Canto of Fire, Opus Two Alfos lay on his back, staring up at the bleak underbelly of Annaeyana, trying to trace figures in the clouds of smoke which pooled there. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, his mind kept returning to the inevitable conclusion: he was going to die here The smoke was less now--the crowds were running out of things to burn. What had once been a carnival atmosphere of indulgent violence had subsided into an air of sullen resentment. Too often, the fires were not buildings or possessions, but piles of bodies, burned to slow the spread of disease. He would die if he stayed in Myr Kun. If he was not killed in one of the frequent outbursts of rioting or crushed by a collapsing building, he would eventually succumb to plague or starvation. Clean water was impossible to find. Alfos had already acquired a hacking cough and a permanent throbbing at the base of his skull. He would die if he left. The Sinari had scoured the surrounding area as thoroughly as insects stripping a carcass. There was no malice to their actions, just a brutal pragmatism. There were only so many resources available and if they were to be had, they were to be had by the Sinari. Alfos lay on his back staring up and tried to concentrate on images in the smoke. He did not want to die. The archives of Mirabalpur were among the most extensive on the continent of Qaiyore. Their contents ranged beyond papyrus books and scrolls. Within the hidden vaults were the wooden tomes of old Videssia, stripped bark and split wood sewn together with leather thongs, the letters of the forgotten language burned onto the pages. Pre-Cethurun cattle tally cords, the records of trade kept, not by words, but by a complex system of knots in horse-hair braids, rested alongside the cuneiform engraved clay tablets of original rulers of the Razanian coast. Sealed in a marble urn were the still-untranslated scraped hide scrolls recovered from Gezor before its fall, stored near the rust-encrusted metal sheets which might have been used for record keeping by dragons, or which might have been nothing but a rusting shield. These archives were themselves a cipher, the system of their filing a complex language of its own. The key to the code was its keepers, the archivists, men who devoted their lives to the service and preservation of the information held within the labyrinth of chambers. To the consternation of the magi who lived above them, any loyalty consequential to the Brotherhood of Sorcery was an afterthought born of custom. Granthtan had been born on the wrong side of the sheets, the child of a courtesan and, as he came to learn, a council member of the Brotherhood. He never learned the name of his father; in time, he learned not to care. At the age of six, he had been taken from his mother, who was only to eager to be rid of him, and given into the keeping of an acolyte archivist. It was the only gift his father ever gave him. Granthtan had given the rest of his life to the archives, leaving them only when his teaching duties demanded it. He had become Chief Archivist through attrition, preferring to spend his energies on his researches rather than politics. To his satisfaction, Granthtan found that his position, combined with proper delegation, gave him more, not less, time for his work. Even by sorcerous standards, the archivist was old. His motions through the lower vaults were halting and slow; he stopped frequently to lean on his cane and rest. There was no cause for hurry; the archives would wait and the stone walls were cool and soothing in their silence. The silence was too silent. He took several more, slow steps before he determined the difference. The sounds of his movements should echo loudly from the walls several times over. Today, the echoes were slightly muted. Granthtan was not alone in the vaults. He analyzed the situation with the same methodological thoroughness as he analyzed a new document. The acolytes did not have access to the vaults and the other senior archivists were working elsewhere. Of the magi, only council members could enter the vaults unescorted and, this deep in the vaults, they would be lost without a guide. That left only one conclusion. "Eubratosa!" The archivist called aloud down the aisles, "If I'd known you were coming down, I'd have . . ." The sentence went unfinished as a form lurched abruptly from between the shelves, leaping at him. With a shout, Granthtan fell back, raising his hands to cover his face. He saw the flash of metal as his assailant swung a knife then suddenly twisted backward as if struck in the back. "Gran!" shouted a voice. "Run!" The archivist stumbled and tripped over his cane, landing hard. His vision swam but he could see his attacker turning away toward the new threat. The archivist