Canto of Fire, Opus Three
Fierce coughing racked Hope's body, waking her from a troubled sleep to find strong arms cradling her haggard form.
"Hush, take a drink." Someone pressed a clay dipper into her hands and she drank, gulping down the brackish water without complaint.
"Nana?" she asked, straining to see the woman who held her.
"No," the woman said, too emphatically, and helped her twist on her pallet. The woman's face was sharp, hatchet-like, with her jet hair drawn back into a long braid that ran to the middle of her back. She was young to Hope's eyes but her skin was rough, hardened by the elements, and deep wrinkles lined her face. The woman's green eyes surveyed Hope with the same measuring gaze that the merchant's at the bizarre used for livestock. After weeks with the Eerith, the spiraling tattoos which covered the woman's exposed skin did not strike Hope as unusual or significant. The woman's quick hands snatched back the dipper before Hope could drink again. "Too much will make you sick," she said by way of explanation when faced with the child's surprised look. "How do you feel?"
Hope shrugged and looked away.
The woman grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her harshly, lifting the girl from the pallet. "Unacceptable! This is no game, child! You work with me or you die here. Do you understand that?"
Hope nodded, shrinking back from the woman's anger. Her retreat stopped at the entering form of the reborn one.
The woman ignored him and spoke again in a softer tone. "I need your help to make you better. If you don't talk to me, how can I know how to help you?"
"I'm . . . I'm thirsty."
The woman's face split into a predatory grin. "Good. Are you hungry?"
"No?" replied Hope in a quiet voice.
The woman shrugged. "I suppose that would have been too much to hope for. I'll let you have another drink once this one settles and then you can sleep again." The woman shifted her gaze and spoke over Hope to the Eerith behind her. "She'll live. I can promise no more than that."
"You have my gratitude for that, then," he answered.
"I'm Hope," the child volunteered expectantly.
The woman favored her with a slight bow. "I am Rahi." The woman knelt and placed her ear against Hope's stomach. Apparently pleased with what she heard, Rahi refilled the clay dipper from a nearby urn and passed it to Hope with an encouraging smile. The child drank again, slower this time.
"How often do you water them?" the reborn one asked innocently, then fell silent under Rahi's withering gaze.
"Back to bed, child. You need to rest while it's cool." Rahi took the dipper from Hope's hands and guided her onto the pallet. The woman stood and jerked her head sharply toward the doorway. The reborn one nodded and stepped through.
Outside Annaeyana filled his gaze, eclipsing the sky, suddenly fascinating him with its majesty. He marveled at its beauty: the mists which limned its edges, the faint rainbow shimmer which domed the entire city, imprisoning his people, its . . .
Rahi shoved him sharply. "Stay awake! Where's that other fool, the useful one?"
An Eerith stepped from the shadows around the commandeered hovel, nodded, and slipped quietly within to watch over Hope as she slept.
"Your arrival was fortuitous," said the reborn one, forcing his gaze down and away from the floating city. By way of answer, the woman next to him snorted derisively. "I've been wondering: based on your markings, you would seem to be a sorceress of the Sinari."
"Was there a question in that?" she replied bitterly. "Am I here, in Myr Kun?"
"Yes," he answered hesitantly.
"And are the Sinari in Myr Kun?"
"No?" he said, managing to make it sound like a guess.
"I can't be a sorceress then, can I?" she concluded and began to stalk away with long, loping strides.
"Where are you going?"
"Away!" she shouted over her shoulder. "I need a respite from children."
Kernin was almost halfway across the courtyard before he heard shouting. He knew it was ill-advised to leave the area set aside for the diplomats, even more so as an Eerith in Mir, but the city held memories for him. He had been a student here, years before, wearing a mundane body and studying the people of Mir from within, and he could not bring himself to consider the city as a hostile place. The raised voices behind him reminded him how wrong he could be.
