Coda, Chapter One: Disturbing News
He came to himself slowly, standing on a platform in a high-vaulted room made of broken stone. The lighting was poor, and he could not be sure what those were hanging above his head---balconies? Broken stairways, leading nowhere? --- but the sight of them made him uneasy. What was this place, some long-abandoned crypt?
There was another stairway in front of him, more or less intact, leading downward to a solid floor littered with blocks of fallen stone. A man was standing there. No, not a man--it had no eyes in its sockets, only a single eye-jewel in its forehead, and it wore the simple collar and kilt of a, a, a Servitor, that was it, a thing made of pseudolife to serve his people. Perhaps it knew what this place was, and how he had come here. He reached out to touch it, but it was too far away. He urged himself forward, stumbling down the stairs with feet that felt like lead. When he touched the Servitor it turned to him and began to speak what was obviously a pre-set text.
"Do not be afraid. I will tell you what you have forgotten."
He bristled. He had never been afraid, not even in the face of the, of the ---
"You are an Empyrean. You lived on this world once. Your cities flourished on the continents; your skyships soared from one to the other. Then the Olthoi came."
--- the Olthoi ---
"The last of your people fled, and Asheron sent you into the Sundered Lands, to sleep and dream, and to forget."
Asheron. The face swam into his mind: an old man's pale thin face, with a white cowl and a narrow white beard. "Is Asheron here?"
"You are weak, and you have forgotten much. You must recover your strength and your skills here, before you go out into the world. Go along now, and talk to Servitor Bester when you find him."
It fell silent. Clearly he would get no more out of it, and it spoke truth: he was weak and needed to re-train. He made his way over the piles of fallen stony rubble --- had they been put there deliberately, as an obstacle course? --- and began to explore.
The ramp rose, and turned, and rose and turned again. This place was a tower with a small footprint and a height he could not guess at.
Several flights up there was a door, which opened at his touch. The room beyond was lined with fine paneling, ornamented with plaques and lit with well-crafted lamps, such as had been in --- the palace? yes, the royal palace that housed the Cerulean Throne. A sudden image in his mind, clear and sharp, the blue and shining Throne on a dais above him, his feet on the bottom step.
And there was the next Servitor, standing on a little platform, and to its right --- well! There was Asheron, if he had wanted him. A statue at least thrice the height of a man, clad in a hooded robe of flowing marble, its features benevolent and idealized, but still clearly Asheron. In its hand it held an orb from which a magical aura ascended like incense. While he slept, they had turned the old scoundrel into a god. He shrugged. With any kind of luck it meant at least that the wizard was dead.
"Welcome, master," the Servitor said. "This is the hall of the Long Awakening, where you will find instructions in the arts of combat and Straw Drudges to hone your skills upon." "What are Drudges?" he asked, but the Servitor rattled on unheeding. "When you are ready, Servitor Calatin will allow you to test your mettle against the bane of all Empyreans." Another image came into his mind, not clear but shadowed, as if he had never seen it himself but only heard it told of. Taller than a man, black, fiery-eyed, with broad wings like shadows with tattered edges. The Hopeslayer? If that had risen again, he would indeed need to hone his skills.
There was a battered shortsword hanging by his side --- and a crude celestrum and an orb, but he had never been skilled in magic: not the magic that fed off the Blood of the World; his skill was in the magic of his own voice, that swayed the minds and the loyalties of men. He tossed the other items aside and took the shortsword in his hand.
The next room was fitted out as a training hall, and the plaques on the wall and the carven stones on the floor gave simple instructions in the use of weaponry. Drudges, if he could guess from the shape of the straw targets before him, were little skinny monsters with long ears. So weak was he that it took him what seemed forever to destroy one with his sword: half the time the thing swung about on its supporting rope and evaded his blow. There was no sense of time here under the constant flicker of the lamps. When he was tired, he stuck his sword into his belt again and went searching for water. Almost by accident he found an inconspicuous door that led to a room with a row of cots, and another with a latrine and a pool for bathing, and a nameless Servitor that could not even speak, but kept it all clean. There was water to drink, and bread and cheese and fruit that did not look, or taste, quite real but satisfied hunger. He ate and slept, trained and bathed, for a long measureless time.