pushed himself upright and backward. He watched his attacker begin to glow with a dull red nimbus, drawing power to himself, constructing a shield against attack. "Move it, old man! I cannot hold him off forever!" He recognized the voice. "Kernin, is that you?" he yelled into the shadows. No answer came, but the archivist could see the red glow suddenly encompassed by lines of blue and green, the cooler colors binding the energy and sapping the strength of the glow. Granthtan leaned heavily on his cane and gained his footing. He could see his rescuer, the mage Kernin. Energy coiled about the mage's arm and danced outward, nothing held back from his attack, defenseless. The glowing form begin to shrug away the aqua tendrils, burning away Kernin's restraints. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his hip, the archivist hefted his cane and broke it across the exposed back of his attacker. The blow knocked the man momentarily off balance. When the attacker staggered, Kernin closed, one arm blazing with an emerald brilliance. As he moved, Kernin drove the green flame through the man's arcane shield then released the energy, driving it forward into and through the man's chest. The vault was suddenly dark and the only sound was the dull thud of a falling body. "You killed him," said Granthtan softly. The room lightened perceptibly as Kernin lifted the broken halves of the cane and infused them with a silver glow. "He would have done the same to you." The archivist leaned back against the coolness of the wall and sighed. "Why?" he asked. "Think! Who writes history?" Kernin's voice was sharp, angry. Granthtan did not remember that in the quiet mage he had tutored years before. The years had not been especially kind, then, to his pupil. "How did you know? How did you even get into the vaults?" Kernin did not answer directly. "When I came to Mirabalpur to study, they would have turned me away but for you. 'All who are willing to learn should be taught' you insisted. I owe you for that. I'm just paying off a debt." Granthtan cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ker, when they summoned you before the council . . . You never returned. There were rumors . . ." he let his voice trail away. Kernin nodded and dark lines began to spread across his exposed flesh like vines climbing a wall until his hands and face were covered in complex, twisting tattoos. "I'm Eerith. It doesn't matter to you, does it?" The archivist smiled. "No, not really. I'm just happy to see one of my old students again." The Eerith who had posed as the student Kernin smiled back. "That's why I'm here," he said then faded from sight, leaving a befuddled archivist alone in the vault with a dead body. Granthtan knelt slowly and rolled the body to look at its face. He did not recognize his attacker but he had not truly expected to. He sighed again, through his teeth, then said aloud, "A dead body and a mystery. If this is how the Eerith repay a debt, I'm not sure I want to see how they return a favor." The archivist was lost in thought for several minutes before he stood and began to make his way toward the archive's central hall, yelling. As he reached the main hall, an acolyte ran towards him, answering his call. "Quickly, boy," Granthtan ordered. "On my authority, go to the Archmage and stop for nothing. Tell him the Eerith have returned!" "I'm not gonna die," growled Alfos with a resolve he did not feel. He stood and began to walk purposely through Myr Kun. He did not have a destination but at least he was doing something. The street was deserted except for a dusky man standing silently in a doorway, surveying the street with a predatory gaze. "What?" Alfos yelled at him. "What're you waiting for? You want my money? Take it! See how much water it buys you! Come on!" The man glared at Alfos then turned deliberately and walked the opposite direction down the street. "I thought so!" Alfos yelled after him. In spite of his certain doom, he felt better, free. If only he had not come to this city, his life might have turned around after all. He should have stayed out of Mir as well; no good ever came out of associating with magi. They strutted around like they were untouchable, even here in Myr Kun. Alfos was not an especially smart man, but desperation was a powerful motivation. He smiled grimly to himself and began to run. He was not going to die. His side was beginning to ache before he found what he was looking for: one of the tattooed magi who wandered through the streets of Myr Kun. The man did not seem to notice Alfos' approach. Running at full speed, Alfos tackled the man, bearing him to the ground. They landed heavily in the dust then; to Alfos' horror, the body in his grasp became limp, malleable, flowing through his grip like thick