He ignored the taunts until one of those following him grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him around to face them. Kernin knew his assailants; their type was common-students, learned enough to feel powerful, young enough to feel untouchable.
Kernin opted to play ignorant. "May I be of assistance, gentlemen?"
"You can start by getting out of our city," one sneered while another shoved Kernin.
He caught his balance and maintained a blank look. "I shall surely leave once my business here is complete. I pose you no threat." Mentally he counted the pack surrounding him. Seven plus bystanders--he was in no real danger unless some of these ruffians were better students than they appeared.
"Eerith!" shouted a voice in the gathering crowd. A stone struck him, snapping his head sharply back. He clenched his teeth and made no sound. A trickle of blood ran to soak into his eyebrow. Sticky drops cascaded before his field of vision. Kernin waited. If necessary he would let them destroy this body completely. The Eerith mission in Mir was too important; he could not risk it over something personal. He considered releasing this form and fleeing, but feared he would leaving a riot in his wake. He would see this through to the end.
A fist struck him hard in the side and Kernin closed his eyes, cursing his own foolishness. The rain of blows which followed ended as abruptly as it had began, the roar of the crowd replaced by cries of shock and pain. Kernin looked to see a man fighting in the midst of the throng like a dervish. Black robes swirled and snapped and long white hair flew wildly as the man laid about him, wielding the halves of a broken staff like a pair of cudgels. The horde broke and ran from the black-robed man who chased them, roaring fiercely at their retreating forms.
As the crowd vanished, the man sagged, leaning forward, hands on knees, gasping heavily. "Old," he muttered to himself. "Too old to be babysitting Eerith," then added, louder, "You owe me a staff." His breath recovered, the man straightened and began to walk away.
"Dioya?" Kernin queried at the man's retreating form.
The mage turned, pointing at the Eerith with the splintered ends of his clubs . "Don't misunderstand me, Eerith! This has nothing to do with you! If I had my way, I'd have left you to them. But the Archmage wants this alliance and I'll be cursed if I let your stupidity endanger that." The mage's voice had dropped to a low growl as he concluded, turning on his heel, "I thought you a better student than this."
Kernin stood in the empty street, his ears burning with Dioya's rebuke.
"I give up!" Alfos yelled into the desert and collapsed to the sand. "I don't care!"
For a moment, they were gone. For a glittering, teasing splinter of a second, Alfos was at peace, free of the voices, free of the visions, free of the constant rumble of another race's collective consciousness. Free.
And as quickly as it had come, the illusion of freedom shattered. They were quieter, even deferent, but he could hear them. Thinking, debating, discussing, there was no malice there; they simply could not comprehend what they had done and why it bothered him. Tears of anguish welled from his eyes and he wished for death, prayed to the desert for what he did not have the strength to do. Surely he could lie here and die; burned or frozen, the land was not forgiving. Then it would end. It must; he could not stand the voices.
When was the last time he had slept? It did not matter. Even in his dreams, they were there-they, it, he did not know; it was like the babbling of a man arguing with himself. But there was more, so much more: below the voices there lay a knowing, a deep, ominous pool of knowledge, the memories of a race--if the race was senile. The memory was like a moth-eaten cloth, entire decades absent, seemingly at random, no explanation, and no question, as if the Eerith themselves could not see the omissions. And the voices were the Eerith, of that Alfos had no doubt; he was haunted by the demon race of childhood tales become real.
He dropped back into himself, borne aloft in the spiraling thermals of dementia and Eerith melodies then released to fall, back to the bonds of flesh. He was moving.
Lying curled tightly to himself, he was sliding across the sand, something dragging him by the shoulder of his robes. Grudgingly, Alfos forced his eyes open and stared into the eyes of the grotesque.
The orbs were large, the size of eggs, shot through with jaundice and blood. They sat forward on the skull, predator's eyes. A nictitating membrane flickered across the humour as folds of thick grey-brown flesh bunched around them.
