Chapter 12: Transitions
Journal of Kalen Avanir
TE 6050, Orhan 5, day 64, evening quintar
Aboard the Caravel ‘Naristral’
Tar-esiir was indeed correct in predicting both unpleasant weather and rough seas in the Straits of Meluria. The last three days since leaving the Shield Isles of northern Danarchis have shown us nothing but freezing rain, bitter wind and waters that our Navigator is either unwilling or unable to completely tame. The lamp by which I write swings back and forth on its gimbals, causing the light to dance over the walls and low ceiling. Jad is out cold in his berth, anesthetized with wine. I, too, have had a few glasses to help me sleep.
Taluk and Jad, confined indoors, have become increasingly restive and sullen. Every board and card game has been played to death. But outside, the ice-slick decks are too dangerous for us inexperienced passengers, so we are asked to keep to our cabins. And I must confess that standing on the deck watching the sea rise and fall over the edge of the balustrade is enough to make me queasy. Even indoors with his medicinal tea, poor Bertram has been a very unhappy young man, barely able to keep down crackers and broth.
I have not seen much of the red-haired monk; he has barely left his cabin since that first morning. On the other hand, last night at dinner, the Viscount Ridgeston promised to stop by and bring me one of his books. His tutor was not at the meal, and in fact I have not seen him at all since Artha.
Tomorrow we turn south and once again leave the reassuring – if nauseatingly rising and falling -- sight of the Melurian coast, out into the open sea. We are to make best speed across the Barren Waters and hopefully arrive at Sel-kai near dawn of the 68th.
And one thing more: the Navigator’s whale appeared again today, though briefly and far off aft of starboard. I made a joking comment that the beast had developed an affection for our ship and he only gave me one of his stern looks and said, “I do not like this escort of ours.”
Drey’s first thought was that the Portal hadn’t functioned properly and that he had stepped into another foyer just through the doorway. But then the residual post-teleport shiver wracked him, followed by the wave of nausea that usually accompanied interdimensional travel. The torch in his hand sputtered and steamed but still burned strongly, its light showing the Loremaster that ahead of him was one door – or what was left of one. While the perimeter remained, the center was a gaping hole ringed with burn marks. Someone in a hurry had blown right through this barrier. And from the charred bits of wood on the other side, it looked like the blast had come from Drey’s position: invading the tower. Dust on the edge reassured the Loremaster that this had happened long ago, though he still marveled at the power used. It would take more than a normal Firebolt to blow a hole through this particular wood in one strike, and an Undoor would have made the entire door vanish. So it was either a Magician channeling much more than the usual energy into a Firebolt spell, or something else…
He carefully crawled through the opening, finding himself in a juncture much like the one beneath the other tower. Right was a stairway leading up, left was a heavy, closed door, and ahead was another door, also closed. The dilemma was whether to go straight, perhaps find yet another Portal, and hopefully put another ten leagues between him and the thrice-cursed priest, or go right and up into this tower, hopefully to find a place to hide out, rest and regain his spell powers. After a moment’s indecision, he opted for this tower. If he remembered correctly from his research, this one was in ruins and not occupied by any of the local forces. Hoping this was the case, he crept up the dusty steps, torch in one hand, short sword in the other.
Up and back, this area was identical to the tower to the south. He arrived at the inside of the secret door, cast out a Presence. Nothing within his range. He relaxed… a little. The Priest’s henchmen could still be on his trail in no time. The Loremaster undid the latch and eased open the secret stone door, marveling at how easily it swung in, despite its apparent mass and the fact that it hadn’t been used in centuries. They knew how to build back then, he thought, thrusting his torch into the chamber.
Unlike its twin in the other tower, this room was jammed with stacked crates and barrels. Dust coated the floor and everything else, and the air in this room seemed staler than that in the stairs or chamber below. Assuming that nothing in those containers contained anything of immediate value, he hurried to the other door. Drey was not entirely surprised to find that barrier had also been breached. This time, however, the door was simply gone. Hinges bolted to the wall were all that remained. This was clearly the result of an Undoor spell. Drey wondered if perhaps the door downstairs was protected by some enchantment, making it resistant to an Undoor and forcing the attacker to use something less elegant to get inside. He didn’t tarry to examine the doorway closely, intent on getting out of this place and into the wilderness where he might find a place to hide and rest. Up the stairs, past the level where he had been imprisoned in that other tower, he noted other evidence of the long-ago intruder along the way. But otherwise the place seemed long-abandoned.
