The Canto of Blood, Opus Two

 

D is for Duty; the main cause of death.  E is for eternal; the duration of the war.  F is for Fire; the universe's blood.

 

***

 

"I want that shipment ready by dawn, no later.  Am I clear on this?"  F'cresa's tone would accept no arguments and the tired merchant offered none.  He nodded in reply and she left him standing behind her.  With long, determined strides, she stalked through the hallways of the Mirish capitol, crossing from one meeting hall to another at a frenzied pace, already considering how she would handle the next negotiation.  

 

Strong arms caught her from behind, lifting her from her feet and pulling her forcefully from the hallway into a nearby room.  She twisted free and spun to face her assailant.

 

"How dare you?" she spat.

 

"I dare," replied Tributary calmly, "because it is right.  Release the girl.  You've had her long enough to do what you needed.  You're hurting her as it is."

 

"Nonsense.  There is still too much to do.  This vessel is fine; a bit strained, perhaps, but nothing more."

 

"You know nothing of mortality.  Let her go."

 

F'cresa sneered at the Eerith.  "Or what?"

 

"Or I will force you out," he replied.

 

"You wouldn't dare!  You couldn't!"

 

"Maybe.  High God versus Eerith has never been attempted.  I'm sure that you believe you are superior.  I honestly do not know.  But, my dear Miracradsa, let me remind you that I also served as your high priest.  Can you risk an exorcism?"

 

"This isn't settled," she growled, then suddenly collapsed.  Tributary caught her limp form before it could hit the flagstone.  A small trail of blood mixed with tears welled from the girl's eyes, streaking pink across her face as he eased her to a sitting position on the floor.

 

"An avatar is worthless if you burn it out before you're done," he muttered angrily.  The Eerith placed his hands on F'cresa's shoulders and willed his energies into her body, wishing vainly that a better healer was available.  Her eyes fluttered and he held her steady as she pitched with a wracking cough, spitting blood and mucous onto the floor.

 

"I'll.I'll be all right," she gasped when she had regained her breath.  "Thank you."

 

Tributary looked at her mournfully.  "I truly am sorry.  You should try to get some sleep now."

 

F'cresa nodded.  "When will she be back?"

 

"I don't know.  You probably have a few days at least.  Even as a god, possession takes a toll on her as well."

 

The girl sighed and wiped her face on the sleeve of her robe.  "When she's in me, I can still see and hear everything.  I couldn't bear this without you."

 

"You should rest first.  We can talk later."

 

"Wait.  How did you force her out?  How can an Eerith be a high priest of Miracradsa?"

 

Tributary smiled in spite of himself.  "Wheels within wheels and plans within plans, little one.  Before I was the Eerith Tributary, part of me was the Archmage Lorgrenese."

 

"Only part?"

 

"Sadly, yes.  You would know the other part as Sin-Alb."

 

F'cresa nodded dreamily, already slipping into sleep, satisfied with his answer.

 

***

 

"I am relatively certain that the masculine rite of passage is the assault upon the King of the Wood.  Within the rite itself, there are degrees of success.  For most, the attempt is sufficient so long as it is made with intent and competence.  Those rare few who manage to surpass the defenses of the King to reach his tree are treated differently.  The one person in an hundred who actually succeeds in the assault seems to be the pool from which the future obeah workers are trained.  I fear that in order to get the answers I need, I am forced to consider a rather extreme course of action.  It seems that an over-weight, out-of-shape librarian with arthritis and gout must somehow succeed in a physical trial at which most young and healthy Onagir fail."

--Granth.--

 

***

 

Darkness.  Not the still blackness of the night or of the desert beneath the storms; not the shade of closed eyes in sleep; not the gloom of shaded tents or blindfolds of dyed cloth:  what Rahi stood within was true darkness, the dark of a place untouched by light, the darkness of the grave.  Her heart pounded into her throat and the sheer emptiness of it seemed to suffocate her.  Hope's hand shivered in hers and she clenched it all the tighter.

 

"Be still and know peace.  I am here."  Valor's voice spoke in the emptiness, a soothing light of sound where visible light did not exist.

 

"Where is here?" she asked, her voice still tremulous and overawed.