When his body was strong again, his reflexes tuned, and he could despatch the Straw Drudge with one stroke of his miserable little sword, he could put the moment off no longer. If he was not ready to face the Hopeslayer, perhaps the Servitor would tell him so. He had never been afraid. He had been --- But he still could not remember who he had been.
The ramps rose and turned, rose and turned, and led him not to a door but to a portcullis behind which he could see a great high-vaulted room lit as if with fire. The bars rose at a touch, and he went forward to meet Servitor Calatin.
Behind the Servitor was a flight of stairs descending into a pit; the floor they stood on ran around the sides, red in the light of a row of fire-baskets. The pit was covered with a grille. Something was moving beneath it.
"You are regaining your powers, master," the Servitor said. "Now you must test them against an Olthoi Grub."
Momentarily weak with relief, he almost laughed. No, he need not go up against the Hopeslayer with a shortsword ---
"Do not be fooled by the Grub's small size --- its ancestors murdered your race and drove you into exile." (Memories rising like bile in the throat: a Grub crawling on its belly toward him, as fast as a man could walk, spitting acid.) "But these Grubs are shackled by powerful magic, and they will never leave this cage, nor grow into their full strength. Kill a Grub, rip out its heart, and present it to Servitor Devlin, who awaits you further up the Tower."
"It will be my pleasure," he assured it, and descended the stairs. The Grubs lay here and there on the floor, and he paused on the bottom step to look at the nearest. It lay there, twitching a little, not attempting to move toward him. It was about as long as his arm, its back lumpy with overlapping chitinous plates. Its underside was softer, he dimly remembered, but the problem was that to get to its underside you had to kill it first. He took a step toward it, and another. Still it did not move. Then it raised its front end and spat at him, and he dodged back hastily. His body remembered, if his mind did not: back away while it spat, step in to strike as it went down again. With three blows he killed the thing. None of the others moved in to help it. He turned it over with the toe of his boot and ran the point of his sword down its soft underside. The single-chambered heart was still damp and pulsing. He tore it out with his left hand and ran back up the stairs to show it to the Servitor.
"My duty is fulfilled," it said. "Now that you have taken an Olthoi's heart, you must give it to Servitor Devlin. He is waiting in the Hall of Many Partings --- you will have to pass through a long hall and a security portal to find him there."
The hall began at the far side of the room, beyond the grille in the floor. behind another portcullis. Up and around, up and around, it ended abruptly in a square room, a round platform in its center, and the purple swirling light of a stationary portal atop the platform. A plaque on the wall read Hall of Many Partings. Overhead the walls of the room rose to a dizzying height, and at the top was another grillework. "The Olthoi are shackled by powerful magic," he quoted Calatin in his mind. Well, there was no harm in isolating the place, just in case the powerful magic failed. He stepped up to the portal and went through.
He was in another corridor. Behind him was a platform and a portal, and a plaque reading Hall of Quickening Steps; before him was a room floored with grillework. Looking down, he could see the portal platform that had sent him up here. Beyond it, just to make a change, was a ramp leading down half a flight, and there was something wrong with the Servitor at the end of it.
Its eye-socket was empty; its voice indistinct. "The Olthoi have blinded me ... help me ... I'll slay you ... give me the heart...." Warily, he reached out and gave it the heart. The Servitor snatched it, held it before its face as if smelling it, and squeezed it to pulp between its fingers. "Master, thank Asheron you're here!" it cried. "The Olthoi are escaping into the Storage Hall and turning into Workers! When I tried to slay them they blinded me! There are replacement eyes in the Storage Hall, if the Olthoi haven't devoured them...."
Now he laughed aloud. "Shackled by powerful magic!" he cried, and ran through the archway, eager for battle. Here the ramps descended again, and the floors were littered with rubble. Perhaps an earthquake had shattered the physical barriers that should have reinforced the magical ones? As he descended, he passed piles of threadlike fungal growths upon the floor, an occasional fruiting body rising from them and breathing out spores. He tried to avoid inhaling near them. He turned the last corner and beheld the foe.