At last he emerged on the entry level. Stumbling now with fatigue, he half-fell against the heavy main door. Fortunately the locks opened without too much resistance. Drey yanked the barrier open, extinguished the torch and staggered out into the cool night. He found himself on a walled platform facing east. Beyond the tower the rocky land fell away, broken only by scrub pines and underbrush.
“Not much to see any more is it?”
Drey almost leapt over the parapet in shock when he heard that soft voice behind him. “Who’s there?” He whispered. The voice spoke Erlin and he answered automatically in kind.
“Though I suppose being a mere mortal, you can’t see much of anything out here in the night anyway.” The voice drew closer.
Drey could make out a shadow moving among the others. It sounded like an Elf… another Arnak Priest? “Come no closer! I am armed!”
The shadow stopped. “Very well, though I could kill you just as easily from here if I wished. But I wish only… to talk.”
“Do you serve the Unlife?” Drey asked warily.
“Ah, you take me for one of those deceivers. I am not of that false priesthood, I assure you; in fact I have clashed with them in the past.”
Drey weighed his options. Without spells he could not Type the shadowy figure. He could only rely on instinct, and instinct told him that this being was perilous – at least as perilous as he implied – but he did not have the feel of the Unlife. “How did you know I was here, in this seemingly abandoned tower in the middle of nowhere? I assume you do not live here.”
“Ah there is a tale, one you might find hard to believe, young mortal. I helped to build the Portal you just used to travel from the Arneth tower to this one… making an escape from those same Priests, I surmise? Being a meddling sort even back then, I included a feature that allowed me to be alerted whenever the portals were used. It has been a long time, though. Quite a long time.”
“You were here when the kings of U-Lyshak had these towers built? That was a long age past.” Drey let skepticism edge into his voice, though he had an inclination to believe this mysterious person. Pureblood Elves were theoretically immortal, after all.
“Ah not quite that far back; you refer to when the Six Kingdoms were strong and the Loremasters were of a mind to meddle in a grand way. Though perhaps you would know a bit about that.”
Drey Laachek could hear the smirk in the Elf’s last sentence. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
“Yes, I do, but we can at least partially remedy that.” As he spoke, Drey saw the Elf gesture with his left hand, and he was shrouded in a soft radiance. “I helped a more recent king to rebuild these towers a mere two thousand or so years ago. The Sea-Drake helm was long lost, but the noble line of Ianis carried on, as it does to this day.”
He was indeed an Elf, or perhaps a half-elf. About six feet in height, he wore simple brown and green traveling clothes of Elven fashion. He had black hair streaked with grey and drawn back in a ponytail, pale skin, and his face… he was unusual looking for an Elf, striking but not with the usual Loar regularity of features. Another reason to suspect that he was half-mortal. Though any mannish blood usually meant aging and death, even if at a greatly slowed rate. If this man was as old as he claimed, he was very long-lived for a half-breed. There was also something familiar about him…
The man smiled, apparently noticing Drey’s look of recognition. “Do I resemble my bust in the Hall of Masters of Lore? Surprising that I’m still there; it would be just like the council to have it taken down in disgrace and put in a dusty cellar somewhere. I never thought it fully captured my rakish good looks anyway.” He was being sarcastic now.
But the hint was enough for Drey. “Surely it cannot be! Elor?”
“In the flesh.” The Elf swept an arm out and bowed slightly. The radiance flowed over him as he moved.
Drey wondered absently what spell that was, at the same time that most of his brain was trying to assimilate this information. Elor – known unofficially as Elor Once Dark – was one of the great Loremasters of the Third Era. He was famous for his explorations, especially in the distant Land of Blue Light to the northwest. He also was infamous for an alleged temporary lapse into evil ways. If Drey remembered correctly though, Elor died in a conflict in the Mur Fostisyr several hundred years ago. “I’m honored.” Laachek returned the bow. “But what brings you out of hiding after so long, my lord? Surely you were desperately needed.”