It had no true nose or muzzle, just a fleshy overbite scored with two dark slits full of sand-encrusted bristles. The skull was broad and set on thick shoulders. The creature's four legs were short for a desert dweller, the muscular front pair slightly longer than the back. The shoulders merged into the wide head with a bundle of corded fiber which might have been a neck. The entire beast formed a solid lump nearly three feet high and four foot long and a heavy tail larger than a man's waist added several more feet to the final length. The body was covered, not in fur, but a thick hide studded with patches of rough, hairy bristles and padded by deep lines of wrinkles where excess hide gathered at the joints. The entire assembly resembled a crude hybrid of pig and dog.
In spite of his weakness and despair, Alfos giggled. Hysterical at first, then bridging into gales of deep bellied-laughter until he ached from the pain.
"I'm mad, possessed, and I've been kidnapped by the world's ugliest dog!" he called to the sky, gasping for breath, holding his side. The dog-the beast--backed up and gave a hopeful 'haroove' complete with a spray of wet mucus.
Slowly, mindful of his weakness, Alfos clambered to his feet. "Lead on, dog. What have I got to lose?" After a few steps, Alfos was forced to lean heavily on the dog's shoulder but, together, the two made their way across the blazing sands.
"Sweat or blood, choose one!" barked the armsmaster, striking again at Riacrada's exposed leg. She countered, dropping her stave lower to parry his attack. The armsmaster reversed his flow and cut up, striking her in her right shoulder, left exposed as she swung down and across. The wooden stave struck the seem in her quilted jacket where there was no padding, knocking her back.
"Sil!" she barked. "You did that on purpose!"
The armsmaster turned away with a disgusted look. "Of course I did," he said, throwing his stave onto a pile at the end of the room. "Blood or sweat. You either learn to do this right or you die. Go home, girl; I'm tired of playing soldier." He stalked from the room, ignoring her angry gaze burning into his back.
"He's right," spoke a cool voice from a shadowed corner of the training hall. Riacrada did not recognize the newcomer but with horde of delegates and their entourage present for the meeting, she was not surprised.
The man was as tall as she but, unlike her own lithe frame, he carried the weight to match. Based on the overly muscular build and the swaggering walk, she would guess him to be from one of the seafaring peoples. He stalked across the room and began sorting through the staves. Finding one he was comfortable with, he moved to stand before her and lifted his stave, parallel to the floor and even with his chest.
"You want a vest?" she asked, bringing her 'blade' upright in front of her. She turned sidewise, presenting a narrow profile.
He smiled, slightly. "Hit me first."
She lunged immediately, trying to catch him off-guard. He turned smoothly, avoiding her thrust, and, while she was extended, skipped forward, reaching casually over her blade to tap her lightly on either shoulder.
"Blood and sweat," the stranger quoted, "it's a good phrase. I'm taller than you and I have a longer reach. You have to counter my natural advantage with extra effort. If not, you bleed."
"Brilliant," she growled and attacked again, more cautiously. Her opponent seemed content to defend and slowly give ground. She continued to press her advantage, backing him toward the wall.
She maneuvered him to within arm's reach of the wall and leveled a vicious cross-body slash. She knew he would parry easily but she would have him pinned. He did not block, choosing instead to leap straight back, flattening himself against the wall. Overbalanced and winded, she stumbled.
He made no counter-attack but simply walked past her as she recovered and returned to the center of the room. "You cannot afford a prolonged duel. I'm larger and stronger. You will tire long before I do, especially if you are continually on the attack. You get tired; you get careless. You get careless; you get dead. Either kill quick or conserve your energy."
"Again?" she growled, not waiting before she attacked. She caught him completely unaware. To her amazement, he caught her stave in his hand. The room echoed with the slap of wood on flesh.
"Next lesson," he hissed, jerking the stave from her hand, "Be willing to sacrifice part to protect the whole." He threw the stave toward the pile and walked to the water bucket, immersing his hand.
"Sorry," Riacrada muttered.