And laughed again. He did not stop fighting while he laughed, but could not help laughing while he fought, No one had ever seen the first instar of the Olthoi Worker before; the Grubs had always retreated to their burrows to molt. These Olthoi had the six long legs, the shining carapace, the pointed acid-spitting mouthparts of the huge Olthoi he had fought in half-remembered days, but they were tiny, standing as tall as his knee, their foreclaws rising no higher than his waist. He strode through the Hall, killing everything he saw. When all was quiet, he searched the stores: no eyes remained on the shelves, so he crushed the nearest tiny Olthoi with his heel. A disgusting ichor ran out between its plates and out of its mouth, and in the midst of it lay a glittering Servitor's eye. He teased it loose from the mess with his sword's point, and wiped it clean on the skirt of his tunic as he ran back up the ramp to Devlin.
The Servitor took the eye and set it into its socket. Sparks of coppery light swirled behind its facets, and focused on him. "Praise the Light!" it cried, and he answered automatically, "I shall praise it today and forever." (Memories of long instruction under the keen eye of a sharp-faced woman; of rituals chanted at dawn atop high towers.) "I thought I was condemned to a life of darkness, surrounded by chittering Olthoi. Take this Sundering Glyph. Use it on the portal to the Vault of the Sundering, and you will win your freedom. I will never forget your kindness, brave master!"
"You're welcome," he said, feeling awkward. How long had it been since any being had called him kind, or praised him with a sincere heart? He could not remember. The Glyph lay in his hand, a blue jewel with a rune carved upon it that he could not read. The portal stood on a platform behind the Servitor, under a serrated cupola such as Asheron had used to enclose portals of particular importance. He mounted the steps, tossed the glyph into the heart of the portal, and felt the whirlpool catch him up and carry him away.
A round room, walled and pillared with rough stone: a single archway leading to a distant light. And another Servitor standing beside the pillar. "Hail, master," it said. "You have proven yourself strong and compassionate --- a worthy light for darkened times. Now it is time to leave the Tower of Sundering forever. Touch the Menhir at the end of this passage to learn the fate of your people. When you have left the Tower behind, seek out the Explorers of Dereth --- they will show you how to travel in the outside world. Go now, and return the glory of the Empyreans to this shattered land."
"Will I remember my name? Will the Menhir tell me that?"
"If you have not already remembered your name, master, you will learn it now."
Without another word he turned away from the Servitor and ran through the narrow passage into a wide vault, dark except for a shaft of light that fell upon the Menhir. A blue jewel like the Glyph that had brought him here, writ large, twice as tall as himself. As he approached it his skin tingled; blue lights were rising from it like bubbles in wine, disappearing into the single ray of light overhead. The air near it was cool. He touched it, and rose with the light-bubbles into the air, twisting and turning as he rose into darkness, and he heard a voice. The voice was his own.
I was Kellin.
Then another voice spoke in the darkness, and he began to see visions.
Dereth is a land on the edge of nightfall.
What is Dereth? A single great moon, glowing balefully through the clouds, pocked with craters. Is it Alb'arel? Where is its companion?
The defenders of the Light are few, and their enemies strong. But it was not always thus. One thousand years ago, this world was ruled by the glory of the Empyreans. Ah! The Seaborne Empire of Yalain! We triumphed over the Hopeslayer. We purged the heretic Undead. We thought our Light would last forever.
It should have lasted forever. We served the Light. Valind burnt the heretics. I was on the brink of exposing the monstrosity of Asheron.
Then by the Emperor's command we opened a door that should have remained shut. And the Olthoi came.
I was Kellin. I was Emperor. Gaerlan deceived me. Asheron tricked me.
Against such an enemy, our magic could not prevail. Our champions fell, our cities burned, and our Light was devoured. In the final hour, Asheron found a way for a handful of us to survive. The great mage cast a spell that split reality in twain.
Thus he stood, hands raised, while the Olthoi broke down the door of the Tower and the world dissolved around us.
We escaped into the Sundered Lands, renouncing our struggle against the Dark. Or so we thought. Now we have been reborn. Who dares call us back to Auberean? Why must we return to the ruins of all that we loved? Maybe Asheron could tell us --- but Asheron is gone.
The Hopeslayer, briefly glimpsed --- and Asheron burning in magical fires. Did the Hopeslayer arise again? Did he prevail?
We are the Free Yalaini now. Our destinies are our own!