“I was done with fighting, done with the Loremaster bickering and politics, and I was tired.” Elor shrugged. “I wanted to retire to my little home in the Saralis hills and end my days quietly. How was I to know that I would live so damnably long?”
“I can sympathize with your distaste for the politics, though fortunately I’m usually away from Karilon and avoid it.” Drey said understandingly. There was much to respect about this Loremaster. Though Elor’s exploits dated back millennia, they were well documented. His original studies of the peoples of the Land of Blue Light were still important historical reading. It was also noted by editors that, while brilliant, Elor was unpredictable. He was the proverbial loose catapult on the deck of the Loremaster ship; though some thought that this was not necessarily a bad thing: sometimes a bureaucracy needed ‘stirring up.’ But then there was Elor’s one-time flirtation with darkness. Who knows what his mental state might be like now, after centuries of isolation?
“I’m not going to turn you into a tameki or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Elor said with an exasperated sigh, folding his arms across his chest. “I had a flirtation with some questionable people for awhile, but I never harmed another Loremaster. Well, harmed any permanently.”
“That’s, uhh… reassuring.” The young Loremaster didn’t know whether to be more worried about Elor’s historical reputation or his compulsion for reading Drey’s mind.
“Actually I came here partly to help you out of your predicament.” As he spoke, Elor made a casual gesture over his shoulder. The heavy outer door to the tower behind him was suddenly enveloped in a bluish glow, and then slammed shut. The glow faded but did not completely subside.
Drey sent out a Presence, trying not to visibly wince as he did so. He was mildly surprised to realize that he didn’t detect Elor at all. Checking in the tower did indeed reveal several presences nearing the door. “I see my pursuers weren’t fooled for long.”
“Never underestimate the Messengers -- or their masters, Reann damn their souls.” Elor muttered, apparently speaking from personal experience. “That won’t hold them for long. We should be going.”
“Going where?”
“The most expeditious choice would be back to my home, at least until you are rested.”
Boom! Something heavy crashed against the door.
Drey flinched; Elor seemed not to notice.
Boom! One of the thick beams cracked.
That door was over three inches thick, made of Theg wood and bound with alloy straps. What could damage it that badly in two blows…
Crack! The center plank split, an armored fist protruding partway through before it was withdrawn. The blue light around the door flickered and dimmed. Then Drey heard a voice from within. “Fools! Stand back!” He recognized that Elven tenor -- though he hoped he would never hear it again it was Korianas.
“We really should be going. I could deal with this ‘Priest’ – and thoroughly enjoy doing so -- but would prefer that my presence here remain a secret.” Elor took a few steps towards Drey, away from the door.
The younger Loremaster hesitated. He heard chanting from within the tower, and a reddish glow began to appear around the door, seemingly burning away the blue glow. “I have no desire for another meeting with Korianas; let us be gone!”
“All you had to do was say the word.” Elor smirked and raised his hand. Behind him the door and its surrounding stonework was turning a fiery red.
Drey felt the familiar vertigo. Just as a bluish haze began to cloud his vision the door exploded, sending stones, shard of wood and metal showering outward. He reflexively raised his arms to shield his face – but it was all gone in a flash of white light as he was teleported away.
Instead he was standing next to the venerable Loremaster on a small stone-flagged area in a garden. A well with ornate roof stood nearby, and beyond ran a stream spanned by a small bridge of unusual design. The ground was dusted with snow.
“Welcome to Cisuramin, -- “Wellsbridge” in Rhaya -- my humble home.” Elor started towards the bridge without bothering to see that Drey was following.
‘Wellsbridge’ certainly is an apt name for the place, thought the young Loremaster as they passed the fifth well and traversed their fourth bridge in barely a furlong (how many streams and rivers could there be here? And why dig wells when you have all this fresh water on the surface? Elor was already living up to his reputation as an odd character in the strangeness of his home.
Far in the northwest reaches of Kulthea’s western hemisphere lies an island in the center of a ring of mountains, a huge natural defense. Upon that island stands a sprawling fortress: towers and ramparts topped by jagged crenellations of razor-sharp black glassy rock. And this citadel is just the visible portion of a complex extending deep into the island itself: a maze of halls and chambers and corridors. All this was the fastness known to a few as the Ahrentorg: the Shadowed Secret.