water. He leapt back with a startled yelp and stared as the twisting mass reformed into a man, a man staring back at Alfos with the same startled, fearful expression that Alfos wore. "You can see me?" the man blurted in surprise. "What . . . how did you . . .what . . ." babbled Alfos. "I'm Eerith. You can't see me!" "I can see you!" "How? I don't want to be seen." Alfos shook his head to clear it. "Look, your people got me into this mess. You people are going to get me out." "What are you talking about?" the Eerith demanded. "How can you see me when I don't want to be seen?" "Just work whatever rituals you do and get me out of here," insisted Alfos. The Eerith ignored him and continued speaking, "Maybe it's your hearing. I've heard you mundanes have trouble with that. Here." The Eerith looked fiercely at Alfos then smiled. "That's better," said the Eerith. "Now, how can you see me?" Alfos closed his eyes and rubbed his neck. The throbbing pain in his head was getting worse, like a constant hissing sound at the base of his skull. "I don't know; I just can." "Fascinating. Well, I'm not very clear about your culture, but I've been led to believe that a simple shout or handshake is an appropriate greeting. What is all this grabbing and rolling in the dirt? Most uncomfortable, that." Alfos opened his eyes and tried again. "Listen, I was hired and sent here by a mage." "Relevance?" "So you're a mage too and mages do . . . I don't know, magic." "Technically, we aren't magi. We're Eerith." "Whatever!" shouted Alfos, then continued in a softer tone. "I don't want to die here. Please, just wiggle your fingers and send me home." "So you're not very familiar with magic. Well then, where is your home?" For a moment Alfos was halted. He did not really have a home. "Just send me to Jall." "Not really my area of expertise, but I suppose something can be arranged," the Eerith answered, but Alfos barely heard him. He had suddenly realized that neither of them had spoken aloud for several minutes. "Oh dear, I think you're broken." Alfos heard a voice distantly as his mind succumbed to darkness. Riacrada leaned back in her chair and tried to ignore the argument raging around her. For two days, they had been debating the same points which, in Riacrada's opinion, were settled before they began. She could picture the room with her eyes closed. To her right, Eubratosa would be leaning forward, resting his elbows on his desk. He would be calmly explaining his reasoning again, in slow, simple terms just like he lectured the magi he taught. As the day dragged on, he would become increasingly agitated and begin to rub the small white scar under his right eye. The scar was left over from a laboratory accident during his youth and he stubbornly refused to heal it. That was another conversation Riacrada could quote from memory. The scar reminded him of the price of arrogance and his own mortality. It reminded the rest of the council that the Archmage was extremely stubborn once his mind was set. To her left, arguing and constantly interrupting Eubratosa, Dioya would bouncing be out of his chair, leaning forward and partially standing to emphasize a point then, dramatically sagging back into it as if defeated by the sheer weight of his opponent's ignorance. The longer the debate raged, the less articulate he would become, until the entire meeting degraded into angry shouting with Dioya gesturing wildly with his staff and whipping his waist-length silver hair behind him like a tail. Eubratosa would call for a break and then the cycle would begin again. The third player in her little drama would be sitting across from her, legs crossed, eyes closed, trying for all the world to pretend he was not there. Nioratosa, Eubratosa's son, was, in Riacrada's opinion, out of his league. The boy had risen to power by virtue of his parentage was and was too young to hold his ground the vicious in-fighting of his father's closest circle. Nioratosa was not incompetent by any measure, just inexperienced, and Riacrada would freely admit she resented him for being born into a position she had fought most of her life to attain. His father made no secret of the fact he intended for his son to succeed him as Archmage, and that galled her all the more. If Mir was to be a monarchy, she had a stronger claim; and if it was not, then let the successor be chosen by skill, not birth. Fortunately for all concerned, Eubratosa was young himself and much could change before succession became an issue. And she? She almost laughed aloud at the thought. Riacrada the scrawny brunette who thought she was better than everyone else, was showing her age much too early. That was how she would appear to an observer. If only she could appear absent. "It's bad enough that you deal with these creatures at