Alya was the friendly “other” in my universe, as transitory as it was. She was proof that not all the universe was trying to kill me. She was just as flawed and human and fragile as I was, and just as determined to understand her world. We had pledged to do it together, though, and that made all the difference. The knowledge that somewhere, somewhen, there would always be an Alya, and that I loved her, was the essential element of my being for that hellish eternity. Neither her death nor mine would erase that reality. Death was no escape from existence.
And as long as there was a universe in which Alya and I existed, knew each other, trusted each other, and loved each other, then there would be a Minalan, there would be an Alya, and our joy together was assured – in the past, in the future, in the present, for all of eternity. My constant, when all else was in doubt.
When Aza’methet finished consuming the one without form, and continued his eternal plodding, I found myself wandering through a less bleak and insane world, one where the mists did not burn but lightly lingered over the surface. I kept walking and realized that there was not another host present. There was only me. Minalan. Walking through a murky gloom.
Soon my feet encountered not mere stone, but grass, and the world changed into something more familiar. I could smell, again, in a meaningful way, and I could feel breeze on my face. It seemed a novelty. I felt its coolness, and I realized that my senses were somehow dulled. But I kept walking, because I didn’t have anything better to do and it seemed a good idea. As soon as I did that, there appeared in the distance a light. So, I walked toward it. Because that’s what you do in the dark.
I didn’t notice things transforming as I went, but they had to have, because by the time I approached the light, there were trees and more grass and bushes and such around. The light itself changed hue from white to red and orange, and as I came near it became a fire, a blazing fire set within a ring of rocks. It seemed familiar. I stared at the flickering flames in confused contemplation, allowing the fire to lull me into a bit of a trance.
“Oh, Minalan,” a voice came from behind me. I turned and recognized who had spoken.
“Briga,” I said, in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
She looked . . . different, somehow. Oh, she still looked like Briga, Goddess of Fire and stuff. But after my experience, particularly with Aza’methet, I saw her with new eyes.
“Oh, Minalan, what have you done?” she asked, sadly, as she joined me at the fire.
“I’m just enjoying the fire,” I said, honestly. It was pure, simple, and familiar. I glanced up in the sky. Across the sea of stars was the Triad, reassuringly in the north. “It’s a pretty night.”
“Only because you’re making it so,” Briga sighed. “It’s best to accommodate you, like that, to help you . . . ease your transition,” she said, her lips going tight.
“I’ve been through a lot today, I appreciate the consideration,” I admitted. “But I didn’t think you would be part of the process. I didn’t think the Yith could possess a goddess. But then, there’s a lot I don’t know, I’m discovering.”
“You think?” she snorted. “In fact, it’s your godsdamned ignorance that got you here. Your desire to know. You couldn’t be satisfied with just saving your family or the duchy or the kingdom or even mankind; no, you had to push it, and try to learn how to save the world,” she chided. “Knowledge has a price.”
“It was my duty to do that,” I said, firmly. “It was my world to save.”
“Who says?” the goddess shot back, irritated. “Who told you that you had to save the world?”
“I did,” I insisted. “I decided I had to save the world. Or at least try. I . . . I had to. Because it’s in my nature,” I argued.
“And look where it got you. Stuck with me as your psychopomp because I was the only one near enough to you – and stupid enough – to get involved,” she said, frustrated and irritated.
“How are you even manifesting here?” I asked, confused. “There isn’t even divine magic in the realm of the jevolar. I couldn’t get so much as a prayer out that you’d hear, I thought.”
“First, what you still don’t know about the universe is vast,” she lectured. “And second, you aren’t in the realm of the jevolar, anymore, technically.”
“What?” I asked, confused. “Where am I, then?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Minalan. You’re dead.”
That took a moment for me to process. “I’m . . . dead? Really?”
“Really,” she sighed. “Truly. Your heart stopped beating. You are dead.”
I felt my shoulders sag. “Then I failed,” I said, sadly.
“That remains to be seen,” she shrugged. “The world might get saved. Or it might not. Probability and prophecy are tricky things, Minalan. Especially for us gods. But you gave it a really good try,” she said, sympathetically. “That’s important. I’m glad I was your patroness, for what it’s worth. You weren’t particularly devout, outside of paying for temples, but you really listened to me when you needed to. And as a result, my glory increases. Thank you for that.”
“If it matters to you,” I said, giving her a shrug of my own. “You’re welcome. It was nice to have a relationship with the divine that was more responsive than most people get. You guided me well. I know how to make snowstone, now,” I pointed out. “You were involved with that. Hells, I know how to make irionite, now,” I said. Then I frowned. “Of course, if I’m dead, that doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It does seem like a hollow victory,” she agreed with a divine sigh. “One you went through a lot for. And sacrificed much for. Which is a pity, because I really thought you might pull it off, if properly inspired.”
“You mean Alya,” I nodded.
“Ashes and cinders, I mean me, you idiot!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m the bloody goddess of inspiration!”
“You’re also the bloody goddess of biscuits and cakes, but I see you didn’t bring any for breakfast,” I pointed out. “Alya got me through . . . well, I guess she didn’t, technically get me through this, because I’m dead, but she did get me through my madness, and I count that as important.”
