same ability Aran used.
“What did I just see?” Aran asked.
Most Catalysts are simply the remains of my brethren. These fallen gods bestow power on whomever or whatever approaches, with no conscious decision on how much, or to whom. My sister sleeps, but she still lives. Her will selects those she deems worthy, and grants them air magic. That is the entire purpose of this battle, to give the victors magic so they can be elevated into the dragonflight.
The newly catalyzed air mage leapt over the blue and gold bands. She thrust out a hand as she landed, and an intense gust of wind knocked four of her opponents off the side of the pyramid, out over the abyss.
The fifteen-year-old sprinted to the edge and slammed his blade into the stone. The tip sank in, and he gripped the hilt with one hand while the other unfurled his belt. He flung the buckle to a scarlet-haired girl. She seized it, and the boy strained to redirect her momentum.
The scarlet-haired girl rolled back onto the the stone, immediately charging the air mage. The air mage’s fists crackled with electricity, and she launched a quick punch. The scarlet-haired girl ducked into a slide, easily dodging the blow. Her fists came up in a flurry of blows, punching her opponent in the groin and stomach.
The boy ripped his blade from the stone, and leapt into the air. He brought it down in a wide arc, the blade humming as it picked up momentum. The tip sliced through the air mage’s throat, sending a fountain of ruby droplets into the sky.
Another bolt of lightning shot from the tip of the pyramid, this time forking into both the boy, and the scarlet-haired girl.
You and your sister, gaining the favor of mine.
The siblings became a force of nature, slaughtering their way through their opponents. “Is the use of air magic instinctual? That kid is throwing lightning bolts like he’s been doing it all his life.”
The magic is well understood by their culture. Every child prays to Virkonna each evening. They visualize themselves having these abilities, using them. From the time they can walk children pretend to throw gusts of wind, or fly through the air. They live and breathe because of the same element: air. It is their entire culture.
“So, if that kid is me, what happened to him now that he was chosen?” Aran asked. The boy and his sister continued to devastate the enemy, pushing their line further and further back. He had a sister. Or rather, he had during this memory. He didn’t want to assume she was still alive, only to find out she’d died years ago.
Watch.
Aran observed the passage of years, somehow able to understand everything that was happening as it flowed by in a blur. His younger self trained endlessly, always trying to impress his sister. She was the gifted one, effortlessly mastering the things he struggled with.
He had his heart broken, and a few bones. He lived and learned alongside dragons, moving with his part of the flight once he was old enough. His sister was assigned to the same flight, and rose quickly through the ranks. Aran did not.
You wonder if you possess some defect. No. This possibility was manufactured. It was important that you be unremarkable in all ways, your potential stifled. This made it nearly impossible for even other gods to track the possibility of your existence. Especially after the mind-wipe eradicated all but a few possibilities with you in them.
“So…you sabotaged my training and advancement, then arranged to have my memories stolen? Wow. You guys are hard core.”
Indeed. Gods do tend to be hard core. You have viewed the universe through my eyes; you know the stakes, and understand the parameters of the war.
“Yeah, and I’m not complaining. I probably would have an hour ago, but seeing all this, I get why you do what you do. What seems unfair to me personally ensures the survival of whole worlds.” Aran hated that he was accepting this, but wasn’t it the smartest path? Like it or not, he’d been picked for something greater, and he could either fight it tooth and nail or accept the fact and try to adapt.
This, too, was part of the possibility. Your mind has been shaped, all in service of this precise moment. Now witness the rest o
f your past.
Aran stayed an apprentice far longer than his sister, and didn’t become a full Outrider until he was twenty-two. Time slowed, and focused on an Aran the same age as he currently was. He prowled with a deadly grace, the same instinctual grace he used now. This couldn’t have been too long ago.
I return this to you.
Wave after wave of magical power rushed through him, each containing another memory of him fighting, or training. Blinding agony shot through his temples, then flowed down his entire nervous system in a river of awful flame. It seared him, scouring away conscious thought.
Forms and stances flowed into his mind, fleeting memories of thousands of hours of practice. He understood the movements now, remembered practicing them endlessly. Finally, the fire ceased.
He stood once again in the dimly lit cavern, staring up at Neith’s bulbous eyes. Any fear he might have felt was gone now, replaced by confident reverence. He bowed low to Neith, who gave an amused laugh.
“Did you find what you sought?”
Aran looked down at himself in wonder. “I know Drakon Style.”
“Yes, and just in time. Now you must use the abilities I have given you. Save them, vessel. Save them all.”
“Save who?” Aran asked, blinking up at the goddess.
She retreated back into the shadows, and smothering darkness drenched the room. A pair of double doors at the top of a set of long stairs suddenly opened, showing a sliver of light.
39
SMARTER
Nara shifted from foot to foot, wishing she knew what was happening on the other side of those terrible doors. Since she had nothing but time, she started trying to trace the sigils with her mind, to understand the myriad spells the dragon scales and their sigils had constructed. It involved all eight aspects, and if she was reading it correctly, all eight greater paths.
Granted, she had only a few weeks of magical training, but Eros had been quite clear that such a combination was impossible. It shouldn’t surprise her that a goddess’s understanding of magic would dwarf their own.