Though founded early in the Third Era along with the other ‘Secrets’ of the Jerak Ahrenreth, Ondoval the immortal Essænce Lord has spent the last thousand years turning it and the surrounding mountainous ring-isle into a self-contained realm. Farms tilled by an army of slaves cover the hillsides; below those hills are delved the cavern-dwellings of the Lugrok and troll armies. And this is just the outer ring. In the center, surrounded by a dark sea, rises a towering island of rock. Within and upon this pinnacle is the inner citadel. Cloaked by powerful spells, these halls of the Essænce Lord’s fortress are impenetrable even to the spells of the mighty Seer Iæn Shiin.
A man clothed all in deep indigo walked along a metal-lined corridor within that inner complex, his short raven hair glinting in the cold artificial light. His face bore an expression of something approaching dread, his violet eyes half-closed against the glare.
X’jemiis hated the old Althan section of the complex: all cold alloy and bright unforgiving light that never flickered or dimmed. This technology was still alien to him: he was of this era, having no knowledge of the ancient time when the K’ta’viiri ruled not only this planet but (to hear his father tell it) most of the galaxy
He hated this place, but not nearly as much as he hated his father… Ondoval himself. It was X’jemiis’ duty to check on the Essænce Lord, who was currently entombed in a regeneration bed. One of the drawbacks of being as immensely old as Ondoval was that -- while he was very resilient and resistant to physical harm -- once that harm was inflicted, magical and Psionic healing were no longer effective on him. Even the most advanced Althan technology could only repair the damage with agonizing slowness. And though the Shadowstone was a further impediment and a drain on his energies, he refused to surrender it even to be healed. The Essænce Lord had been grievously wounded in his attack on the northern Eye of Utha more than ten years ago; and only now were his wounds almost completely repaired. In the meantime he left it to his half-breed offspring to oversee things and prepare for the next assault. They all knew their only value to Ondoval was their relation to him, allowing them some access to the Temples of the Eyes. They were simply tools. X’jemiis knew his siblings resented their role as much as he did (and all probably harbored their own schemes to replace their father as lord of this place, but on one was as forthcoming about those thoughts).
X’jemiis entered the dim chamber, walking past the upright transparent tube in the center with hardly a glance at its occupant adrift in bubbling fluid. Instead he went to the main status console, glance darting over the luminous displays. I could kill him… just a few adjustments to the controls… he’s vulnerable in there. It wasn’t the first time that patricide had occurred to him.
Even if you had the audacity to try it, I’d strike you down before you even started. X’jemiis winced at the painful voice of his father in his head. Even here in suspension my mind is awake and I know your thoughts. All of you, my children. Soon I will be ready to emerge, and my plans shall see fruition. And you will help me, because you have no choice.
Tad peered nervously into the thick air of the Sel-kai night, cursing his own avarice for agreeing to make a midnight run for Divad Taminger. The lazy Tavernkeep was probably snug in his bed with one of his many girlfriends even now, while poor Tad Kontran shivered alone in the clammy air, making a dangerous delivery so he could pay his rent for the month and still have a few coins left over for food. He scowled. No good feeling sorry for m’self, he admonished, and heaved hard on the wet pole, rounding the corner off the Blood Canal and onto Lavender Way, into the Old City. The fog was already rising off the water in swirling tendrils, and a mist dimmed the teetering old buildings into ghostly shapes. At least I dumped off those kegs for Div; now if I can jus’ get home before…
But Tad was not get make it to his own bed without some adventure tonight. His body went stiff as a great splash echoed from not thirty feet ahead along the western side, just around a slight turn of the canal. Someone had fallen—or been pushed—into the putrid water. Grim fortune for the swimmer, as there were few landings on this stretch of the Lavender. Tad, not wanting to get entangled in case the victim had been helped into the cold water, let his skiff slow in the languid current. He felt a little guilty for not forging ahead to the rescue, but to survive on the canals of Sel-kai one had to make choices, sometime hard choices. Fortunately, he was in relative dark while a pool of dim lamplight lighted the area ahead. The splashing didn’t last long, but when Tad allowed his boat to round the curve he discovered that the incident was far from over.