“Here, have an inspirational snack cake, then,” she said, dryly, producing a tray of them from the ether. I realized I was hungry. I took three. They were divine. “Now, do you want me to tell you where you went wrong? I feel you kind of owe me that,” she pointed out, as I chewed.
“Go ahead,” I sighed.
“Thank you. First, you shouldn’t have left things so disorganized before you left – it begets chaos, and that’s never good. You had clear enemies you should have confronted and allies you should have cultivated. You did . . . all right, for the most part, but you missed some important opportunities.”
“I got distracted,” I said, between mouthfuls.
“Of course, you did. Secondly, you left a lot of unfinished business that’s going to be a mess for your descendants. That was just sloppy.”
“I’ll concede that,” I agreed. “And I regret it. I was going to attend to that when I got back but . . .”
“Yes, you’re dead, now, and there’s not much you can do about it. And thirdly – and I can only say this now because you’re dead – you left a mess when it came to the gods. And that screws over not just your own family, but millions of other people. That was just irresponsible. A few persistent deities who have no home, purpose, or direction? What could possibly go awry?” she asked, sarcastically.
“I was working on that, too,” I defended. “At least, I was thinking about it. I actually think I could do something about it, now that I understand arcane energies and dimensional magic a little better – a lot better. Not to mention quantum engineering. But . . .”
“Yes, you’re dead now,” she agreed. “But thanks for leaving a mess. What happens when someone else uses the Alaran stone? Or finds the others? Or—”
“Wait, there are others?” I asked, surprised. “No, neve
r mind . . . it doesn’t matter now. I can’t do anything about it, anyway. At least I loved my wife and kids,” I pointed out. “I can take that into eternity,” I said with some satisfaction.
“Alya, sure, you get credit for true love, but you only maintained a relationship with the four kids you know about. The other five are ignorant of their father. So . . .”
I winced. “Yes, I regret not doing anything about that, either. It’s a pity. I thought I’d have more time.”
“Everyone does,” she agreed. “And everyone wants a second chance to go back and fix things. It doesn’t work that way,” she said, shaking her head. “Usually.”
“Usually? But then, it does happen?” I asked, suddenly interested.
“I . . . well, no reason not to tell you, but sometimes it does. By accident, perhaps. But rarely with divine assistance unless there’s a compelling reason. But it does happen. Unfortunately, you died in the realm of the jevolar, so there is little that I could do, even if I was permitted. My powers cannot reach you there to restart your heart and prevent your death. I am sorry, Minalan,” she said, sadly.
I sighed, dejected. For a moment, there, I thought I’d get a second chance. That would have been handy, after what I’d endured. And useful.
“However,” Briga added, “what do you always say about the relation of the divine and the arcane?” she prompted.
“Eh? That magic provides where the divine fails?” I supplied, an old saying from philosophy of magic texts that gets used a lot by rural spellmongers trying to make a sale to desperate people. “That doesn’t serve me well in the jevolar either,” I pointed out.
“No, but as your colleague Fondaras points out frequently, there is more to being a wizard than magic,” she lectured patiently. “And a good wizard always has at hand what he needs. If he doesn’t, he’s not a good wizard,” she reasoned. “So, this is your opportunity to prove if you’re a good wizard, or not.”
“By not dying?” I asked, skeptically.
“No, you’re dead. But if you’re a good enough wizard . . .”
“What? I’m confused—” I said, as the sky around us began to brighten, suddenly.
“That, at least, is eternal,” she smirked. “Good luck, Minalan.”
And then the sky turned bright white, so bright that it blotted out the clearing and the next thing I knew is that someone was painfully beating on my chest, over and over punching me with what felt like the full force of their fists.
It wasn’t metaphor, I realized. There really was someone kneeling on my chest, punching me. And it hurt.
I opened my eyes. It was Lilastien. She was naked, and there was an intent look on her face, but it wasn’t sexual in the slightest. She was smashing my chest so hard it was extremely painful.
She was also chanting an incantation I wasn’t familiar with, something in Old Perwyneese. It sounded like a prayer.
“Stayin’ alive . . . stayin’ alive . . . ah . . . ah. . . ah . . . ah stayin’ alive . . . stayin’ alive . . .” she chanted, over and over, in time to her punches.
I heaved a great sigh and began a fit of coughing, uncontrollable coughing, as I struggled for breath. My chest ached, and not just because of her assault. I felt weak and dizzy, and I couldn’t even imagine standing up.
“I’m alive,” I informed her, as I rolled over. She looked relieved, and rolled over on her back, too, panting with the exertion, her arm over her eyes. “I’m alive!” I repeated, more to reassure myself than anything else.
“It’s alive!” she shouted, maniacally, a giant gleeful grin on her face. Then she laughed hysterically.
“Do you realize,” Lilastien croaked, as she caught her breath, “how godsdamn lucky you are to have your heart stop next to the only person on the entire godsdamned planet who’s certified and trained in cardiopulmonary resuscitation?” she asked. “You lucky, lucky bastard!”
