Cronica Acadia

by C. J. Deering

  “I say jump,” said Nerdraaage. “We have a healer right here.”

  “I can’t heal splats,” said Ashlyn.

  “Oh sorry,” said Dangalf. “It says right here: ‘After use return for repair and repacking.’”

  “Okay, you have a fake flying cloak,” said Nerdraaage. “Good. I still have the best gift.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ashlyn. “Doppel hasn’t opened his.”

  “Oh, right,” said Nerdraaage. “Biggest and best gift last!”

  “I’ll open it later,” Doppelganger said.

  “Go on,” insisted Ashlyn.

  Doppelganger lifted his gift onto the table. He unpacked boxes within boxes and unwound wrapping after wrapping.

  “I’ll laugh so hard if there’s nothing in there,” said Nerdraaage. Finally Doppelganger uncovered a shining, silvery-white breastplate. He set it on the table standing upright. The others marveled at it. Dangalf could find no parallel for its color other than the Acadian moon itself.

  Nerdraaage picked it up. “It’s so light.”

  “It’s adamantine,” said Doppelganger, and off the looks of his friends explained: “It was not all skirmishing and verbal abuse with Alfred. I also learned about different armor.”

  “It would be worth more than gold,” said Nerdraaage.

  “Is there anything with it?” asked Ashlyn.

  “Nothing,” said Doppelganger feeling again through the wrapping. “Not even a note.” He had thought that maybe Dymphna ignored him on her departure for the sake of decorum. But he had hoped that she would send him a note when she had the chance, and this had been a chance. I see a time when we are parted. And during that time look for me close to your heart.

  “You’ll have to wear something over that,” said Dangalf. “We would all be killed for that.” Doppelganger nodded but did not touch the armor as Nerdraaage set it back down on the table.

  “Okay,” conceded Nerdraaage. “You have the best gift.”

  “Don’t be an ingrate,” said Ashlyn.

  “I wasn’t being an ingrate,” he insisted. “I have the second-best gift.”

  “I think the best gift she gave to all of us,” said Dangalf. “Her prophecy.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Nerdraaage. “The prophecy. How did that go again?”

  “She saw a vision of our summoner,” said Dangalf impatiently. “An outsider living among strangers. And we would meet him where the sky touches the center of the earth. Has no one else considered this riddle?”

  “I’ve been busy,” said Nerdraaage.

  “I thought about it a little bit,” said Ashlyn.

  “You’re the White School,” said Nerdraaage. “We just expected you to figure it out. You have the divination deck.”

  “Yes,” said Dangalf. “We should use the divination deck. Out in the woods away from Templa Taur.”

  “Why out in the woods?” asked Nerdraaage.

  “We must escape the safety and light of the town,” said Dangalf.

  “How do you know that?” asked Ashlyn.

  Dangalf recalled a line from How the Dead Lie, one of the divination books borrowed from Weyd: “He can not penetrate the darkness who looks from a lighted room and the edge of the precipice provides the best view of the abyss.”

  “When?” asked Ashlyn.

  “The last day of the month. At thirteen o’clock.”

  “I’m pretty sure there’s no such hour.”

  “There is that night. Acadian days are not exactly twenty-four hours, so they have a periodic thirteenth hour, which is a very black time. Celebrated by all sorts of wicked creatures. It will be perfect for our purposes.”

  Ashlyn excused herself for her training. Nerdraaage gathered the boxes and wrapping and said he would sell it, with the coin going to the communal fund. Doppelganger and Dangalf were alone for a moment, which didn’t happen much anymore. Doppelganger studied the armor without touching it. “She said she would write me,” he said. “I would rather have had a letter than the adamantine.”

  “Well, you got adamantine,” reasoned Dangalf. “Look, she’s a princess. She’s busy.”

  “She’s eighteenth in line to the throne. What could she be doing?”

  “Opening shopping malls? She may still write you. There’s no reason you can’t write her.”

  “Dear Princess. Remember me? I’m the mercenary who smelled so bad you had to give me a bath.”

