Admin. Note: Sorry for the delay in getting this finished and special thanks to JTL, BT, and AN for their help, patience, and support. Canto of Fire, Opus Four "Each Archmage has kept a journal. For some, it has been little more than a list of doings, a dull accounting. For others, their records have stretched to volumes and ventured far beyond the bounds of the interests of Mir. None have explained, however, why we do so. Certainly it is a tradition and a duty that one would not neglect lightly, but that is no real answer for why, at the end of a day, one would pause to put pen to parchment. Surely the duties of an Archmage are sufficient to exhaust one and leave little time or energy for what most would consider a trivial task. "There is no one reason. The action is therapeutic, a way of putting the day to rest and it is, even at its most shallow, a record and an immortality; but I believe there is more. The action of speech, of language and communication more specifically, especially in the permanent exercise of its written form, is a fundamental act of being and of being as an individual. What is the cry of an infant if not the first act of language, a proclamation of being? "That, I believe, is why the Archmage writes. Our journals are, on the one hand, the staging area of our mind, the place where we set the pieces of our thoughts while we are yet unsure where they will fit within the final, assembled jigsaw of idea. One the other hand, they are a tool of measure, of separation; a steady, regular assertion of our selves as individuals, separate and removed from the juggernaut which is Mir. The journal of an Archmage is his refuge, the outcropping of rock at high tide which he may cling to in order to preserve himself from drowning in the flood of urgencies and losing his self to his duty. Without the exercise of language, an entity would cease to be and an individual would merge seamlessly with the actions they perform. Language alone stands as a buffer between entity and occurrence." --Lorg..-- Rahi dug a fingernail into the inner corner of her eye, scraping loose the sand and dusty mud which clung there. She lifted the cloth which hung over the lower half of her face, moistened her finger in her mouth, and repeated the procedure on her other eye. Finishing, she closed her eyes and knuckled both sockets until they teared-wasted water, but necessary in the burning ruins of Myr Kun. She motioned over her head and waited, pacing watchfully alongside the small caravan of refugees gazing out at the desert. A man, at least in appearance, fell in step alongside her. "Guide this batch out to the others. I'm going back in again," she said in a faint whisper. The man answered by passing her a half-empty water skin. Rahi turned away and no one questioned as Hope dogged her heels. After the initial rioting, Rahi had thought there was nothing left in Myr Kun to burn. If that were true, then the Sinari had brought their own tinder. The situation now was nothing as simple or mindless as violence; it was systematic destruction. Teams of Sinari worked to pull down buildings and set them alight. Paving stones were pried from the ground and shattered. Salt and lime were spread to insure that the land would be unarable for years to come. Into this maelstrom, Rahi went and went again, guiding out survivors, her fierce stare challenging those who considered opposing her. Few did; the Eerith had made it clear they would brook no interference and the Sinari had grudgingly acquiesced. She was near exhaustion. Rahi's insistence on matching the Eerith step for step was taking a heavy toll on her already weary body. Her eyes no longer bothered to focus and concentration was difficult. Rahi had given up worrying about the child who followed her every step; Hope refused to be left behind and, in truth, much of the girl's childishness had been lost over the past year. Hope was a small adult, her childhood one more thing lost in the flames of Myr Kun. They were moving toward the cries long before Rahi consciously heard them: not cries for help--the survivors of Myr Kun were long past that--simply cries of pain and protest. A family was trying to shield an overturned cart from a pair of Sinari warriors. As Rahi and Hope approached, the two warriors appraised them and then, at a nod from Rahi, moved further into the city. "Will you take aid from the Eerith?" asked Hope in a steady voice. The trio looked from the girl to Rahi then back to Hope. Wordlessly, they began to work to upright the cart. "Leave it," sighed Rahi. "Bring only water and what personal effects you can comfortably carry and follow." She moved on without waiting to see if they would obey. If they did not, the desert would claim them anyway. "You're a well-trained lap dog," called a voice, surprising Rahi from her tunnel vision. She felt Hope's hand on her forearm and turned to face the voice. The speaker was dressed in the robes of a sorcerer but once she saw his companions, Rahi did not look at him again-two pillars of flame flanked him: Eerith. "So it's true," she said aloud in surprise. Before a reply could come, Hope stepped between them and spoke. "You know that it is death to look upon the exposed face of a seeress." The sorcerer laughed and spoke directly to Rahi. "But you're not a seeress anymore, are you? You threw it all away to follow a lie." "Not a lie," Rahi growled. "The truth, the real truth." She gripped her long spear until her knuckles whitened. "You will go now," Hope said flatly then turned her back, pushing Rahi toward their original course. Reluctantly, Rahi allowed herself to be led away, trying to ignore the laughter at her back. Once they were safely away, Hope let her stop and sink to one knee. It was only then that Rahi realized that she was trembling, fear and anger mingling freely. "It's one thing to know who your enemy is, but this . . ." Rahi's voice trailed off as Hope wrapped her arms protectively around her. "This is personal," Hope finished for her. "Rest a moment, Mother. We shall speak of this to no one. They were simply baiting you; Eerith does not yet fight Eerith." Later Rahi pulled free of the girl and they resumed their circuit of the city. Forgotten, the human family had chosen to remain with their cart. "Wounded to the left, in the yurts! Uninjured to the right, with the sleds! If you can walk, you are not wounded!" a voice shouted at the latest arrival. "If you have medical or arcane skill, go with the wounded!" added the Eerith who had accompanied them as he broke away to meet the first. Drawing closer, he asked, "Where did we get yurts, Burm?" The Eerith, Burm, grinned. "The Sinari brought them. They're pretending to be lost pilgrims or some such ruse, but the Sinari cannot hide from Eerith eyes." "How many?" "Six. I think they're all warriors. And two heavily bandaged lepers on a pilgrimage for healing." "Seeresses?" "Definitely. If I had any doubts I would have lost them as soon as the lepers began to help with the wounded. Where's Rahi?" "Went back in for another sweep." Burm nodded. "This