The darkness drew back like mist. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, peering into an abyss of morning air, with another peak rising away to the south. There seemed to be buildings on it, but he could not identify it. He stumbled backwards and sat down.
He sat there for some moments, until he stopped trembling and was his own master again. Then he rose and watched cautiously forward. The cliff was a sheer drop everywhere but beneath his feet; there was a paved road that ran along the ridge of a long causeway into the valley. He began to descend. [I]We are the Free Yalaini now ... our destinies are our own.[/i]
No, he thought. Your destinies are mine. I am your Emperor, and I have returned to reclaim your hearts and minds, and my throne.
But, if every Empyrean returning out of the Sundered Lands was subjected to that same vision, perhaps it would be as well not to shout his arrival abroad, until he had gathered some followers in secret.
He had come to the bottom of the valley now, and there were two men there. Men? Short, rather stocky men, with strange pinkish-brown complexions. One stood on a platform to one side; the other was walking along the road toward him. "Welcome to Dereth," this one said.
"Thank you. How do you know that I am newly come? And what is Dereth?"
The other smiled. "Because there's nothing up at the top of that road but the drop point and the Lifestone," he said. "And this is Dereth, once the island you knew as Ireth Lassel. But the geography's been changed a lot; it's been a thousand years since the Sundering."
"Did the Hopeslayer return?"
"Twice," the other said. "The Fourth and Fifth Sendings of Darkness, about a century apart. Look, as you make your way through Dereth, you'll find Menhir Vaults scattered across the landscape, and creatures near them that drop Glyphs that will open them. Go through all the Vaults --- you can only do each one once --- and you'll learn a lot about what's happened while you slept. The first thing you want to do is talk to the Explorer over there, who will send you on a little trip around the local Ringway portals so you can learn your way around. Then he'll send you to the Arwic Mines Overseer, who will give you another task; but on my advice you'll spend some time hunting in that little valley down there before you try the Mines. The Drudges there are kind of tough, if you're new."
"Very well. Thank you."
"No problem. My name's Rebvaz, by the way." The squat little man held out his hand. Kellin extended his own, cautiously, and the other seized it and shook it vigorously up and down.
"Mine is Cashtal," Kellin said, retrieving his hand. "Good day to you."
"Take care," the little man said, and began waving his sword in the air as if he wanted to beat it like an egg. Then he vanished in a cloud of purple bubbles. Kellin stood quite still till he was gone. They have learned more about planar magic than Asheron ever admitted to. What else did he never tell me? He shrugged off the thought and turned to greet the Explorer.
Rebvaz appeared in the Shoushi Hall, home to his allegiance. Outside, the chaffering of happy Drudge vendors could be heard; but fortunately the typical smells of a Drudge garden could not make their way inside. "Hey, Hilde! Where's Tapu? Anybody know?"
"Over in the Library, shelving books for Eshivon," the small woman said. "She probably won't be home till dinnertime."
"Thanks." Rebvaz fumbled in his belt pouch, muttering "Sanctuary, Gates of Gevoth, Hero Shrine!" and vanished again.
Eshivon Ugim stood at his worktable, checking over a stack of newly salvaged books. Some were duplicates, and could be put in offsite storage until Branch Libraries could be established. "Hello, Eshivon," Rebvaz said. "Maybe you'd know. Did you ever hear of an Empyrean named Cashtal? I just ran into him in Arwic."
"As in, newly arrived?"
"Just coming down the ramp. They don't get much greener --- only this guy wasn't green, or blue either, sort of orange. So why do I have the feeling I know his name?"
Eshivon frowned. "Me too. Tapuaua!"
"Yes?" a voice called down from the mezzanine over Eshivon's head.
"Ever hear of an Empyrean named Cashtal? Somebody with an orange complexion?"
"Oh." There was silence for a moment. "Oh! Light and Ancestors!" They could hear her soft webbed feet running across the floor above, a heavy book being pulled from its shelf. "Here it is. Durglen Realaidain, Clari, Durglen takes the Imperial Name Caerlin II, here we are.
" 'Torethis Eipoth 11. A daughter, Alhallie, is born to Caerlin II and Clari. Torethis Eipoth 477, Princess Alhallie joins hands with Lord Cashtal Ronain of Haebrous.' He would've been one of the last of the Haebrous left, they were just about assimilated into the Yalain. 'Lord Cashtal's last name is changed to Realaidain.