 

A sound came like the splitting of mountains, the grinding of slabs of granite  sliding down ramps of shale--on and on, for a deafening eternity until Rahi wanted to cover her ears and fall to her knees.But there was Hope and she held the child tight in the midst of the auditory maelstrom until it stopped.  In the distance, a door opened.  Rahi saw, finally, a golden light in the darkness, an oval archway, easily twice her height, leading to where she did not know.  With the grinding sound of stone, the "door" blinked and her mind reeled--the glowing gold was an iris surrounding no exit, but the pupil of an eye.

 

"Dexter Tallus.  Dexret Tallsus.  Dextre Talus.  Here is Dexter Tallus, of all things, here is."  Whatever spoke did so with a voice laden with the crash of stone and a volume to match the size of the eye.  "The right chalk.  The right hand.  The hand of god.  The fist of justice.  The right side of the scales.  The right hand of the right hand in the heart of the chalks on the right as the sun rises.  And no place is here for mortals."

 

"They are mine," Valor said simply.  "They all are mine.  I accept accountability for them all."

 

"You would place yourself on the right hand of the scales to balance the left?  All the transgressions they have brought upon themselves, you would seek to balance this scale?"

 

"I do.  With full understanding and free will, I do this."

 

"And you truly believe that you are worthy of this?  That you are enough to balance this?"

 

"I do.  I am."

 

The eye closed and the darkness stretched beyond a sense of time, lost there with no point of reference.  "It is enough.  When it is time, we will come.  When it is time, the fist of god will fall."

 

The sudden light of the desert sky left Rahi weeping, or so she would later say.

 

***

 

The Mir to which Dioya returned was disturbingly not the Mir he had left almost a year before; reorienting himself proved difficult.  His inquiries were further complicated by the fact that no one seemed to have been aware of his absence, an illusion he was sure that Ria or Granthtan had perpetuated and not one he was inclined to dispel.  But Ria was with the United armies in the Wyr basin and Granthtan had once again been spirited away, presumably into the forests of the Onagir, leaving Dioya with no one he could speak with directly about recent events.  Discreet interviews with Eubatrosa had proven fruitless; the Archmage was single-mindedly obsessed with locating and retrieving the Scepter of Mir and had largely withdrawn from actively leading.  Mir was now ruled by an unusual pair, and much more imperialistically than was comfortable:  Niotrosa and his newly discovered daughter F'cresa, quietly backed by the almost invisible power of the Eerith Tributary.

 

The Council proper had always been more of a perfunctory organization than a real political entity, but now they had faded into a pro-forma stamp of approval for the decisions of the royal family.  A series of carefully placed inquiries revealed to Dioya a disturbing pattern of "accidents" which served to strengthen Niotrosa's hold on the governing body--nothing obvious, but to Dioya's suspicious nature, much too convenient for his liking.

 

The girl F'cresa was a paradox.  At times she behaved exactly as Dioya would expect:  a frightened child out of her element and thrust into a family and a culture she did not understand.  At other times, she was a completely different person, a true empress in bearing, knowledge, and actions.  It was this second persona which had taken command of the Mirish homegaurd in Ria's absence, maneuvered the Council into granting the royal family what amounted to martial law over Mir during the Sinari war, and kept Eubatrosa focused on the search for the Scepter, leaving Niotrosa free to rule Mir as he saw fit.

 

The change within Niotrosa was equally unusual, if not as sinister to Dioya's perceptions.  Confident and strong, the boy had seemed to swell in his character to fill the void of leadership left by his father's preoccupation.  Dioya also saw the carriage and affectations, not of an Archmage, but of an emperor.  Niotrosa had become too shrewd too fast, showing an ability to smoothly manipulate the Council that Dioya had never believed would be part of the boy's nature, especially not at this young age.

 

With the archivist gone, Dioya had taken up residence in the vaults which were Granthtan's normal haunts, retracing the steps of the other man's researches into Dioya's father and the nature of the Eerith.  Unlike  Granthtan, for Dioya, it was also a personal investigation, a look at the father he had barely knew, and he spent late hours deep in study of Lorgrenese's journals.

 

It was from one of these long nights of study that Dioya found himself awakened by the stamp of boot heels on stone.  The mage startled up from the table where he had slipped into a troubled sleep and turned to face the bemused face of the young Niotrosa.  Eubatrosa's son was dressed in the black kid leather and white silks which had become his most recent affectation. 