all, but you conspire with them behind the back of the council," Dioya was hissing when she opened her eyes. Judging by the redness of his face and the whiteness of Eubratosa's knuckles as he clenched the edge of his desk, Riacrada guessed that they were only a few minutes away from another break. The air in the room seemed to shimmer and a voice said, "Actually, he hasn't." A seven foot pillar of winged flame stood by the door of the room. Seconds later, a second jet of fire joined him. Nice entrance, Riacarda thought, fighting back her fear. She did not even question how Eerith could have gotten past the wards on the chamber. Eubratosa began pulling energy to himself, weaving a defensive shield, and Nioratosa quickly vanished behind his chair. Surprisingly, the oldest of them was also the fastest. Dioya spun to block the Eerith from the rest of the room, his arms spread, his staff falling forgotten to the floor, drawing power to himself so fast that Riacarda found it momentarily hard to breath. The black robed mage was hard to see as the haze of invisible power washed over him, causing his form to shimmer like waves of heat rising from the desert. "Go ahead, old man," growled one of the Eerith. "We can finish this right here." The tension was tangible. "I'm sick of this," muttered Riacarda. She snapped a short silver dagger from a wrist sheath and stepped to press it against Dioya's throat. "Let it go," she said sternly and Dioya began to let the energy he had gathered begin to dissipate. "Well played," quipped a short, tattooed newcomer, materializing between the two pillars of fire. "Let's take it down to a simmer," he said over his shoulder to the Eerith behind him. "I don't have a name, but I am certainly pleased to make your acquaintance, dear lady," he said, crossing to Riacarda and bowing slightly from the waist. Riacarda gave the dagger a final meaningful twist before removing it from Dioya's neck. "I'm Riacarda; charmed; I'm sure." "Indeed I am. And, please, call me Tributary. It's not exactly a name but it has a better ring than 'that random Eerith who came into the room last'. If you would, introduce me to your companions." "This definitely proves my theory that the Eerith are a male-oriented race," she mumbled to herself, then gestured as she spoke in a louder tone, "In the blue is the Archmage Eubratosa, his son Nioratosa is behind the chair, and the explosive one here is Dioya." "We've met," growled one of the Eerith by the door, then added, "He killed me once." "Kernin," spat Dioya. "The Eerith that addressed the council?" asked Eubratosa. "The same," the Eerith replied. "Took care of your personal business?" asked Tributary cryptically. "On the way in," replied his companion. "Now, if we've dispensed with the pleasantries, I believe we were invited for a reason." "Of course," replied Eubratosa. "If you'll have a seat . . ." The door to the chamber slammed open. The Eerith burst into flame. Eubratosa's shield was back up in an instant and Dioya held a fistful of lightning in seconds. Riacarda turned and threw in a single movement. The acolyte threw himself backward with a scream, clawing at his face. He fell to the floor and sat there stunned, uninjured. "What . . ." started Eubratosa, rushing to the door, looming over the acolyte. "The chief archivist said . . . he said tell you the Eerith were here," gasped the boy, feeling his face, searching for the missing knife. Eubratosa nodded. "Tell him I will speak with him later. For now, go to the kitchens and catch your breath. Drink some juice while you're there; you look pale." He helped the boy to his feet. "Are you all right?" he asked in a softer tone. "Yes sir. I think so." "Go on then. You've done fine." Eubratosa turned and walked back into the room. "Gentlemen, I believe we have a treaty to discuss." "You cannot be serious!" demanded Dioya. "Come now," said Tributary smoothly, "don't make us go over the details. You really don't have a choice in this matter." "I most certainly do!" "You cannot fight Alatta alone. You cannot convince the other nations that you are worthy of consideration without our presence to shore up your credibility. You cannot further your research without access to Annaeyana's libraries. Shall I go on?" "Enough," interrupted Eubratosa in a tired tone. "He's right. We've been over this a dozen times already. Shall we begin?" "With all due respect," stated Tributary, "I would rather that we begin elsewhere. This environment, with, of course, the exception of the lovely lady Riacarda, is somewhat hostile. It might be better for all concerned if we were to structure the Eerith-Mir treaty through a neutral party, and then submit the treaty to your council for approval. After all, I would not want to be accused of bewitching your Archmage