has to be the last. Asaudin wants to move by night, this night, and I agree." "Asaudin?" "One of the Sinari, sorry, pilgrim guards. It's a long tale." "I'm going back in. I trust your judgment on this." "Useful, I need you to speak to someone before you go," Burm said abruptly. "Who? Why? One shall speak for all; do what you think is best." Burm shook his head. "Not so simple. He's a . . . diplomat and, well, you're . . ." "Useful," the other Eerith finished with a nod. "I'll deal with it. Where is he?" Burm pointed and Useful walked past him toward a middle-aged human. Mentally, Useful listed off the details Rahi would demand from him later: average height, heavy-set but not overweight, definitely placed high enough in the social order not to lack for nutrition, probably for more than one generation; old enough to be authoritative but not old enough to be infirm, clearly controlling his age, probably using dweomercraft; skin tone much too light for the desert but no scholar's pallor either, an indoor position but with travel and duties, no simple courier; no jewelry or marks of station, the clothing was formal and too heavy for this far north but cut pragmatically. Useful stepped directly in front of the man and clasped his shoulder before speaking. "Archmage of . . . Tanimbar?" "Torphan," the man corrected. "I am Hederer. You are . . ." "Eerith," Useful replied. "Walk with me." Useful led the Archmage into the yurts sheltering the wounded. Silently, seeming to ignore his companion, the Eerith began to move from bed to bed, lightly touching the wounded with his fingertips as he passed, catching glances of those he recognized and nodding reassuringly. Uncertain, Hederer tried to speak to the Eerith but each time he began, Useful motioned him to silence with a sharp, cutting motion of his hand. After long minutes, the Eerith stopped at the side of a low pile of straw. A child lay their, barely more than a toddler, staring up at the ceiling of the crude tent. Useful turned and spoke directly to Hederer, his voice taut. "You go to that woman, there, tending that man's injuries. You tell her who you are. You do exactly what she says, no more and no less. Then we'll talk." The Archmage's turned to look where the Eerith had indicated. "She's a leper," he said, questioningly. Useful knelt and closed the child's dead eyes with his fingertips then lifted the still body to carry it from the tent. "We've all got our burdens." "The taking of a name is both the salvation and damnation of the self. On the one hand, any name, any definition or description, indeed, any ending to the basic statement of 'I am' immediately becomes a limitation of perceived ability or potential. It seems a circular reasoning, but even though nothing actually changes, the perception of the thing is subtly altered, even to itself, and that change in perception results in an actual change. To say 'I am Lorgrenese' is also to say, or at least to imply, 'I am only Lorgrenese' and, on some level, create a limit. But, by the same token and in contrast, the taking of a name becomes the act of creating a parameter, a constraint, if you will, of self. The name becomes a vessel to hold the self in, both to protect and to isolate it. Thus, a name becomes a necessary evil. It bring tremendous potential to limit and restrict and yet it is necessary as one of the first acts of establishing oneself as an individual. It is certainly no accident that the first act of language which a parent performs for their child is the assignation of a name. Many cultures then require an 'adult name' to be found or earned, another critical step in the establishment of individuality apart from the community. What is clear is that the name of an individual is no simple exercise in assigning a reference term. It is more, much more, on both an actual and symbolic level." --Lorg.-- Eubatrosa tried to force his attention back to the man who spoke to him and failed. In the face of the events of the past few years, the concerns of Celamyr's armsmaster seem trivial by comparison. "So I want him out. Completely. Banned from my training grounds!" concluded the armsmaster. When the Archmage failed to respond, the man added, "Rease, sir, the Eerith." Rease. Eubatrosa almost smiled. Just over a year ago, Rease had been a faceless, nameless Eerith who had started sparring with Riacrada. Now, he was her permanent shadow, so much so in fact, that the Mir had begun to refer to him as Ria's Eerith or, shortened, Rease. Eubatrosa rubbed his forehead and spoke. "We've been over this. You're a teacher. He's teaching. He never interrupts your classes. He never gives instruction when you're using the training hall. More so, he is a good teacher. Set aside your pride, man, and tell me simply: what is he doing wrong, let alone what is he doing bad enough for you to want him banned?" The armsmaster gave the Archmage a look usually reserved for students who did not pay enough attention during lesson. "It is the way he is teaching and what he is teaching. I teach our students to fight, to defend themselves and handle a weapon responsibly. That is not what he is doing. He's teaching them ruthlessness. He's showing them how to combine their magic with weaponcraft, not to defend themselves, but to destroy. He's teaching them war!" "All right," sighed Eubatrosa. "It is as you wish." He waved a hand to dismiss the man. When he had gone, the Archmage turned in his chair to face Dioya sitting silently beside him. "Well?" Dioya shrugged. "I said not to ally with them. I said not to let them in the city. I said no good would come of even talking with them. Now you want my opinion?" "Don't start." The older man let a slight smile creep onto his face. "Sorry. I needed to say it at least once. Actually, in this case, I think the Eerith is right. We've grown soft and this is no time for peace. We need to be ready for war, not just defense. I hate to say it but I'm glad Rease is doing this." "Ah, but why is he doing it? The Eerith are not known for their altruism and there is no love lost between the Eerith and the Mir." "Actually," said Dioya, "that part is easy. Either we have to go to war on behalf of the Eerith against Alatta and the Traitor and it's in their best interest for us to have the best army possible; or, we end up fighting against them, in which case, they've taught our people everything they know and the Eerith know as much about our army as we do." "And we don't have a choice, either way." Dioya nodded. "Just like the old days. What the armsmaster did not mention, probably because he hasn't noticed it, is that Rease is only training a core of warrior mages. He doesn't even glance at the students who aren't also strong as magi." "Maximize our strongest asset; makes sense to me. So, we're committed to this?" "You are my Archmage; I shall follow your judgement," Dioya pronounced, then added in a softer tone, "You are also my friend and, once, my prize protege, and I do think this is the best thing for Mir. I'm united with you on this matter." He stopped, then chuckled to himself