  “Stop obsessing over her,” said Dangalf. “If you must obsess on something, obsess on the riddle she gave us!”

  “I no longer have the patience for that. For study or learning. I have no interest in it, and I don’t think I’d be very good at it if I tried.” Doppelganger spoke words that Dangalf knew to be true but had been hesitant to admit even to himself. The funny, curious, and educated Doppelganger had changed since coming to this world. They all had changed, but he feared that Doppelganger had lost something of himself that the others had not despite their transformations. Making Doppelganger’s retreat into his lizard brain all the more jarring was the expansion of Dangalf’s own brain. The interaction between memory, analysis, and creativity was faster and freer than it had been for him in the old world, even though his brain mass was unchanged. He has always enjoyed learning, but now it was intoxicating because he learned easily and recalled effortlessly. He reveled in the release of dopamine and white bile as he tackled and solved problems. But his thrilling intellect could only comprehend sadness for Doppelganger’s diminished capacity even as he was determined not to make his pity obvious.

  LXXII

  On the last day of the month, the three male Keepers sat at their usual table and drank. Dangalf’s eyes were closed in semislumber. His companions found his companionship lacking, even annoying.

  “Wake up!” said Doppelganger.

  “Sorry,” said Dangalf. “I was reading about a horrific massacre.”

  “We could tell by your smile.”

  “Oh, no. I was happy because it was not far from here. A perfect place for our séance.” Before Dangalf could go into detail, his companions looked to the entrance of the inn. Dangalf as well turned to see a magnificent, knightly figure just entered and looking about. A fierce warrior he appeared but for the perfection of his armor and the cleanness of his face. He wore a tabard of pristine white, bordered by a red-and-white checkerboard pattern with a windmill in the center.

  The knight seemed to recognize the Keepers on sight and approached them. They were too in awe to even stand in respect. “Doppelganger of Hempshire?” asked the knight.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Osbert, son of Wilfrid,” said the knight.

  Doppelganger stood and saluted. Osbert was clearly his superior, but what exactly he was still escaped him. He did not appear to be a warrior though he wore their armor. “This is Dangalf of Hempshire,” said Doppelganger. “And Nerdraaage of Clan Stonefist.” His friends stood and saluted, and Osbert returned their salutes.

  “So it is true,” said Osbert with a smile. “Red School and White School, human and dwarf, acting in concert. There is an elf also?”

  “She’s training,” said Doppelganger.

  “Ah,” nodded Osbert. “I was wondering if I might speak to you alone, Doppelganger.”

  “Of course,” said Doppelganger, looking quickly to his friends before leaving with the knight.

  “What does it mean when he says he’s Osbert, son of so and so, and you guys are just of Hempshire?” asked Nerdraaage.

  “That’s a little bit of class snobbery. It means he knows who his father is.”

  “Don’t you know who your father is?”

  “Yes. But unfortunately he’s in another universe. In this world, I’m a bastard.” Nerdraaage thought to take his Clan Stonefist scarf from inside his jacket and wrap it around his neck. He did not want to be mistaken for a dwarf of low birth.

  Parentage in Acadia was only an issue for humans, and it manifested itself in honorifics such as “son of” when f
athers were known and the even more prestigious surname when lineage was from a fine family that could be traced back generations.

  “Fanciest warrior I ever saw,” said Nerdraaage.

  “That was no warrior,” said Dangalf.

  LXXIII

  Doppelganger and Osbert walked about the deserted branches and bridges of Templa Taur. Doppelganger was eager to hear what Osbert had to say, but he would let the knight speak first. They had not walked far before Osbert spoke. “You have already gained the notice of the Temple, Doppelganger.”

  “The Temple,” said Doppelganger. “You’re a Templar!”

  “You’re familiar with our order?”

  “The Temple of the White Rose,” said Doppelganger just as he spotted the small white rose on the left side of the tabard.

  “Alas, the only order of Templars since the corruption of the Red Temple.”