into a bad decision." "Sarcasm noted," replied Eubratosa, "but I agree that it would be best to avoid any appearance of collusion. I could have the Chief Archivist . . ." "I think he'll be too busy," interrupted Kernin. "What about Asadu?" interjected Nioratosa. "Good," agreed his father. "I'll have the apprentice Asadu meet you . . ." "We'll find him," interrupted Tributary. He extended his hand and opened it, a silver dagger was driven through his palm. "Madam Riacarda, I believe this is yours and you owe me an acolyte." "Nice catch," replied Riacarda, pulling her dagger from his hand, watching as the flesh reknit itself. "Almost," replied Tributary, and the three Eerith vanished. "Now what?" asked Riacarda to no one in particular. Nioratosa answered. "Now we meet the other delegates." Alfos awoke to shade and water. Given the level of comfort he was enjoying, he was now certain he was dead. "Come on, buddy, we gotta move," spoke a rough voice, blowing the scent of cheap liquor, sweat, and urine across him. Alfos sat up and shook his head. "Well, I'm not dead," he muttered, and opened his eyes in time to see the man who had awakened him shuffling away into an alley. A moment later Alfos ran behind him, dodging out of the way of the merchant's wagon which would have run him down. He had lost sight of his benefactor but Alfos did not care. He was no longer in Myr Kun. Suddenly giddy, he leapt back into the street and grabbed the closest person. "Where am I?" "Jall," the man replied and hurried away. "I'm going to live!" shouted Alfos and he swaggered through the marketplace with renewed vigor. He skipped past a stall and palmed an orange. [By the end of the day, there would be three oranges remaining. The merchant would take these three home to his wife. One he would eat. One she would eat. One his wife would trade to the woman next door for a bolt of cloth. With that bolt of cloth, she will sew a dress for her daughter. If Alfos took an orange, at the end of the day there would be two oranges remaining and there would be no dress.] "So?" Alfos said aloud. "Is it important that she has the dress?" He put the orange back and got three steps further before his mind caught up. Where had that come from, he wondered. It was like a thought in his mind, but it had come from somewhere else. He had no doubt that what he had known at the moment was true; but where had it come from and what did it mean? Alfos clenched his head in his palms and staggered to the side of the lane. [In three minutes, a woman would run down the lane. If he stayed on the edge of the lane, she would continue unhindered.] But why was she running? From what? Should she be stopped or helped? If he tried to stop her, what if she ran into the orange cart? What then? Would there be a dress? When the woman ran past on her unknown mission, Alfos was curled beside the lane shivering. When the city guard found him, he did not resist, just spoke quietly. "It's like running through a canyon, turn right or turn left but who knows what is down either path. I see act and resolution simultaneously but without context. They're trying to explain it to me. Don't you see, I'm rich. I have the greatest gift they can give, but I lost free will. Oh sure, I have free choice but it's only choice-right or left-but never will. Run down the riverbed and choose but I can't cross the banks. Do you think that free will is an illusion for blind free choice? They don't think so but they don't think like we do. It's hard to think at all with all the voices." The guards muttered a quick prayer to the gods who protect the invalid, the insane, and the innocent and closed the gates of the city behind him. The Archmage of Mir sat in the darkness of his room, staring out the window at the sleeping city. It was times like this that the full weight of leadership struck him squarely between the shoulders. One mistake and he could get them all killed. Worse yet, he would not be the first Archmage to have done so. A crisp knock sounded on his door. "Enter." Granthtan stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him. "When you didn't come down, I thought I'd come up." "Sorry. It's been an-um--interesting day." The Archmage hooked a chair with his foot and slid it toward the archivist. "Thanks. I've been on my feet too long today as it is. I suppose you already know that the Eerith are here." Eubratosa chuckled. "I sort of suspected that. Why did you really come up?" "Eubratosa, I'm a lot older than you so, for once, listen to me as an old man, not as your Chief Archivist." "Go ahead." "The boy is going to be fine." Eubratosa sighed. "You heard? Does everyone know or are you part Eerith?" Granthtan smiled at that. "That was my acolyte your sorceress tried to put a knife in, remember? So he hid