"Don't be. That was your best attack. Let me give you some advice that your armsmaster will not: you're tall, like I am; use it to your advantage. Go over your opponent's guard when you can. People protect their eyes more than they protect anywhere else, out of fear. Pull their guard up and cut under. Also, get used to the fact that your legs are going to be exposed. Unless you want to go to an overhand grip, the best defense for your legs is your feet-back up instead of blocking. If you must block, drop the tip of your blade. Keep your hilt close to your center of balance. Finally, you're a woman; your center of gravity is different than a man's. Compensate for it." He lifted his hand and blew on his palm. "This stings. I think I'm done for the day."
"Thank you for the tips," she replied, almost without sarcasm, her pride still stung. "It doesn't matter much anyway; if I have to fight, I'll use magic."
"Doesn't work like that. First off, there are some places magic doesn't work and those are usually the kind of places where you need to fight and fight well. Second, a good physical attack can preempt the most sophisticated and powerful of spells. Think about it, which is faster: magic or a rock."
"Like you would know," she bit back.
He shrugged and held out his hands. Dark lines formed around his wrists and began to branch out across his flesh, growing like vines upon a wall, until he was covered in the spiraling tattoos of the Eerith. "Anything done should be done fully," he said cryptically.
Riacrada was shocked. "Where did the Eerith learn weaponry?" she stammered.
"You taught us. This has been diverting, but I have to get back."
"Wait a minute. What do you mean I taught you?"
"The Mir. Some of us have an aptitude for the physical."
"But you don't need to practice. Eerith skills don't atrophy."
He paused, facing the door, and nodded. "That's not common knowledge but yes, we only gain, never lose, in talents."
"Then why . . ." she let the question hang between them, unfinished.
He looked back over one shoulder and answered in a sibilant whisper. "Because I don't want you to die." His eyesockets flamed with emerald intensity and his eyes locked with hers, fascinating her like the gaze of a snake on a bird, drawing her out, enrapturing her with the sheer will of his stare.
He was gone long before she blinked herself free from the dazzling glare and she was breathless, caught somewhere between excitement and fear.
The guards of the Sinari camp would later tell tales of how the prophet came to them from the desert, riding on the back of a beast crafted by Sin-Alb himself from a Tengu and mud. No man was fool enough to say otherwise, but it may be assumed that some details may have been lost and others . . . altered. They would neglect to mention that the prophet looked more like a bundle of rags wrapped about a stick than an actual man, and they would not mention that the prophet, (Alfos as he insisted on being called), was neither pious nor respectful and, in point of fact, said some rather blasphemous things and was saved from death at the guards hands' only by the baleful threat of the beast. Understandably, they would not tell of the information he revealed in order to convince them of the truth of his words (although rumor has it that the breast-size of a seeress was involved-the prophet was not a pious man). The description of the prophet's accommodations may have been embellished, for a wise man would note that there was scarcely a tent to spare, let alone a palanquin. It is also an intuitive truth that all mention of the alleged "seeress's daughter" discourse was avoided. And, while many separate tales may have grown from it, there was no mention of the fact that the prophet's "dog" did cause some minor disturbances within the camp.
It should be noted, however, that in no way was the immense ugliness of the dog exaggerated.
Happy dog, good dog. Fos yell, men yell, Fos laugh, men yell, men throw Fos in tent. Fos yell. Fos sleep. Dog awake. Dog smell things, many things, new things. Dog dig. Dig, dig, dig, crawl out tent. Sniff, sniff. Happy dog, good dog.
Dog run. Run, run, run. Few men. Bad smell. Sniff, sniff. Cat smell. Bark. Dizzy. Run, run, run. Whoa. BIG CATS. Cats big as dog. Growl. Cat growl. Dog growl. Cat hiss. BIG CATS. Dog big too. Dog hiss. Men yell. Oww. No stick: Good dog. No hit. Good dog. Run, run, run.