  “The Witchfinder General,” said Doppelganger, remembering game mythology and their early and violent introduction to the general’s minions when they had first come to this world.

  “Grand Templar Aelfweard was appointed as Witchfinder General to root out and destroy the human covens that had taken up the practice of black magic,” said Osbert. “Instead he became a zealot who found all magic to be criminal and began murdering druids and wizards, among others. Now he is holed up in his temple over a thousand years corrupted by the same black magic that he was charged with eradicating.” And after a moment: “But enough of our great tragedy. I bring glad tidings! You and your deeds have come to the attention of Grand Templar Wilfrid. He invites you to the Temple and to test yourself to see if you would be among those few who are chosen to be called Templar.”

  “I’m honored,” said Doppelganger. “But I have completed my apprenticeship. I am a mercenary, and I’m almost ready to train for soldier.”

  “Of the first two Templars, one was a warrior,” said Osbert. “We only call those who are experienced combatants. All of our novitiates were apprenticed in other classes. Few are invited to train. Fewer still are successful in joining our ancient order. Only one in nine.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Doppelganger. “I hope to become a dragoon.”

  “Dragoons are fine warriors. But it is the mount that makes a dragoon, not the man. I would say that most Templars fight as well as a dragoon, but no dragoon could ever join our order.”

  “Why not?”

  “Warriors are fueled by rage. Every dragoon is guilty of one great sin. History’s greatest warriors are remembered as much for their great sins times three. They do not love their lives. And that is what makes them so formidable. A Templar must be a warrior without sin.”

  Osbert told how the Templars was an order where commoner and noble alike were brothers. In fact, Templars were also said each to be prince of the Temple under the king of the Temple, the Grand Templar. And he spoke of many other great things that could be told without the divulging of secrets that could only be known by Templars. Their walk ended at the stables. “But say nothing for now,” said Osbert. “This invitation once given is never revoked. But it comes with a warning. Remain pure of heart, or you will forever disqualify yourself from our order.”

  “You make it sound like a great thing that I would consider it even for a moment when all I have ever wanted is to be a dragoon. When my entire group is dependent on me being a warrior.”

  Osbert introduced his great white steed, Shadowless, which impressed Doppelganger mightily. “Stay good, Doppelganger of Hempshire, and perhaps we will meet again,” said Osbert.

  “Farewell, Osbert son of Wilfrid.”

  Doppelganger returned to his friends. “You have been invited to the Temple?” asked Dangalf.

  “You knew he was a Templar?”

  “The windmill on his tabard,” explained Dangalf.

  Doppelganger told his friends that Osbert had invited him to novitiate as a Templar. They were impressed but they were also concerned. They were all proceeding nicely in their chosen classes and thought it would be disharmonious for one to change classes now. There were no Templar trainers in any town, only at the Temple of the White Rose itself. And they all knew that few players chose to play Templars in Cronica because you could play for months in the class only to be randomly rejected at the end of your apprenticeship (most players were), and even the player successful at becoming a Templar could not accumulate wealth. And the accumulation of virtual gold was a measure of success and a driving force for most players.

  Doppelganger assured them that he had no intention of becoming a Templar. He was a warrior and would not deviate from that path until he was a dragoon. “Besides,” Doppelganger said. “They have a terrible training requirement that I can not imagine suffering through.”

  “What is that?” asked Dangalf.

  “Reading.”

  LXXIV

  When Ashlyn joined them later, they told her of what had transpired. And though Doppelganger reiterated that he was not interested in becoming what he called a warrior-light, Ashlyn was concerned. A Templar who specialized in protection would duplicate many of her healing talents. But she shrugged it off. Could you really have too many healers in a world where you could die for real? Dangalf told them how it honored the Keepers that Doppelganger was even asked. Obviously, they were gaining significant reputation if they had been heard of in the Temple of the White Rose, far removed geographically and politically from Vinland.