and added, "Even when the Council does have a fit." "They're the least of my . . ." He was interrupted by the slam of his door hitting the wall. "What is the meaning of this?!" demanded Riacrada. "How dare you give in to that doddering old man and ban the only trainer that we have ever, ever had who actually taught us more than just drill? How dare you? And how dare you make that kind of decision without consulting with me? The students Rease is training are mine!" Eubatrosa spoke with a distracted calm which he did not feel. "Dioya and I have been discussing the future of Mir." Dioya also spoke calmly, picking up the thread of conversation just as they had rehearsed. "It seems there is war in our future." "And even should there not be, we should be prepared nonetheless. Now, Dioya tells me that in the old days, there was always a council member charged with coordinating the twin powers of magic and military and preparing for the use of the two together." As Riacrada stared at both of them as if they had lost their minds, Dioya continued. "I believe the title was Warlord or something like that. They usually trained a coterie." "Or a confrerie," interrupted Eubatrosa. ". . . to assist them in the work, but the Warlord reported directly to the Archmage and led the people on the field of battle while the Archmage saw to the defense of the isle," continued Dioya. "Of course, that should be Dioya. But, he's much too old to be running about on the field of battle." "And Nioratosa is too young and needs more training. The Warlord definitely needs to be someone skilled in arms and Nioratosa has been too busy in his arcane studies to keep up with his weapon skills." Eubatrosa resumed speaking. "Whoever fills this role should be a natural leader and able to teach others as well." "And they should be trained in warfare," concluded Dioya. Eubatrosa turned to speak directly to his accomplice. "Now there is a problem. We haven't had a Warlord or anyone knowledgeable enough in magic and warfare since . . ." Dioya shrugged. "I think the last well-trained Warlord died during the invasion of Celpalar." Eubatrosa turned back to the confused Riacrada and folded his hands together complacently before pronouncing, "Of course, you will need to clear the Hall of Warlords for Rease to train your confrerie." Asadu looked up from his plate to find his companion staring silently at nothing. The Eerith did not eat but made a habit of joining Asadu for at least one meal during the course of a week for conversation and a look at his god-son. "Kernin?" Asadu queried. The Eerith shifted his gaze to Asadu. "Just like it used to be," he muttered cryptically. "Just like what used to be?" Kernin shook his head negatively. "Nothing to be concerned about." "I hope so, whatever it is. Things have been a little strained since you stole our librarian." "Borrowed and archivist," replied Kernin then added suddenly, "I have to go." The Eerith vanished as if he had never been present. Asuda shivered. Dinner with an Eerith was rarely comfortable. "We speak of communication as though it were a form of sharing, of giving and contributing to the other parties in the discussion. It is, instead, one of the highest forms of narcissism, not only in the assumption that our ideas are of value and interest to others, but also in the blithe assumption that, simply because we employ a common lexicon with our fellows, that we shall be understood. This is symptomatic of our misconceptions on the subject. "It is the child's question which is most piercing. Each child at some point in questing into the world about them asks, simply, 'How do I know that the color you see and call Red is actually the same color that I see and call Red?' The actual answer is disturbing for, in fact, we do not know. On a functional level, it does not matter, and so we continue onward, ignoring the uncomfortable vagueness of the truth. We shall never in our lives truly see the world as another does. We shall never learn, from them, any thing for which at least the components did not previously exist within our own minds. In an ideological regard, we are completely isolated within our own selves. "Words do not have intrinsic meanings. They are symbols of shared experiences. When I use the term 'tree', it has meaning only in the context that I preconceive that you, like I, have experience of the object which you and I have mutually agreed to call 'tree'. In actuality, the mental image which you form of a tree, though similar, is probably different from the mental image which I have as I speak. If my preconceptions of the commonalties of image which we share are, to my reckoning, sufficient for the information I am trying to convey, then I accept the vaugrities of our different conceptions as a reasonable casualty. If I perceive these commonalties as insufficient for my purposes, I shall continue to add words until the commonalties are sufficiently constrained-tall tree, green tree, gnarled and leaning tree, and so on-narrowing your mental focus until your understanding is acceptably close to what I attempt to convey. "Consider it thusly: words are tools. I bring forward a communication, an idea, a concept within my mind and build around it a framework, a molding of words, which fits as close as possible but with, inevitably, some gaps. When I have built the best frame I can, I pass it or speak it to another, one part, one word at a time. Within the listener's minds, they, in turn, rebuild that framework and seek, within their own mind, that concept or synthesis of concepts which best fits within that framework and, when they find a fit, they declare it understanding. It is by this clumsy and imprecise mechanism which we communicate. "The inherent danger to all of this, of course, is that it assumes both speaker and listener share a common context." --Lorg.- Within a cobwebbed corner of the Hall of Warlords, there hangs a tapestry whose origins have long been forgotten. Beneath a grey layer of dust, the once vibrant threads have faded to a dull mirror of their original subject. Like so many other relics scattered about Celapar, its origin was as forgotten as the tapestry itself. The border was gold on black in the blocked spiraling pattern common in the early Age of Sorcerers and the brightest portion of the fabric. The subject of the work was a tree rendered simply but in exacting detail, leaving little doubt that the tapestry was woven to represent a specific tree or, at least, from a living model rather than an abstraction. The tree was a river willow, though no water was visible in the tapestry. Looking at the work, the tree seemed to hunch forward and to the right. The trunk was several feet across at the base and several thick roots ran forward across the top of the ground, a ground covered by heavy green moss with tiny red spore dotting the surface. The entire trunk was scarred, cuts healed over by discolored scabs of darker bark, and, a few feet above the ground, a large knot swelled, the legacy of an ancient fungus. The willow did not split into branches