Two men stood on a narrow landing about three feet above the water (the rains had been light the last few weeks; the Sharhya river was running pretty low). Tad heard the larger of the two men begging for mercy, while the other held him by the collar. The smaller man had long black hair, though with a silver streak at the temple. And as the light flickered off the rippling water Tad could plainly see his ears. He was an Elf all right: a Loar, Tad guessed. Then the Elf grabbed the man by the collar, hefted that big lug up off his feet with one hand and held him out over the canal like he weighed nothing. “It’s a little late to ask for mercy from me, don’t you think?” The Elf’s beautiful voice held a razor edge.
“I-I’ll never kill again, sir!” The man choked out, his gnarled hands pawing ineffectually against the grip on his shirt.
“Unlikely. But I’ll leave you to the judgment of the Sharhya. Should you survive, I suggest you inform your masters of my displeasure. Also know this: the Grey Ring will never forget your crime.”
“No—!” But the man’s last plea was cut off as he dropped into the cold waters. He cried and splashed for a few moments, but was clearly not a swimmer. He gulped canal water and soon there was nothing but black waves slapping against stone foundations. The mist began to close in again. Tad remained riveted to the spot, his pole dug into the mud in the bottom of the canal.
The Elf looked up. His bright gaze went right to where the youth lurked and his lips pressed together in a grim expression. “Better get home, boy; the canals at night are no place for innocents like you.” Then he vanished -- literally -- in a bluish glow and wavering of the murky air.
When he could control his trembling, Tad poled to Bryon’s wainwright shop in record time, racing up to his room above the shop and locking the door behind him.
On the afternoon of the 66th day the weather over the waters between Urulan and Sel-kai turned colder but clear with a steady wind from the west, and the sea lost its heavy chop. This combination of factors meant a smoother ride Dinner at the Captain’s table aboard the Naristral was unusually festive: the cook had outdone himself with a roast chicken dish, and the steward had produced an unusually fine chardonnay for the passengers. At table were Kalen and Jad, Ruuth, Lukas (Yandar Vit had sent his regrets as usual), Tar-esiir, Chak and Ilvia Vorhese, and in a rare appearance, Patrick O’Kiran. The redheaded monk became noticeably more relaxed over the course of the meal (and a few glasses of wine), but though his fair cheeks now had a reddish glow, his conversation remained limited to rather uninformative – if polite – conversation, answering questions as briefly as possible without seeming rude.
The herbalist took the opportunity to press Tar-esiir about the Navigators and their sometimes incomprehensible fees. “Forgive my ignorance, sir,” She leaned forward with a quick half-smile to the Elf, “but would seem to me more efficient for you and for your clients to simply teleport them to and fro, rather than spending days or weeks aboard ship or leading caravans.”
“Tar-esiir raised an eyebrow and swirled the wine in his glass, examining the liquid’s movements as if they had some secret meaning. “That would be true, if we were all equally capable of Jumping passengers any distance we pleased as often as we pleased, and if doing so did not cause perilous disturbances in the Flows.”
“You’re saying that some Navigators don’t know how to teleport passengers?” Lukas asked incredulously.
“I don’t think it is betraying any secret to acknowledge that some Navigators have more experience than others. Even I could not Jump a large group of people a great distance more than a few times a day.”
“And you say that too much teleporting about causes disturbances in the Flows of Essænce?” Ruuth pressed, far more interested in this part of the Navigator’s explanation. She had long assumed that some of the guides were more powerful than others, assigned to clients according to the requirements of the task.
“But if you’re one of the more capable Navigators – and it sounds like you are by your claim – what are you doing wasting your time on this ship?” Lukas demanded bluntly.
“Perhaps I enjoy your refreshing company, Viscount Ridgeston.” Tar-esiir said with his tightest smile.
But Lukas took the comment in stride as usual, grinning back mischievously.
The animated conversation and clinking of dinnerware was abruptly drowned in a panicked clanging of the ship’s bell, followed by the less distinct but still audible cry of the watch: “All hands to arms! Pirate ship off the port bow! All hands to arms!”
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