Sniff, sniff, sneeze. No men. Sniff, sniff. New smell. Not men. Not cats. Not Fos: Fos stink. Smell . . . flowers? Run, run, run. Fire. Fire smell funny. Women. Women dance. Women scary. Bark. Dizzy. Bark. Women look at dog. Dog feel funny. Good dog, no bad dog, good dog. Bark. Run, run, sniff. Dog still smell Fos-phew.
Run from women. Back many men. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Meat. Good dog, happy dog. Wag. Tent fall. Men yell. Bark. Meat. Fire.
Run. Run to fire. Run to meat. Grab meat. Men yell. Yell, yell, yell. Not bad dog, good dog. Oww. No stick. Oww. Run, run, run.
Dog tired. Dog find Fos. Dog like Fos. Fos make dog not alone. Fos like shiny men. Dog like shiny men. Dog miss shiny men. Dog 'member. Shiny men, BIG DOGS. Fun. Happy dog. Then thing. Shiny men go. BIG DOGS go. Dog follow. Good dog, no bad dog, good dog. Much light, much noise. Nap. Nap. Nap, nap, nap. Thing push dog. Dog wake. Few shiny men wake. Shiny men fly. Dog not fly. Thud-sand. Dog alone. Sad Dog, sad. Fos, yea, Fos! Fos shiny man, not shiny man. Dog not alone. Happy Dog. Happy, happy dog.
Tent. Fos. Dog love Fos. Bark. Hi, Fos, dog back. Bark. Dizzy. Happy dog, good dog. Wag. Wag. Fos yell. Happy dog. Dog sleep.
Alfos shrieked as the crude tent he had been shoved into collapsed around him. He struck out blindly in fear until he realized what had happened. "I'm gonna kill that dog!"
The gardens of the Isle of Celamyr flowered early and by late summer showed the brown scars from the battle against the sun. This year was worse than most, hotter than usual and burdened with several novice workers (the garden still seemed to echo with the master gardener's voice screaming "Water the base, not the leaves!"), but to the Eerith's weary eyes, they were a welcome sight. He sat on the stone lip of a fountain and trailed his fingers in the water.
The Meeting of Nations had gone as Tributary expected. Aside from the Treaty confirming the release of the Eerith, little had been resolved. The true diplomacy would take place over the next few days in clandestine meetings and random conversations. It was the human way. What surprised him was the toll that a simple meeting had taken on his physical form and the Eerith, lacking the ability to truly sleep, had come here to rest-to rest and to think, for many things weighed unresolved in his mind.
He was an Eerith by both choice and form, but he was also an elemental. Some Eerith were elemental, but not all. Indeed, most were not since most elementals remained embodied in their element, demonstrating persona only when called forth by an outside source. Most Eerith were overtones of humanity, presumably given personification as a by-product of human independence and their unusual nature.
It was insufficient. The entire catastrophe of Annaeyana had only ignited a single Eerith; himself. Even the stones the city sat upon were silent and would continue to be, long into the future. If it required an occurrence the magnitude of Annaeyana to ignite one elemental Eerith, what would ignite all of the human-based Eerith? The fall of Avaerand, though significant, was a local occurrence; yet there were Eerith from all of Qaiyore, all of Celandra. There had to be more.
Tributary let the fountain's water enter him, running through the pattern of spiraling tattoos like rivers themselves. It was at these times he felt the closest to the Worldsea.
And the human-based Eerith had no equivalent of the Worldsea! There was something missing, something he did not understand. There were even mysteries in the events he had seen in the past months. He had seen an Eerith move outside of time.
It was not possible. The Eerith, no matter what form, were overtones of motion. Even though they were beings of spirit, their very nature dictated that they, like the physical world which ignited them, were subject to time. But it had happened. An Eerith had done what no Eerith could do. Even the most powerful had no authority over time. What the reborn one had done was reflex. The reborn one had moved outside of time as naturally as if it was an integral part of his power.