 

"I swear, Dioya, am I the only mage left in Mirabalpur without a pet obsession these days?"

 

The tone was jovial, but Dioya felt vaguely threatened.  "Busy days, young sir.  You seem to be faring well."

 

"Well enough, all things considered.  But I do need a favor, if you're up to it."

 

Dioya wondered to himself how much of the coming request would truly be optional but kept the thought to himself.  "Anything I can help with, I'd be honored to do."

 

"Of course, of course.  It's simple really.  I need you to fetch me the Scepter of Mir."

 

The older mage struggled to keep the surprise from his face.  "I understand the need for it, certainly, but it's been lost for centuries.  It's not as simple."

 

Niotrosa interrupted.  "Of course it is, old man.  The Eerith have had a vested interest in its location for years.  I've simply convinced them to allow us access.  With luck, Granthtan should have it by the time you arrive in Videssia."

 

Dioya weighed the information carefully.  If it were true, the benefits to Mir were enormous and he certainly did not want Niotrosa to get his hands on the Scepter personally, much better that Dioya should deliver the Scepter straight to Eubatrosa.  Still, the act was too magnanimous; Dioya could not bring himself to trust the younger mage's motives.  Why did Niotrosa himself not retrieve the Scepter?  No, Dioya thought, there was more afoot here than simply delivering a rediscovered artifact.  But, other than getting Dioya physically away from the capitol, what was the advantage for the younger man?  If Niotrosa's motives were sinister, the risk of an unknown factor in Mirabalpur was much less than letting Niotrosa reclaim the Scepter himself.if the Eerith really had found it.  Dioya met Niotrosa's patient gaze and realized that the boy knew the mental contortions Dioya dealt with, had probably expected them.

 

"All right," Dioya replied, this time not bothering to keep his distrust hidden.  "Where's Granthtan and the Scepter?"

 

"With the Onagir, obviously.  I'm certain that once you get close, the Eerith will guide you."

 

"I'm sure."

 

"The Scepter itself is in the possession of their King of the Wood.  Oh, one other thing.  Granthtan might not recognize the Scepter and, even if he does, the Onigar might not be willing to part with it.  I'm sure you'll be able to take care of any difficulties which arise."  Without benediction, Niotrosa turned and walked casually from the vault.

 

"How long until you start to wear the veil?" Dioya shouted angrily after him.

 

Niotrosa stopped and glance back.  "I wondered if you would recognize the style, old man.  Never fear--in the Averandian courts, only slaves and underlings wore the veils.  In my case, it hardly applies."

 

***

 

Alfos was dozing in the shade of the scrawny palm when Dog barked.  (Once.  Dog was not terribly ambitious.)  They had found the spring and its small stand of trees less than a day after Alfos had given his half of the Golden Mirror to Tributary; he had seen little point in traveling further.

 

The thief recognized the figure who walked across the sands to join him at the oasis even though the two had never met and, after the single welcoming bark, Dog seemed not to care or notice.  Without rising, Alfos motioned to a spot next to him and Valor settled, cross-legged on the ground alongside him.

 

"It really is all about a language, isn't it?" the prophet asked.

 

"Everything is.  In its simplest form, we're fighting a war for semantics."

 

"I didn't understand at first.  I thought it was all a."

 

"Metaphor."

 

"Yea, that.  And, in a way, it is.  But the language thing is literal.  You guys are telepathic.  No language, never needed one, just look in a man's head and pull out what you need.  Even when you talk, you're just saying what you think I need to hear to make sense.  Heh, the Eerith don't speak all languages; they don't speak any."

 

"I'm glad you understand."

 

"Oh, I understand more than that.  See, until you things set up house in my head, I never even considered that maybe you were really different.  Me, I taste, touch, see, hear, like that."

 

"You smell, too, Alfos."

 

"Oh, very funny.  But Eerith are different.  You're music."

 

"Harmonies."

 

"You know what I mean.  You don't even sense the world the way men do.  There's more, stuff we can't even think about knowing, so for some stuff, there's no way you can use our language.  And even when you use our languages, you only use them like we use them, you don't understand everything that the word means, just the part that you need."

 

"Connotations." 