Chapter Forty-Four
What Wizards Do
I think I understand, now, what Fondaras said about the differences between a mere mage and a wizard. The magi can manipulate the universe using arcane energies, changing it to their whim. A wizard, on the other hand, is a vocation, not mere ability, or profession. A true wizard dedicates himself to a cause, a quest, a course of action to achieve something meaningful, with magic or without it. He seeks to improve the universe, not merely change it. He has nothing greater than his conscience and his wisdom to guide him, no matter how many gods he knows. A true wizard dedicates himself to doing what must be done, as he sees it, and he does not regret that dedication or seek to escape its consequences. He accepts that responsibility and is accountable to himself for it. That is what wizards do.
from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger
I lay on the floor of the Interrogation Chamber for an hour, trying to recover. Lilastien brought be a towel to dry myself off with, but I still felt profoundly weak. Too weak to move. I was afraid to pass out, because I wasn’t ready for what my subconscious had in store for me, but I was unable to marshal my resources enough to stand, or even get to my knees.
“Here,” Lilastien said, holding her silver flask to my lips. I drank it automatically. It was amazing.
“Herkulinen,” she explained, as the golden liquor ate through the fog of cobwebs in my mind and brought new life to my limbs. “It’s dangerous for humans in any great amount, but small amounts are restorative. Even here,” she added, looking around grimly. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“I feel . . .” I began, after considering a moment. Each of my hosts had an opinion on that subject. I picked the one I thought was most accurate. “I feel clinically insane. You?”
“Me?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “I feel . . . I’m all shook up,” she said, suddenly, and emitted a three-toned musical groan. Then she cackled hysterically, really howled. It sounded disturbing. She sounded disturbed.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” she said, for no good reason, then manage to collect herself. “I feel like I’ve been hit in the head seven times in a row. You?”
“Eight times. And then the ninth was a gaping chest wound,” I decided.
“Nine?” she asked, shocked. “You endured . . . nine of those?”
“It’s one big party in my head,” I agreed, mournfully. She had been right about the herkulinen, though; it seemed to be burning into my limbs and making me consider gravity less of a threat. I felt some strength returning to me. “Did you get your answers?” I asked.
She nodded solemnly. “I did. Good and hard. You?”
“Yes. It was brutal. But I . . . I know, now. I know everything. And nothing,” I added.
“I’m going through a little of that,” she agreed. “I want to talk about it. But not here,” she said, looking at Davachan and his faithful lizard companion with suspicion. “In fact, as soon as you’re able to move, I want to get out of this place as fast as I possibly can.”
“I’m likewise motivated,” I agreed, realizing that I didn’t want to be here, either. She helped me first to my knees, then patiently supported me until I was standing. Then she helped me back to the section of cavern where our clothes were waiting. I still had a residue on my skin from the tank, but I didn’t care. I was ready to leave naked, if I had to, but I wanted out. I dressed as quickly as I could, with Lilastien helping me with the hard parts.
She also took a moment to scan me with her medical tablet. I could tell by the look on her face she wasn’t completely happy with the result, but she didn’t mention it and I had no real desire to inquire. I was alive. I didn’t need the details, right now.
It didn’t take long for us to dress and retrieve our belongings. Just as we were finishing up, Davachan returned with the Magolith.
“Just as I said I would,” he pointed out, as he handed it to me. “Interesting bit of art, there. Szal was intrigued, and it’s difficult to intrigue my maste
r.”
“The less of my opinion of your master you hear, the better off you’ll be,” I promised. I wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed to the ancient alien intelligence I knew was in a vast tank, under our feet. I had the undeniable urge to go over, rip open the membrane that covered it, and take a gigantic shit in the tank, but I restrained myself. I wanted to get out of here more than I wanted to express myself. But the thought was comforting.
“Thank you,” I told Davachan, as I took it back. “We’re going to leave, now,” I informed him.
“They usually do,” he nodded, understandingly. “It will take you a few days to recover from the shock. Some never do, but I think you will pull through. In a couple of years it will fade, the loud parts, at least. They will fade. Someday, you might even be normal. But for the next few years, take caution not to do anything . . . rash.”
“Rash?” I asked, dully.
“You know, slaughter your family, indulge in cannibalism, engage in a mindless killing spree, regicide, fratricide, matricide, patricide, that sort of thing,” Davachan supplied, reasonably. “Expect a lot of vomiting, at first. Nightmares, of course. I’m guessing you’ll probably play with your feces. A common, but harmless, side-effect in some. But don’t let it bother you,” he advised. “Cleaning shit and vomit off the walls is easier than cleaning blood.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“You’ll be fine,” the wizened Karshak dismissed. “Sanity is over-rated, anyway. And that thing might actually be useful for this,” he said, indicating the Magolith. “As I said, Szal found it amusing and intriguing.”
“And that is supposed to comfort me?” I challenged, bitterly.
“It is supposed to inform you, Minalan the Spellmonger. Szal possesses hundreds, thousands every day and never gives them a second thought. He took notice of you and your pretty green ball and is intrigued. He has been following Callidore for eons, and he stands intrigued by you. That is, indeed, meaningful, if you understand it or not.”
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