Not, Tributary realized, as though he had authority over time, but as if time had no authority over him! It made sense, but an Eerith would have to be based from a non-physical tone-a kind of Eerith's Eerith, spirit formed of spirit, a . . .
"A Val-Eerithian," whispered the Worldsea in reply, the crash of waves on the shore of his mind, and the Tributary sat still in long amazement.
Alfos pulled the meat from the bone and tossed it down for the dog. It was hard to tell which was louder, Alfos sucking his fingers or the dog cracking open the bone to reach the marrow. Alfos liked the dog. Something about the immense physical presence made the mental babbling of the Eerith bearable by comparison.
"You have a message?" rumbled the large Sinari standing beside the table.
"No," answered Alfos around another mouthful of food. "They might. I'm just here to eat."
The Sinari's hand dropped to his scimitar, then stopped at a gesture from the tent's other occupant, the black stalagmite of a Sinari Seeress. The warrior grunted and waited, glaring angrily at Alfos as he ate.
Alfos popped another morsel into his mouth. "Umm, this is good. What is it?"
"Rat," shot back the warrior.
Alfos shrugged, "Fine. If it tastes good, I'll eat sand. Pride and my stomach parted ways years ago." Alfos emptied his water cup in a single gulp. "More."
The warrior stood stiffly. Alfos rolled his eyes and refilled the cup himself from the urn at the table's edge and drained it again. He fixed the Sinari warrior with a strong gaze and belched loudly.
The warrior's scimitar jerked free from his sash and the dog leapt straight up. The dog's exuberant bark was overshadowed by Alfos' yelp of surprise as the table overturned.
"Stop!" The woman's voice brought all three up short and the dog dropped back to the floor with a whimper. She gestured toward the Sinari with a cloth-covered arm. "He's goading you; put it away." She pulled her arm back, resuming her patient stance.
"For a Sil, he's good at it."
Alfos sneered. "I've been called Sil by better than you," he answered, then gestured at the remains of his feast, now strewn about the tent floor. "Does a dog's heart good. It's an excellent thing I'm rich; that's a lot of food. Now what do we do? I get bored easily."
"I can't believe that . . ." Whatever else the Sinari warrior would have said was forever lost as Alfos pitched abruptly forward then bent back upon himself.
"Tidings and greetings to the faithful," purred a voice from Alfos that was clearly not his own. "We bring you portents of conquest and glory, a world yours for the taking, the reward of faithful service. . ."
Alfos voice interrupted, strained and desperate, "Not! Not them . . ."
". . .Forgive him," the purr continued. "The vessel is weak but the message true. Soon, we shall deliver into your hands the ancient enemy of our peoples. We shall place the them before you, defenseless as children. . ."
". . .Lies, don't . . ."
". . .We await the faithful." The voice faded. Racked with pain and straining for breath, Alfos reached toward the seeress.
"Don't listen," he gasped. "It's not them." The warrior pushed Alfos away from the seeress and the two moved to leave the tent. The dog stood before the flap, threatening, first by low growl then fierce hiss, short spines extending from its neck. "Dexter tallus," choked Alfos. The dog slunk away from the door, allowing the two Sinari to pass. Alfos clutched the dog's head with upraised arms and cried pink tears, half water, half blood. "It's not them," he cried into the dog's thick folds. In reply, the dog licked his face and said nothing.
Beneath Mir, below the flagstones of the library, beneath the Vaults and beyond the longest halls of the Archives, under the crypts where the dead Chief Archivists lie in state, and warded against intruders, both physical and otherwise, were places. Below those places were things that did not exist, things men had died and slain for to insure would never exist. One of these things was the journals of Lorgrenese.
Once, an archmage had summoned the forces of Mir, marshaled their power into the city of Annaeyana, and, with their demon servants the Eerith, set out to conquer new worlds only to fail so miserably that even his name was stricken from record; that he also possessed ties to the hushed cataclysm which was Avaerand lent no strength to his cause. By highest decree, all which he had written was forbidden.