until it reached some twenty feet in height and, when it did, the natural curve in the trunk hung most of the trailers like a curtain on one side of the tree. The tapestry had once had golden threads sewn through to highlight the streams of light through the verdant screen, but those threads had been pulled years ago to finance a project as forgotten as the tapestry. The leaves which lay tight against the trailing branches were longer than a man's fingers and barely as wide. Only a few loops of loose thread indicated that, once, actual leaves had been affixed at the end of each woven limb. The centuries had been marginally kinder to the actual tree. It still grew near a southern tributary of the Arand and leaned even further so that the trunk was exposed on the western side, bare and rough like the spine of some crouching beast. The moss beneath had lost its spores and, in places, soil showed through. The long shadows thrown by the setting sun were like menacing fingers clawing toward the distant river bank. Within this cloak of shadows moved a man, sketched in silhouette like a macabre marionette, thin and angular, moving in sudden, jerky motions. His movements through the striations of light and dark revealed his features in glimpses: a warrior's height and stride with a naked, emaciated body ragged by privation; hair a course mixture of grey and white, matted by sweat, mud, and blood; once bronze skin faded and scarred to a dusky grey; the hunched and stooped posture of prey, and the smooth swiveling head turns and gliding, graceful movements of the hunter. His eyesockets were hollow, red scars and black scabs, the eyeballs burned or gouged out once, now long healed. In twisted hands, knuckles swollen, he carried a long staff, almost seven feet in length. The wood was soft and green, appearing to be a fresh cut branch from the old tree, bowing slightly at the ends and bouncing with the man's movements, supple, the wood not yet firm. At the head of the staff was set with two curling horns of brass, each horn looping back to nest against the wood of the staff, like the arching handles of a water pitcher. Within each horn, hung loops of brass, clinking rings which rattled and chimed with the whipping movements of the rod. Another man moved toward the tree, a younger man, healthy and strong, with a short sword of beaten brass in his hands and his clear eyes fixed on the willow. He moved carefully, using the moss to cushion his footsteps, taking advantage of the old man's blindness. The two men seemed almost to be stalking each other, the old man moving erratically around the willow, the younger man moving in contrast, trying to prevent accidental discovery. The younger man continued to close the distance to the tree until, finally, he gripped the sword tightly and lunged, sprinting the last few yards. The old man moved quickly, desperately, whipping the staff out to strike at the other man's legs. The branch struck at his ankles and he fell, uninjured, sprawling with the sword's tip less than a foot away from the willow. The old man ran toward him, raising the staff again and bringing it down fiercely. The bronze horns struck the young man's wrists but he maintained his hold on the blade and surged back to his feet. He leveled a vicious swing at the tree. The old man had compensated for his blindness with positioning. Hearing the slight grunt the younger man gave as he swung, the old man stepped in front of the tree and frantically pushed the staff outward from his body. The willow rod turned the blow and the sword twisted to strike the old man on his shoulder. Even deflected, the slash was enough to break the skin and blood swelled from the old man's body to nourish the roots of the tree. The old man did not flinch. He pinned the sword between the staff and where it had wedged into his shoulder and, with a wrench of his body, tore the blade from the hands of the younger man. The blade dropped heavily to the ground and the two men paused, both breathing heavily. After a moment, the old man knelt, tore loose a chunk of the heavy moss, and pressed it to his wound. Silently, the younger man walked to the fallen sword and reclaimed it. He walked with it towards the river until, with a sudden effort, he hurled it as far as he could over the Arand. It flashed momentarily in the setting sun then splashed and sank. Watching from the hill above, Granthtan looked to the Eerith beside him and whispered, "I've watched it all day and I still don't understand it." Tributary did not look at the archivist as he replied. "He is the King of the Wood." "That's no real answer." "It should be," interjected an Eerith who shimmered into view as Granthtan finished speaking. "Kernin?" the archivist asked. The Eerith nodded. "The Onagir King of the Wood ritual is fraught with symbolism. Granthtan, it's time to go." "Go?" he stammered in surprise, "I've barely gotten here. There's still so much to learn." "You've been gone for one year this day," chided Kernin. Tributary nodded in agreement then added, "I'm staying here with the Disciples." "Who?" queried the archivist. "The reborn Speaker sent the five Eerith who had not forgotten the past here, to protect and prepare. Do not concern yourself with this." Granthtan sighed and dropped his gaze to stare at his feet. "All right then, take me back." "How is it possible to determine one's own sentient existence, let alone the actual existence of another being? Given this quandary, it is especially ironic that we measure our existence by the barometer of our ability to affect those other beings and the physical world about us. While it may be possible to exist sentiently without exerting any influence on the external world, in a pragmatic sense, existence without affect is the equivalent of non-existence. It is thereby necessary for a sentient being to be able to exert power over the external circumstances which surround it. "While, on a philosophical basis, it is enough to be and not do, it is a existential fact that to be, one must do or, more precisely, one will do. The cry of an infant is an act of being because it is the mechanism through which they exert influence over the world around them. "The symbiosis of influence and the experience of being manifests itself in the perception of power. Mankind defines his significance by the ability to exercise power. While there is not a direct, linear correlation between significance and power, it is clear that, should a man feel himself powerless, he also feels insignificant and must take action to rectify the situation which has rendered him powerless or else, within his own mind, cease to be. "Unfortunately, the most common recourse of the powerless is the most direct expression of power over the external: violence." --Lorg.