" 'Torethis Eipoth 504. On the death of Caerlin II, Alhallie ascends to the Caerulean Throne, and takes the Imperial Name of Cellaurai.' "
"Wait a minute," Eshivon said.
" 'Hyrethis Eipoth 232. Empress Cellaurai disappears mysteriously. After eighteen months of fruitless searching, Cashtal Realaidain is declared Emperor. He takes the Imperial Name ---' " and she and Eshivon spoke the name in chorus --- "'KELLIN II.' "
"Olthoi-doo," Rebvaz said. "That was the Emperor who ---"
"That was the Emperor who," Tapuaua agreed. She came pattering down the stairs, a green-furred Tonk in a white mage's robe, beginning to show her years. "If this is the same man --- Rebvaz, what did he look like? Orange skin you said?"
"Like the westering sun," said Rebvaz. "White hair and beard. Typical Empyrean, nine feet tall, long face, amber eyes. And he had a scar ---" He stopped to think. "He had a scar on his left cheek, the same color as his skin, but you could see it when the light fell across it, slanting back from his cheekbone to the angle of his jaw."
"And if it is Kellin, he didn't give you his right name. If it is Kellin. That could mean anything from, he's repented of his evil ways and is renouncing all claim to the throne, to, he's going to lie low under an assumed name till he thinks the time is right, and his birth name was the first thing he could think of."
"You'd better go tell Nalicana," Eshivon said.
"Right." The Tonk swung the glowing drum forward from its place on her back and began to beat out a rhythm. "And you two, don't tell anybody else," and vanished.
She landed lightly beside the Ikeras Nexus and ran full-tilt across the little island, dodging the Shaper Architect, leaping over a pair of tame Carenzi, and headlong into the portal to the Order Sanctuary. Nalicana was not in the Audience Hall; Tapuaua slipped behind the great stone head and touched the pillar that gave entrance into the private chambers of the Mistress of the Order. Nalicana was sitting in her carven chair, her feet on its footrest, reading a book. "My Lady," Tapuaua said, bowing. "An Empyrean has just arrived in Arwic from the Tower of Sundering, giving the name of Cashtal."
"Cashtal? But that was the name ---"
"Yes. My Lady, did you ever see the Emperor yourself? Would you know him again?"
"Only once, on the sky-ship that brought us hither. Yes, I think I might know him again, for I was sitting in Asheron's cabin when the Emperor came in to harangue him. He chased me out with a word and a blow. Do you have a description of this man?"
"A tall Empyrean with white hair and beard. Skin neither blue nor green, but golden-orange, like the westering sun. Amber eyes. And a scar ---"
"A scar on his left cheek?"
"Slanting backward from his cheekbone to the angle of his jaw; so I was told."
Nalicana had turned very pale. "The Emperor had a wound there on his face, when we made our last journey," she said. "A flying Olthoi nymph stooped on him like a falcon, as we boarded the ship. I suppose that during his long sleep, the wound could have healed. Who else knows of this?"
"Eshivon Ugim and my ally Rebvaz," Tapuaua said. "Neither of them will tell it anywhere till you command it."
"I must think what to do. If only I could speak to Asheron again ---!"
A shadow fell across the light of the lamp, and the air grew just a trifle colder. There was a third figure in the room. Nalicana got to her feet; Tapuaua backed away. A tall, thin shape, all robed in black, wearing a mask with three high horns upon it, like the peaks of a crown. "Dule," said Nalicana. "Did you hear what Tapuaua just told me?"
"I did," the Shadow said. "We must meet, you and I and Thromer Olvidan. Little Tonk, do you know where Thromer lairs?"
"Why, yes, milord," Tapuaua said. "Care of the Virindi Adumbrator at the nearest Nexus. Shall I take a message?"
"Do so," the Shadow said. "Take him this." The shadowy hand dropped something into the green one: it shone like a tiny star, faintly blue. "Here, take this one also, for yourself," and gave her a second star. "It will portal you to the chamber atop Asheron's Tower, above the Halls of Sundering. Tell the Imperator to meet us there as soon as possible." As the Tonk recalled to the Ikeras Nexus, she dimly saw Dule dropping another star into the hand of Nalicana.