Granthtan began his work as he would with any vault: disarm the wards, retrieve the contents, organize the contents, then, finally, settle in to translate the material. Lorgrenese's vault was small for an archmage's; the archivists had been able to salvage only a fraction of his legacy. Granthtan had been able to begin translation mere days after opening the vault. Not surprisingly, Lorgrenese had used a cypher for his personal notes and this took Granthtan another week.
Lorgrenese had used a language unknown to the archivist and he had been forced to solicit the assistance of a specialist. Another delay, but this time, a delay which told Granthtan more about the archmage than some of the documents. Lorgrenese had written in a language now long dead-pre-Videssian Onigar.
It took Granthtan even longer to translate enough to begin to make sense of the man's writings. Above him, the political circus of the Meeting of Nations came and eventually went. The Eerith ambassadors remained, refining details of the agreement between the peoples, and Granthtan was vaguely aware that the Sorcerers had begun the search for a key to the Eerith prison. The archivist's world continued to narrow, focusing tightly on tomes older than most of the city above.
In time, it came to him. It was not what Lorgrenese had written which disturbed him; quite the opposite: the archmage had set down very little worth censoring. Slowly, however, Granthtan was able to discern a pattern of omission, things not said or, more telling, entire sections of the tome wiped clean, pages intact but words absent. Finally, when the archivist came to understand, he was not surprised to find the Eerith Tributary standing patiently within the warded vault. The Eerith extended a hand and, without question, Granthtan followed.
Rahi crouched on the roof's lip, staring at the distant campfires of the Sinari which ringed the city. The night was as bitterly cold as the days were hot and her breath misted about her. Below, Hope would be sleeping, gaining strength, each day healthier than the one before, and beside her, the useful Eerith would be keeping watch. Rahi, herself, should be resting; instead she was here, as she was every night, watching the fires in the distance, crouched like a raven, loosely holding the long spear she had begun to carry.
She heard the faint shuffle of feet behind her but did not turn. A firm hand grasped her shoulder then released. The city of Myr-Kun was dark and quiet. The wind carried the scent of late autumn blossoms.
"They are your people," observed the reborn one as he stood beside her.
"No longer."
"Do you love them any less?"
She did not answer.
"How long will they wait?" he tried again.
"Not long. We . . . they are not a patient people."
"Will they assist us?"
Rahi sighed in frustration. "How should I know? Are they here?"
"You are."
"I came here because I felt it was the will of Sin-Alb. They disagreed." She rolled her head, stretching the muscles in her neck. "Maybe I was wrong . . ."
"Hope needed you," the reborn one answered softly. "We needed you."
"Small comfort, that."
They waited in silence, each lost within their own thoughts.
"There is a Videssian tale . . ." the reborn one began, but Rahi interrupted.
"Onigar. The Videssia you know is gone."
He began again. "There is an Onigar tale which I have heard. It seems that as they explored the world, the shamans of the Vid . . . Onigar found that all things were surrounded by spirit. Rocks, trees, rivers, people, all things were bound together, but, at once, all things were separate. Each thing within the world, even peoples, had spirits, beings of energy which lived within. The shamans named the things Eerith, which is a word which means things but that is a different tale.
"As they studied these Eerith, they learned that these Eerith, together, were a being greater than the parts and, for lack of a better term, they named these Val-Eerith for Val was their word for things which were 'all'. Long after the shamans had ceased to treat with the spirits, the Eerith remembered and held within their heart a fondness for those few who first had called them.
"Beyond the Dreaming rested the Val-Eerithians, or Valerian as it was shortened to. They had been there since the creation, resting, passive; but the shamans woke in them a curiosity which remained long after the memory of the shaman's had faded."
"Wait," interrupted Rahi, "If they forgot, why do you know these things?"