- Rahi and Hope returned from Myr Kun alone. Exhausted, Rahi found Useful waiting well outside their temporary camp. The Eerith met Rahi and caught her by the shoulders as she slumped forward. He felt her weariness wash forward in waves. Gently, he fed her strength, absorbing her fatigue and leeching away the pain from her body into himself: not enough to truly heal her--he was took weak for that himself--but enough to give her back some clarity. "Thank you," she said softly then added, "You should have asked first." Useful shook his head. "You would have refused. Be careful. What I did is only temporary, when it wears off, your body will have its due." "What about Hope?" Rahi asked. Useful looked confused before realizing that Rahi could not see the arcane shimmer which surrounded the girl. "She's been warded by most of the Eerith in Myr Kun since this all began." He smiled to himself then added, "We're rather fond of her." "Why did you meet us out here instead of back with the others?" "I wanted to prepare you." "Trouble?" "The Sinari. Burm and Asaudin are at each other's throats. It's about the wounded . . ." Useful's voice trailed off as Rahi stalked past him. He sighed and followed, burdened by the exhaustion he had borrowed from Rahi. She stormed straight through the camp to the arguing men. Their words were lost to the angry roaring of blood within her own ears, furious at the injustice of responsibility. "Everything! Now!" she demanded of them. "He wants to kill the wounded," Burm said tightly. "We cannot cross the desert with them. It's over three hundred miles even to Jall," spat back Asaudin. "That doesn't mean we must kill them!" "It would be mercy to kill them! To leave them to the desert is cruelty beyond mere death!" Rahi stopped listening as the two fell back into a pattern of argument which had obviously been raging for some time. Even with Useful's help, her mind was foggy, exhaustion blurred the edges of her reason and every ounce of her body cried for rest. Through this haze, she fought, using the training given her by the seeresses so many years ago. Decisions should be made for reasons and all reasons should be based on truth, truth so clearly known that there was no need for rationale. Centering herself, Rahi opened her eyes and began to speak in a steady voice. The camp fell immediately silent as she spoke. "If we leave them, they will die. This is a fact. If we leave them, it is the same as if we kill them-the responsibility is equal. This is a thing we will not do." She lifted a hand to forestall argument and continued. "To cross the desert, we must move quickly. We must move without burdens and we must conserve our water supplies tightly if we are to survive. If we bring the wounded, we cannot do this and we will die. This is a thing we will not do." She took a deep breath and her voice gained strength as she spoke. "We are Eerith. Either choice is an easy choice. We do not make easy choices. These people are our burden and our responsibility and we will not fail them. We will not leave them. If we leave, we can't change things. If they are with us, we can. We will make no decisions of who is worthy to live and to die." She spoke loudly now, her words carrying across the small encampment. "We will do the thing which is right. We will do that which is Eerith. We will do what is not possible because we have no other choice. We will bring them with us and we will cross the desert alive!" She swept the group with a hawk's glare and finished in a tone of growling menace. "We do not make easy choices. We. Are. Eerith!" Rahi spun and stalked away from the gathering. A heavily cloaked leper caught her arm and guided her out of sight behind a yurt. "You speak with wisdom, Sister-wisdom and faith." "Sarah?" whispered Rahi in surprise, then shook her head in denial. "I am no longer your sister." "You are Rahi. Rahi is my sister. True, Rahi is no longer a seeress but, was the seeress Rahi or Rahi the seeress. You are still Rahi. You are still my sister," the leper concluded succinctly in a satisfied tone. The leper embraced Rahi then moved away quickly before anyone would notice. "Thank you, Sarah," Rahi whispered, then stepped from behind the crude structure. "Useful!" she demanded. "Here, lady. What do you need?" "Where is the reborn one?" "He's not coming," Useful replied contritely. Rahi spun on her heel and began to trot back toward the city, her long spear swinging loosely at her side. "Should we wait?" asked Asaudin behind him. "No. If she follows, she can catch up easily." "Nice of you to come back," said Eubratosa, leaning in the doorway of Granthtan's office. The archivist was moving about his long abandoned workroom, rearranging items and storing others. Granthtan replied as he worked. "Every Archmage has had a specialty or at least an area of interest. I'm fairly certain that yours is diplomacy, but time will tell. What about Lorgrenese?" "So you did actually translate his works?" "Actually, that was part of why I left. Part of it I translated and understood. Some I translated and didn't understand. The rest I needed help with. So, I traveled a bit and now I understand even less than when I started, but at least I know what I don't know." "Tell me," the Archmage said simply. To his surprise, the archivist refused. "Not yet. First, we need to talk to D. I've already sent a runner. He should be here soon." Eubratosa was stunned. "You sent a runner to Dioya but I have to find you poking around in your office to even know you're here?" Granthtan shrugged. "You found me. D might have taken days to check but you, I'm confident, checked for me at least once a day. After a year with the Eerith, I really don't pay much attention to formality. Find a chair and stop hovering. You're making me nervous." As the Archmage carefully removed a stack of books from a chair and placed them on the floor, Dioya flew into the room. The older mage dumped a chair full of papers onto the floor and kicked the door closed. "Welcome back." Granthtan perched on a corner of his desk. For the first time, Eubatrosa noticed that the archivist was no longer using a cane. Before he could comment on it, the archivist began speaking to Dioya. "Question One: Why have me killed?" Dioya replied calmly. "You're the only person capable of translating Lorgrenese's journals. That means, since Lorgrenese was the last Archmage before the Eerith were imprisoned, you're the only person who can decipher the spells to free the Eerith." "Which you are expressly opposed to." "Yes. Also note, no repeat attempts." Eubartosa looked from one man to the other incredulously. "You were the one who tried to have him killed?" Dioya shook his head. "No, but I wasn't opposed to the idea either." "Then who?" the Archmage asked. Dioya shrugged and looked back to Granthtan. "I'd guess the Eerith." "But that makes no sense, they needed him alive to translate." "But I'm not dead," Granthtan pointed out. "Another Eerith action," noted Dioya. "So they tried to kill you to save you?" "To make sure he listened," interrupted Dioya. Granthtan nodded in agreement. "Without the urgency of the assassination attempt, I would never have given enough attention to Kernin's warning. Who writes history?" "Classic Eerith," commented Dioya. "Attack you to save you. Play both sides against each other." "But one of our own magi was