  They ate dinner, and Dangalf described to them the location for their séance. It was called Blackened Hollow, where the Witchfinder General himself led a party of Templars to massacre a coven of witches. So disturbed was the land that Sirona herself said it could not be consecrated, and it remained wicked and forbidden. It was here that Dangalf thought they should have their séance: the perfect site for a black rite. “Why the site of a massacre?” asked Ashlyn.

  “You want a place where many died,” answered Dangalf. “So as to increase your chances of contacting a spirit. A battlefield doesn’t work as well because combatants tend to final matters in anticipation of death. But massacres are of the unprepared. And their spirits linger because of unfinished business. If my study is true, I will summon one of these spirits and make her give up her knowledge.”

  Ashlyn was skeptical, but Doppelganger and Nerdraaage seemed eager. They had met orcs and trolls and had survived the encounter, even come out ahead. Now they would be summoning a specter (and hopefully only a specter) on its own corrupt and dangerous ground. And at the thirteenth hour nonetheless.

  They began the journey timed to reach the Blackened Grove before the wicked hour. The magical map was very helpful for that purpose and could be read even in the darkness. They were well armed as Dangalf warned them that other parties, unfriendly parties, might seek out the grove for wicked purposes that night especially.

  Ashlyn transformed into tyger. It was the first time they had seen her morph, and it was a miracle. But they had seen so many miracles and each had performed his own, and so it passed without comment. But still it was very nice, and they smiled and nodded back and forth. They followed her into the moonless dark woods lit by a canopy of stars and a softly glowing magical map.

  The ground was smooth and the trees spread so as to make passage comfortable, and in no time they had walked for several hours. Their destination finally appeared to them unmistakably ahead. It was a pitch blackness against the ordinary blackness of the surrounding woods. It was the unreflecting and unforgiving noir of the Blackened Grove. Tyger Ashlyn became she-elf again and stood just outside the circle of black that delineated the wicked site. The others stopped with her and allowed Dangalf to enter the circle first. It was his séance after all. The circle felt different upon entering. The air was colder, and the springiness of life underfoot was replaced with the softness of ash. They followed Dangalf deep into the Blackened Grove until they were surrounded by charred and crumbling trunks and the living forest was out of sight.

  “Watch out f
or that—” said Ashlyn as Dangalf stumbled into a stone table. “Stone table.” At least Ashlyn’s eyes were sensitive enough to differentiate the shades of black that comprised the Blackened Grove at night. Dangalf felt around the table and found it to be suitable for his purposes. He took out three black candles, lit them, and set them upon the table. It was enough light to lead the others to the table, and they sat on the block stools surrounding it.

  “Are we sure we want to do this?” asked Ashlyn.

  Dangalf set the divination deck upon the table. “There’s still time to back out,” he said.

  “What are we doing exactly?” asked Nerdraaage.

  “Spirits are caught in shadow, in planes between worlds, and they see things from a perspective not available to the living. I will ask it questions about why we are here. But the dead are confused at best and deceivers at worst, so it will not be a simple interrogation. The first step is to find a spirit. But that should not be difficult here. Our warmth and light, our conversation and respiration will be like beacons to specters and spirits and phantoms and geists. Like moths to the flame. I hope we get only one.” He looked about for any further objections, and none was said.

  Dangalf laid out nine cards from the divination deck, six chosen by him according to his books: the Wheel of Fortune, the Precipice, the Carpenter, the Hanged Man, the Lighthouse, and Charon. The other three were chosen by the spirits: the Virgin, the Tower, and finally the Keepers.

  “What is that card?” asked Ashlyn of the card with the warrior, the mage, the dwarf, and she-elf and clearly entitled the Keepers.

  “That’s our card,” said Dangalf.

  “We have a card?” demanded Nerdraaage.

  “I just found out about it myself. It’s one of the deck’s sympathy cards only recently developed.”

  “I don’t look like that,” complained Ashlyn of the she-elf spritely balanced on one tiptoe.

  “You look exactly like that,” said Nerdraaage.

  “Oh, well have a look at your big, fat face,” she countered.

  “I’m not fat. I’m endomorphic.”