behind a chair; the only complaint I have with that is that your desk is a lot heavier. "He froze, Gran. What kind of leader can he be if he cannot act?" "First, he didn't freeze; he hid. Put three Eerith and old D in a room and anyone who doesn't hide is probably not fit to lead." "Point taken." "Second, he's young. You're cursing the dough for not being bread; let him grow into himself. Listen to an old man for a while: D leads because he is ambitious; Riacarda because she cannot do otherwise; let Nioratosa find his own reasons." "And what if he doesn't? What then?" "Then he'll be very good at what he decides to do and a fine man as well and someone else will be Archmage. He's not you, Eubratosa. Let him find his own way." The Archmage nodded. "And you came all the way up here to tell me this, and without your cane." "I broke it." "What happened?" Granthtan shrugged. "Somebody tried to kill me. I hit him with a stick. Life goes on." "Ah," said Eubratosa in fake understanding. "So simple; so clear." "Kernin saved me. I had the body checked. It was one of ours, a red robe, not that it means anything." "So we have a traitor," Eubratose squeezed his eyes closed then reopened them. "Why you? Nothing personal but you're not exactly a critical force in Mir. Given your 'delegation' skills, if you vanished, the other archivists might not even notice for days." "Very funny. Kernin said 'Think: who writes history.' There has to be a connection." The Archmage rubbed the scar under his eye. "Gran, what's your specialty, the short version?" The archivist thought for a moment before answering. "The short version. Does the way that history is recorded say more about the actual events that happened or about the historian who recorded the event? That's a huge oversimplification, of course; there's also the . . ." "Enough. Do you see a pattern emerging?" Granthtan nodded. "I need to reopen one of the vaults that doesn't exist. I'll need an Archmage's permission to do it." Eubratosa nodded. "Which one?" "Lorgrenese," the archivist said in a soft voice. "The lost Archmage," echoed Eubratosa. "It makes sense. Do it. How's your dweomer-craft these days." "I haven't had much practice, but I can still do the basics." "From now on you work with full wards and alarms. You work alone, but I want you to check in with another archivist every time you enter or leave the vault." Granthtan stood with a groan. "Consider it done." The reborn one stood staring up at Annaeyana, Hope sleeping by his feet. He was concerned about her but was unsure what course of action to take. And there was Annaeyana; the city's pull grew stronger every day. With each passing moment, it became more difficult to concentrate on the events around him; only the city mattered. Hope whimpered in her sleep and he knelt beside her. Her breathing was shallow and labored. A yellow crust had formed at the edge of her eyes and a thin mucous drained from her nostrils. She coughed violently, a deep tearing sound in her throat. Had he saved her from a quick death only to die slowly? He lifted her gently and cradled her against his chest. She was so small, so fragile. At least asleep in the cool of the night, she was more comfortable. At first he thought it was another Eerith approaching him, the pattern of tattoos was almost an exact duplicate of the markings used by his people. As they came closer, he saw it was human, and female, like Hope--but older. "How long has it been since she ate?" the woman asked once she reached them. "Eat?" asked the reborn one. "Yes, eat. And drink, and take shelter from the sun; do any of these things have meaning to you?" she asked angrily. He shook his head. "Some of the others have studied your race longer than . . ." Her face contorted with rage then suddenly filled with pity. "Gods," she whispered in amazement, "you're just as lost as the rest of them. You hide it better than most, but you're terrified. You're all just children yourselves. No wonder you don't know how to take care of a child." To his surprise, she lifted Hope from his arms. "It's a wonder the Creator lets you Eerith run loose." "We weren't part of the Creator's plan," argued the reborn one in confusion. "Nonsense," she barked and began to carry Hope's sleeping form toward a nearby building. "Everything is part of the plan. Now, go find some of your little friends and get us some food and clean water. Hurry!" "I'll help," whispered an Eerith who appeared at the reborn one's shoulder. "I studied digestion in mundane for a few years." "My thanks," replied the reborn one. "What was that all about, anyway?" the Eerith asked. The reborn one shrugged. "I have no idea." M. Keaton ---------------------------------------------------------------- To unsubscribe, send mail to celandra-off@phoenyx.net.