the attacker," said Eubatrosa. Dioya shrugged. "So, as an added bonus, if cornered, the Eerith can always point out that they performed a service by flushing out a potential traitor." "All right. Question Two: D, how old are you?" "Just over one thousand years." Noticing Eubatrosa staring at him in surprise, Dioya added, "It didn't seem important." "How old exactly?" "One thousand, four hundred, and eighty-three. Granthtan, what does this have to do with anything?" "Other than marveling at your extreme longevity, I need Eubatrosa to understand just how important your advice is in dealing with the Eerith. Archmage, Dioya is not just advising you based on opinion. He can remember!" Dioya shook his head. "I was a child at the time, a babe." "Ah, but you remember the time after." "Barely. Mir was awash with anti-Eerith sentiment and suspicions that our own Archmage had betrayed us. The Empire was collapsing, within and without." "And, Question Three: Who writes history?" "The Eerith's question," Dioya added. Granthtan nodded. "History is written by the survivors." "How significant is the barrier between thought and deed? Surely it exists and, in some, to a dangerous extent. A man may lie abed for hours, comfortable and warm, sheltered from the cold of his room and the troubles of the day by the haze of recent waking. Within his mind, he thinks that he should arise, that he must arise, in time, he will even decide that he will arise but he does not. For hours a man may lie abed dreading the day, even until the very aches and needs of his body make staying a greater discomfort than rising, but he does not. Even though he has decided to rise, he does not. Then, suddenly, for no reason, he acts, thrusting himself upward and into action, consciously unaware that he has acted until he is already in motion. It is one of the great mysteries, what occurs during that instant where the real decision is made and why. Nonetheless, there is a barrier there, a enigmatic wall between decision and deed and I, for one, am glad of it. Even though at times the hesitation is, itself, destructive, I shudder to think what manner of man I should be if thought and deed were one." --Lorg.- "Ah, Dog, I should be happy." Alfos sighed and dropped a negligent hand to scratch between the heavy folds of the beast's thick hide. Dog's heavy tail thumped the ground rhythmically in appreciation. "I can have anything I ask for because I'm this prophet thing. I've never eaten so well in my life. True, the black witches are annoying but everyone else is fine-even with all this so-called religion, it's not so hard to get drunk and dice." Alfos paused and leaned back in his chair. Realizing his grooming had ceased, Dog stretched lazily then sat up and laid his head in Alfos' lap. Across it actually, Alfos noticed--apparently the prophet was not the only one eating well. Dog's drool frothed onto Alfos' white robes but the man did not mind-they would get him new robes when these were dirty. "Yep, all told, this prophet work is not bad at all." He did not mention the pain that racked his body when the voices spoke through him. Those voices, whomever they were, he knew now were not the Eerith. The Eerith were the quiet mutterings at the base of his skull, never intrusive, never demanding, at times, strangely companionable. When their constant babble became too much, Alfos would seek out Dog and the animals strong physical presence would make it fade to nothing in contrast. He had tried to explain this to the seeresses but they refused to listen. No, he corrected himself, they refused to understand-the Eerith would make requests of him but they never forced, never invaded with god-like impunity, tearing through his mind and throat. The Eerith, Alfos had come to an understanding with; the voices he hated, both of them. Dog snorted, mucous bubbling out from his nostrils, and fell asleep. "Everything I've ever wanted," Alfos commented distantly, rubbing Dog's neck, mindful of the spikes. Abruptly, Alfos leapt to his feet, or would have had it not been for Dog's considerable bulk in his lap, which instead knocked him stumbling back, tripping across his own chair. "That's the problem!" Dog's head hit the floor with an impressive thud, waking him. The beast looked at Alfos with dazed eyes. "Why gamble if you cannot lose, eh Dog? They give me my money back if I lose because I'm the prophet. That's not gambling." Dog's only answer was to drop his head onto his talons and go back to sleep. "We're prisoners here, Dog, as sure as if I's captured by the guard again. Captured by the black witches, by the voices, by everything. Well, not us!" Dog open one ochre eye, vaguely interested by Alfos' shout. "They can't make us prophesy if there's no one to listen, can they? No witches to listen, no reason to use the prophet! Dog, we're bustin' out!" Caught up by Alfos' excitement, Dog lumbered to its feet and whumphed in answer. "No prison can hold Alfos!" the man shouted, then added in a lower tone, "'Cept for the one I spent a year in in Mir." The warriors of the Sinari are noted as possessing unusual wisdom. That wisdom was displayed again when, following the "ascendance" of the prophet, they deemed this irrelevant to the tracks leaving the prophet's tent, and the search party who followed them. Even wiser still, when a small band was detached to learn the fate of the search party, they decided not to note that the party's tracks had ended in midstride. "Like nomenclature, the study of origins is definitely a two-edged sword. In order to understand what a thing is, it is imperative that the studier understand its origin. This is because the current existence of a thing and its origin are inextricably bound. The danger lies in the temptation to believe that the currency of a thing is constrained solely by its origin. While beginnings are vital to understanding and are the painful, best tutors of past failures, what is, is. Irrespective of origin, a thing must be dealt with as it is, not as it was." --Lorg.