"The Valerian forgot but the Eerith remembered. I suppose that means that the Valerian remembered but forgot that they remembered. To continue:
"The number of the Valerian is lost even to themselves. They were enough to be family yet few enough to be distant. Now, they took no names for themselves but instead waited for names given. One among their number came to be called Albous, which means the Eye or perhaps, the 'one that sees', for he had the Vision. The Vision was a concept, a dream of new creation and what could be. 'What if,' Albous proposed, 'the world had no world.'
"His idea was built thusly: within all things there exist concepts which exceed the individual. Every child knows what is fair and what is not and every child knows hunger."
"But," interjected Rahi, "every person defines 'fair' slightly differently."
"Ahh, well, that is the point, after all. I think you were a difficult child."
"Fine, tell your story."
The reborn one bowed to her. "Thank you. Now, Albous reasoned that some concepts were created by the physical. Hunger begins at the physical level. Fair does not but it is strongly influenced by the physical."
"What about a hunger for knowledge?"
"Rahi, I am now certain that you were a difficult child. This was, of course, Albous' Vision. There are concepts which seem to transcend time and space, some more physical than other, but all affected by the physical. So, what if the world had no world? What if the concepts could be distilled or refined away from the physical, leaving only the pure concept?"
"Absolute truth, then."
"No, absolute abstract truth. And who else but the Valerian to build this thing? Now this vision intrigued the Valerian for it was full of promise and potential and offered vast distraction. 'A river is a physical thing,' one would say, 'but are there concepts, or truths, if you will, within a river that transcend the physical need of a river?' 'What about a horse?' another would reply and so they began work on Albous' Vision . . . a great jewel in the darkness, the reflection of the lights and wonders of many worlds." The reborn one sighed heavily and waited long before continuing.
"It was Albous who led the way, returning to study the humans which had first attracted his attention; and he determined that there were two ways to look upon the things of the mundane. One could look down, tracing a concept back to its physical root. Or, one could look up, raising a concept from the physical to a greater concept seeking where the concept itself would lead. Both he found to be useful, and he looked upon the Fallanar who were, at once, two separate things, and he mimicked them, becoming two things at once. He became the Sinister Albous, the left eye which looked up, and the Dexter Albous, the right eye which looked down.
"Over time, the two aspects of Albous became very divergent, but both came to love the humans which he studied. While the other Valerian became more and more distant from the physical, pursuing the Vision, Albous became increasingly attached to the physical realm. This may have proved to be his undoing, for he determined to add humanity to the Vision.
"Already split, he was of two minds of how to do this thing. The left eye determined that this could be done by teaching the mundanes to see truth and look above their world, dreaming of what could be done then working to make the physical following the will of the spirit. The right eye determined that it would be best to, instead, follow the demands of the physical first and then the spirit would be made to follow. Thus did Albous strive against himself, one eye wishing to bring this world under singular rule and find truth through structure, the other wishing to make the physical conform to the dreams of the spirit by will and work and find truth through freedom. Both were right; both were wrong. They would make of this world a battleground of their ideas and so was Albous sundered.
"From this breaking, many Eerith were released like chips of stone when mountains collide. Some of these served the right eye; some, the left. Both aspects of Albous sought mortal allies, and the world was torn with war. In the end, both were weakened until they abandoned the world, leaving their Eerith without guidance or purpose."
The reborn one paused again, lost within some personal memory, and then continued. "Later, the right eye sought to return, drawn by a human who reached beyond himself, and the left eye returned to thwart him. Valerian fought Valerian; Eerith fought Eerith. In the end, neither could defeat the other, and the left eye caused them all to be bound within a prison."
"Annaeyana," supplied Rahi.
"The same. And now . . . now the right eye is awake and the battle rejoined . . ." his voice trailed off into silence.
"So who is Sin-Alb?" she asked. After a time, when he did not answer, she looked up at him, standing frail and afraid, one man alone in the night.
"Who indeed," he whispered. "Who indeed."
Selah
M. Keaton
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