Tapuaua, in the course of her studies, had seen pictures of what the Virindi had looked like in the days of Ispar Elysatah: cloaked and hooded, sleeves covering their upper limbs, mask blocking the opening of the hood. And thus arrayed, they had thought they were adequately disguised as Humans --- even when, as sometimes happened, one took off its mask to clean the eyeholes with the point of its sickle, and it was plain that there was nothing whatever inside the hood. At some point they had given up the pretense. This one still wore cloak and mask, but the tentacles that protruded from its sleeves and the row of spines that protruded through the back of its cloak made it just that much less Humanlike. But it spoke to her courteously, and portaled her at once into the Dominion Center landing area.
"Please do not micturate on forcewalk paths," the Welcomers' voices chanted, "as the resulting energy discharges may cause damage to organic forms." She ran across invisible bridges, waved to the Welcomers, mere clouds of energy with masks hung haphazardly across their fronts, and dived into the Throne Room portal.
Thromer was there on his platform of near-invisible green energy, surrounded by the trappings of his office. The row of giant Virindi masks that ringed the room perhaps made sense, reminding Thromer constantly of his responsibilities to his strange colleagues. But the two larger-than-life heroic statues of himself, brandishing swords? She had never ventured to ask him what they were for, and now was not the time. She ran up the ramp as though thing-Wharu were on her tail.
"Tapu! What in the world's the matter?"
"Quite a lot, maybe. Nalicana and Isin Dule ask you to meet them at once in Asheron's tower: this gem will take you there. It appears that Kellin II, the last emperor of the Yalain --- yes, the one who let in the Olthoi --- has returned from the Sundered Lands and is going about under another name."
"Good gracious," the big Lugian said mildly. "When? Now?"
"Now."
"All right." He squeezed the little star in his huge hand, and vanished. Tapu was left standing on his platform, among the trappings of Dominion majesty. "I hope that worked," she said dubiously. She looked at the remaining star, lying in the palm of her hand. "As well be hanged for a Banderling as a Mosswart." She squeezed it, and disappeared.
Kellin stepped through the final ringway portal that took him back to Arwic. He had not hurried through the assignment, taking the time to explore around the settlements, some empty, some full of Drudges of flesh and bone, not straw. He was somewhere in the northernmost reaches of a small island, part of a close archipelago, that bore no resemblance whatever to the Ireth Lassel he had known. He had met other adventurers in the process, some small and squat like the one he had met, some tall and stocky and grey and nearly hairless, and some --- his lip curled and his aristocratic nose twitched --- some not even nearly resembling the Empyreans, fanged and tailed and covered with fur. And some of the Drudges, just to make things more complicated, had staged some kind of rebellion against their former masters and were now in business for themselves, fighting (as it pleased them) on the side of these other strange creatures; and some were his fellow Yalain, doing more or less the same. He had spoken courteously to these, learning their names and giving them his false name, which of course was not really false. He stepped up to the little Human Explorer, reported his mission completed, and received the instruction (as the other little Human had foretold) to go and talk to the Arwic Mines Overseer. Perhaps he would do that. He started up the uphill road toward the town, and observed that the sun was setting, and that the rose-colored band of light that made an arc across the southern sky, which he had taken for a drifting cloud, was still there. Now the sun had set, and the moons --- he turned his head to the east and saw nothing. He turned back, and his blood ran cold. Alb'arel, a great enlarged cratered Alb'arel, was rising in the west, and as it rose higher and higher into the sky it was ever more certain that Rez'arel was not near it, nowhere to be found in the sky, and he began to fear he knew what that band of light in the southern sky might be. He quickened his pace. Perhaps after all he would stay in Arwic town tonight, to see and hear what he could, and not make his way to the Mines before it was day.
As the moon rose, Valind appeared at the drop point atop the cliffs. Far away across the valley she could see the tiny shape of a man climbing the hill into town, but there was no telling who he might be. She looked at the moon, and the arc of light in the south, and thought of what she had seen, and suddenly she bent and was sick into the tall grass beside the road. Then she made her way down the road, carefully, in the uncertain moonlight, and disappeared from sight.