- "So history was written by the survivors. What does that actually mean?" Eubatrosa asked, tiredly. Dioya answered. "After the fall of Annaeyana, Mir was a hollow shell of its former glory. The best and strongest were gone, dead or lost in the battle, my father among them." His tone became softer and Eubatrosa realized Dioya was looking, not at him, but through him, seeing memories of a Mir now long past. "My mother never recovered. It was like the core was burned out of her. It was years before I understood what it cost her to hold her tongue, to listen to the denunciations of Lorgernese. She did, though. She stood silently by, for me. "Mir after Annaeyana was a nightmare. The fear was tangible, even to a boy. Only a few understood how close the Empire was to collapse, but even the beggars on the street could sense the desperation. I think the only thing that saved us all was the paralysis of shock. We couldn't believe what had happened. It was inconceivable; there had to be a reason, someone, or something, to blame. "You must understand, after Annaeyana, the leadership of Mir was made up of those who had opposed Lorgrenese and those who had fled during the battle. The first group leapt at the chance to discredit everything the Archmage stood for and the second were so burdened by their own shame, they dared not speak out. Lorgrenese led the Empire to the lip of doom and the Eerith were the demons which pushed him off. Anyone who said otherwise . . . vanished, gone from their homes in the night. The fervor of opposition was almost religious. It was a hard time and long ago. . ." Dioya's voice trailed to nothing. For a moment, Eubatrosa caught a glimpse of a man he had never seen before. Dioya had always been old D, his teacher and taskmaster, then loyal old advisor and, occasionally, adversary. Now, the Archmage saw the man who stood behind the masks of duty. Dioya continued after a moment. "That's why I keep warning you about the Eerith. I have seen what they can do, the risk they pose. To Lorgrenese, they weren't slaves, they were companions. He referred to the Eerith Speaker as 'my brother'. The mistakes of the past were made for love, not dominance." "You two are saying that our history is a lie?" queried Eubatrosa. "Not a lie," interjected Granthtan. "Just incomplete, slanted." The current Archmage rubbed his temples in frustration. "Tell me." Dioya stood abruptly. "I was there. I have a class to teach." "Dioya," quested Eubatrosa, "about your father . . ." Dioya answered. "He died before I was born. I never met him." He concluded by stepping out and closing the door firmly behind him. Eubatrosa swung to look at Granthtan. "Who was his father?" Granthtan shook his head in denial. "Who do you think?" "Love and hate are not antonyms. The converse of both is apathy." --Lorg.- The smell of salt and the creak of leather. Great lungs pumping, bellows, deafened a rush of wind. Jaws crack long and then cry forth Hymns of life and fire. The crystal blue sky spun and became the mottled grey and brown of earth. She banked again, towards the sun, and caught the fading thermal, a final lift before the strike. The scepter called; they called. Wings fold back and knife the sky. City spires below, minarets now grown large. Out and bank to twist the blade. Rolling thunder in the wake. A single Eerith in human form stood at the city's edge, a rod held loosely in his hand. She roared over his head, the cobblestones of the road ripping loose, sucked upward, in her wake. She felt towers snapping like twigs as she struck them. Then she was through the city and buildings collapsed in her wake. As she strove to catch the draft and rise again, she could hear the Eerith calling behind her, calling her to hunt again. "Dexter Talus." The ground rose up to meet her and the seeress lay, once again, in her worn body. For a moment, she longed for the youth and power . . . best not to remember. She forced herself to stand then moved to help her sisters. "What have we seen, sisters?" someone asked. "Not what," replied the elder seeress, "When?" "To be is to have power. To have power is to have the capacity for violence. To have language is also to have power. Does it then follow that to have language is to have a capacity for violence or does, instead, language stand as a surrogate, a substitute for violence? If not, then why do men swear?" --Lorg.- "Start again!" Eubatrosa fought not to shout. "You've been babbling on for over an hour about language and symbols and everything except for what I want to know!" "It's not so simple. To understand, first you have to . . ." "No!" The Archmage forced himself to sit and breath before speaking again, "Granthtan, start chronologically. What did you find in Lorgrenese's journals?" "Nothing. Everything. In all of his journals Lorgrenese discusses everything from existence to his socks. But, he never mentions the Eerith." "So this was all wasted effort." "Quite the opposite. There are blank pages, half finished sentences, just words randomly missing off pages. That's where the Eerith are, in the blanks. It is frankly inconceivable that Lorgrenese would erase anything, much less his own journals, and no one else could have. If someone else was going to erase his work, they would have destroyed it all. So, I started checking other books. I ended up going through most of the archives. Listen, we have no documented reference to the Eerith that predates Lorgrenese! It's gone, erased!" "Impossible." "Possible. The combined authority of an Eerith and an Archmage . . ." "No," interrupted Eubatrosa. "I mean, it is impossible that an Archmage would do such a thing." Granthtan fixed the Archmage with a disapproving glare. "All men are not you. However, I thought the same thing until I considered it. How do we keep the apprentices from learning our deep, dark secrets?" "We don't erase them." "But only because we didn't write them down to begin with, not clearly and simply. There are no references to the Eerith directly but, based on the context of the erased sections, I can make some deductions. Only a handful of people even dealt with the Eerith directly, so, remember, there aren't that many writings that are germane, but it appears that Eerith references then were like references to human anatomy are now: not overly common but detailed, simple, and pragmatic. The Eerith were common knowledge and discussed that way. Imagine the danger of that kind of information." "But to erase it?" "Not all of it, just the obvious part, just like we do with apprentices. We don't need to hide the information from them because they have to learn other subjects first before they would even understand what they were reading." Eubatrosa shook his head. "Give me an example." "Necromancy. We both will agree that it is an abominable, evil, forbidable practice. So, why don't we destroy all the texts on it that we find?" "Many reasons: we cannot fight what we do not know, some of the observations in the texts are important to understanding other areas of study, knowledge itself is intrinsically valuable, several more if I need to go on." "Don't bother. So, we restrict access, but if someone pressed, they could get the texts. Why don't we have a courtyard full of the undead summoned by experimenting novices?" "Without a complete understanding of anatomy, spiritualism, and corporeal theory, the texts are meaningless." Granthtan pounced. "Exactly! The same with the Eerith-the advanced information is still there but the legs have been cut from under it. The primers are gone. Just because a passage doesn't use the word 'Eerith', that doesn't mean it's not about them." "Fair enough. Given: the histories are either biased or absent. Given: we may still learn about the Eerith by inference. What next?" "I started over, this time with the understanding that any text could be relevant to the Eerith. The first thing I had to do was establish a working definition of what the Eerith actually were. The Eerith are spiritual beings that, according to Kerjavik, manifest themselves as fiery beings of light or tall men clothed in light and music." Eubatrosa nodded in