 

"If you say so.  Anyhow, that's why you need people, why you served the Mir, why you needed a prophet."

 

"That's a part of it, yes.  We also need the larger symbolism of a cultural history and mythography but, at its heart, those are just larger functions of language--words on a different level."

 

"That's enough of a reason for me.  I just needed to understand why you did what you did to me.  But, lately, I've been thinking more.  Spare time and no work will do that to you.  You guys all have one mind because you have no words so, when you think together, it all runs into each other like dye in water."

 

Alfos dipped a gourd into the spring and took a drink before continuing.  "I got to thinking about the words in my head.  Not your words, but mine.  You know, where does Alfos end and you guys start, and why I don't slide off the edge into the big Eerith mind.  It's the words.  The voice in my head, the big one, is Alfos, always will be.  It uses words like, I don't know, like bricks.  See, humans, we live in our heads.  Always in here--to us, talking is like throwing bricks or words at somebody else's head.  We do it until they understand us, or we think they do, and then we go on.  Never really know what's in anyone else's head.  All we got is bricks.  Kind of lonely when you think of it but it makes us who we are.  It's a separation.  Words, they make us individuals.  You guys don't have that.  So, if you ever want to be more than a big puddle of mud, you have to get bricks, to talk out and to keep the thoughts in.  You give up maybe your big world but you get to be you, one guy, instead of you, bunch of guys all run together.  Am I getting it?"

 

Valor smiled gently at him.  "Yes, Alfos, in your own way, you're getting it.  Not all of it, but enough."

 

"Enough for me, anyhow.  And I'll tell you something else, I think it's wrong.  Whoever set all this up made a mistake.  You shouldn't have to give up part of what you are to be you."

 

"It's a trade.  We can't have both.  We can only have one."

 

"And that's why there's a war.  You guys have to fight it out, kind of like when I argue with myself.  You don't know what you want.  You have to try both and see who wins.  Except, well, being Eerith, you drag half the world along with you."

 

"No other way."

 

"Yea, well, I reckon you're right on that.  Heck, I'm not sure that this war is a bad thing anyway.  Look, I didn't want to be part of this, didn't know what I was getting in on, but, don't take it out.  You don't need me now, but maybe you will someday.  Either way, I've never been part of, you know, something important before.  I want to still be part of that.  I guess what I want to say is:  I want to be one of you guys.  I didn't start with a choice but, if I had one, I'd like to think I'd still be here."

 

Valor patted Alfos on the knee and stood to go.  "That's what I came to find out.  If you want the job, you're the prophet as long as you can stand it, even if your work is done for now."

 

"Thanks, boss.  Me and Dog, we'll be around."

 

"I know."

 

***

 

G is for Greatness, a burden to be borne.  H is for Honor, which needs no explanation.  I is for Integrity, the act of being oneself.

 

***

 

"You let them take it!" Tarfn roared at the two black-clad men, advancing on them as though to physically strike the closer of the two.  "How dare you?  How could you?  Can you imagine."

 

The mage's furious tirade ended in a pained gasp as the taller of the two grabbed Tarfn by the neck.  The movement was precise, almost absent of malice, enough force to silence him but no more.  Tarfn was chilled to realize that, in that moment, he was uninjured for the same reason he did not kill a fly buzzing at the window--he was too insignificant to merit the effort.

 

"Were I you," the creature said with disturbing calm, "I would make myself as useful as possible to the seeresses as fast as possible.  But then, I am not you."

 

With that, he was released and the two shadows departed, leaving him completely alone.

 

***

 

Granthtan approached as close as he dared unobserved then paused to rest, his breath already ragged.  He estimated the distance to the tree to be less than thirty yards--not a long sprint, even for an old man, but he had seen much stronger and faster men fail to make even half the crossing.  Granthtan  waited until the King of the Wood was at the furthest apex of his blind patrol and began to run.

 

The archivist's run was more of a lumber, like a bear rolling forward down a slope.  He lost his grip on his cane within the first few steps, twice almost falling as pain knifed through his right calf muscle.  Already the joints of the leg were beginning to stiffen, shortening his steps, twisting his back painfully.