understanding then asked, "Kerjavik was from Myr Kun, wasn't he?" "Yes, and I fear that it is no coincidence considering recent events. Now, the only other clear indication of Eerith presence was that magics worked through them were effectively permanent in duration. Based on this as a working definition, the Eerith which served Mir are a recent fraction of the historical Eerith population. It marks the first time that the Eerith have existed in a consistent, stable form but mankind has interacted with them on a limited basis as far back as we have records. Eerith or Eerith-like beings are even fundamental entities in primitive shamanism as dream-guides." "And that means what?" Granthtan shrugged. "I don't really know, but I'm sure it's important. Anyway, I decided to narrow my definition and went back to Kerjavik. Kerjavik called the Eerith 'the Corrupted'. But, the Eerith in council . . ." "Kernin." "Yes, at least, we assume so. He said that we had mistranslated and that the Eerith were the 'Pure'." "I thought it was 'the Pure Ones." "Ah, well. I checked on that. What was actually said depends on who you ask. Most of the Council heard 'the Pure Ones' but several distinctly recall hearing 'the Pure One'-a very important distinction, especially in light of Sinari theology." "Wait a minute, the Council heard different things?" "It appears so, which brings up the question of how the Eerith communicate at all, but not now. I actually think that the best translation is actually 'Ore'." "Or?" "As in refinable raw material like iron ore. In other words, a corrupt thing which may become pure." "How did you . . ." the Archmage was interrupted by the crash of the office's heavy wooden door slamming open. Nioratosa, his son, stood breathless in the opening. "Failure! Tragedy!" he gasped. "What?" interjected Granthtan into the breathless silence. "We tried to assassinate the Traitor," the Archmage growled as he stood. "I have to go; we will speak later." Granthtan refused to let him leave cleanly, following him to the hall, grasping at the hem of his robes. "Listen to me! You must understand! Lorgrenese was not a warrior! He was a linguist!" As Archmage and son left the vaults, the archivist's last shouts hung ominously in the air. "How can a race without a language have a name?" "I find it a matter of no small fascination that our words symbol and demon originate in the Onagir tongue. These two words are actually antonyms. Symbol indicating a drawing together or synthesis of things while the root word daemon indicates a force which would tear apart or dissolve union. Given the Onagir kinship to my brother, I cannot help but feel this observation is somehow significant . . .--Lorg.- She found him exactly where she had expected, standing directly below Annaeyana. His left arm was extended upward, dissolving into a thin stream of violet light, reaching up to the city. With a growl, Rahi swung her spear in a wide arc, striking the reborn Speaker squarely in the chest. He went down hard, breaking his link with the city, then dissolved momentarily into motes of light to reform standing before her. He tilted his head to one side and regarded her with a bemused expression. "They should have told you; I'm not going." "You selfish bastard!" she exploded. "You are mortal; you can't understand . . ." "Understand what? Pride? Fear? Don't you think I know what it is to give up everything? Tell me I'm wrong!" He stood silent in the face of her assault. Her voice lowered but lost none of its intensity as she continued. "Don't you think I know that it's easier to die for a cause than to live for one? You failed. You didn't free them and now you're afraid that you'll ruin the work you've already done; that by failing, you'll make the rest lose sight of the Vision. Oh, I understand. I understand that it's easier to become a martyr than to risk failing and losing everything. I also understand that it's selfishness and fear. The Vision is true and they've seen it. Nothing you do will change that. "You convinced us to take in the refugees because it was right. It doesn't end with that. They need you. We need you." He shook his head. "I'm no leader." "Those people don't need to be led; they need help. Don't lead them, serve them." "And if I fail them, like I failed Lorgrenese?" "If you fail, you fail. This isn't about you. It's about honor and duty. It's about the Vision. We do not make easy choices; we are Eerith." He smiled thinly, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It seems like I've heard that before." "We will free them, someday, together. But not today. Duty demands; they would wish it no different." "I'm not Sin-Alb," he said abruptly and Rahi choked back a laugh. "You think I don't know that? Does everything have to be about you? I don't know what terrible past you think you have to atone for and I truly don't care. What is, is. We are where and what we are. From here, we do what is right. It really is that simple. "Do you know what the Eerith have begun to call you?" she continued. "Useful started it once Tributary discovered you were Valerian. Val-or, the one who speaks for all. Walk away now and you forfeit everything you've gained." The reborn Speaker lifted his head to look back at the floating city. "He's winning." "Who?" "The demon. The symbol. Both and neither, it doesn't matter." His shoulders sagged and he dropped his head to his chest. For a moment, Rahi could have believed that she looked at no Eerith but simply a tired man. Then the illusion was shattered. "We were right to create your people," he whispered and Rahi felt a stirring, as if a cold wind blew directly down from Annaeyana. Dust and smoke curled out from where they stood and Rahi felt the hairs of her arms and neck rise. His form became indistinct, hazed as if through the heat of the desert, illumined by a nimbus which was undeniably present and bright yet somehow, she could not see it. The air was filled with the sounds of wind chimes and thunder. The heavy scent of gromura and sandalwood threatened to overwhelm her. His shoulders lifted, not internally, but externally, as though lifted by an unseen hand and his head rose like the rearing neck of a catayarsh catching scent. His eyes bled with light, seeping outward, a heavy liquid bubbling upward, a piercing emerald green on the left, twinkling sapphire on the right. "Valor. I shall take this name." When he spoke, it was not in a voice but a chorus, a thousand voices at once, a choir underlain with chords of harp and pipe. "It is as you say: I go now to serve my people!" "We failed. But we still lived. By this, we did not fail." --Lorg.- History notes that late in the year of 1415, a band of refugees, with Eerith assistance, crossed the Taltherani border. In the course of their journey, totaling over 1600 miles, they recorded only two casualties, both of which died from wounds already judged mortal before the journey began. Selah. Amen. M. Keaton ---------------------------------------------------------------- To unsubscribe, send mail to celandra-off@phoenyx.net.