 

He heard the tinkling of brass and the stinging slap of the King's willow rod cut his legs from under him, striking the backs of his knees.  He fell abruptly forward, barely able to lift one hand to partially catch himself and the impact knocked the breath from him.  The landing twisted his arm beneath him, wrenching it within the socket, and his forehead struck the soil soundly.  A part of his mind screamed to him to roll aside, to lunge forward again, to move somehow, either to escape or dash for the tree.  Instead, he lay like a felled ox, gulping his breaths, a burning spreading in his chest.

 

The willow staff lashed across his back, tearing open his shirt and splitting the skin beneath.  Foolish from the onset, he was too old, too weak:  there had to be another way, there had to be someone else.

 

There was no one else.  Granthtan pushed with both legs, his arms still drawn in against his body, and he lurched forward, half erect, half falling, moving with the momentum like a giant deranged frog, before he fell again, the King's staff tripping him easily, and he landed hard on his knees.  He forced himself to fall forward, each incremental move forward a victory.  Another way.

 

Granthtan forced himself to stand, painfully slow, pulled tight to himself, his arms around his chest, his chin against his sternum--just stand--his weight centered.  The staff slashed and cut across his back and legs again and again, its supple willow wood striking more like a whip than a stave.  Only pain, only blood; he'd lived through more.  The stubborn ache of his joints, the constant war against his own body; fighting for balance even to cross a room, now reinforcing in his own mind the ineffectiveness of the painful but light buffeting of the staff.  The excess weight of age becoming an advantage--the heaviness that made it impossible for him to move with grace or speed also made him more difficult to topple.  One step, short, balanced, controlled, and then another.  A minute for a foot, an hour for another man's full step, he could not tell.  Determined, he inched forward.

 

Again and again, he tripped and fell and rose with agonizing  slowness back to his heavy, grinding pace.  This was no test of agility, of vigor and strength as the other men had made it.  The journey became a war of endurance.  Granthtan bled from a hundred cuts, and pains shot through his very bones like ball lightning dancing across wet tree limbs.  Blood ran into his eyes and his right arm was beyond feeling.

 

"I've had worse," he growled, barely aloud, sucking air between clenched teeth as he lumbered forward another step before falling again.  He sank to a knee; each step now was shorter, but the falls came less frequently.  "I've had worse," he said again, louder, and surged forward again.

 

Something hit him hard against his chest and shoulders, knocking him backwards.  He stumbled and the sat down abruptly.  He leaned forward, rolled onto his side in a ball, and gathered his legs beneath him.

 

"This is my life," he gasped and surged again.  A second time he was rebuffed and knocked backwards.  "Always like this," he said and spat blood from his mouth, feeling it dribble down his chin.  "I've had worse!"  The archivist threw himself forward again.

 

This time he was knocked back hard enough that he lay senseless on his back for several seconds before he could attempt to rise.

 

"Enough," whispered a gentle voice by his ear, a voice in many ways like his own, a voice made thin and pale by years of use, raspy from too much shouting, tinged with a hint of permanent weariness.  "Enough."

 

Granthtan did not have the strength to argue.  A rag, wet and warm, daubed at the blood caked on his face.  After a moment, he lifted his own hand to take the rags, working free the sticky mass of his swollen eyes until he could see again, blurry and darkly in places.  Bony hands slid beneath his shoulders and helped him to sit upright.

 

The King of the Wood crouched before him.  No, not the King, for the King was worn and blinded and this man, though ancient, was whole with clear eyes.  "Twins," he whispered.

 

"Indeed.  The arm and the eye, the fist and the voice.  My brother is the King of the Wood; I am the Speaker."

 

Dazed and exhausted, somehow the scholar in him remained undaunted.  "What if a generation has no twins to fill the role?" Granthtan asked, some disconnected fragment of his mind trying to fill in the gaps of anthropological confusion that had brought him to this rash act.

 

"Then one man must live twice," came the simple reply.  The archivist was too tired to inquire further.  He was beginning to stiffen and, as feeling returned to his arm, it threatened to overwhelm him with sickness at the intensity of the pain.  It was only then that he thought to look beyond the Speaker, to see the last obstacle of his trek, the unrelenting opponent which had refused to allow him passage.

 

Three times, in his agonized disorientation, Granthtan had charged against, not the King of the Wood, but the tree he guarded.

M. Keaton


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