I considered. “I think I do. That doesn’t mean I like him any more or am happier about the situation. After what I’ve endured for this knowledge . . .”
“What you’ve endured,” he snorted derisively. “Nine mere seconds. Do you now Szal has possessed me for hours?” he asked, mildly offended by my temerity. “Over the years I have had countless experience. There is no way to measure the suffering I’ve endured. You have managed nine full seconds of the Yith’s attention. I have had over four hundred years of it. Not even death would allow me to escape, now,” he said, bitterly.
“That’s what Aza’methet would say,” I realized.
He looked startled. “Aza’methet? Oh, you poor boy,” he said, his manner changed to sympathetic. “If he showed you Aza’methet, he really has taken an interest in your story,” he said, regretfully. “That is one of the deep memories. The special hosts. He only shows those to . . . well, those he’s interested in. They rarely have boring lives. I am so sorry,” he said, shaking his head.
Suddenly, I understood – a little – what Davachan had endured during his exile from his people. Being a servant of Szal the Yith was a thankless exercise, I could see. I suddenly felt some pity for him.
“I also held Raer Rinthon as one of my hosts,” I confided. “I was there, that day in the vault.”
That took the Karshak by surprise. “Raer Rinthon? The . . . executioner?”
“Indeed. I didn’t think the Emissary was fair, for what it is worth. To make you endure . . . this . . .” I said, gesturing at the cavern.
He frowned. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve been of both minds over the centuries. I do not think it really matters, anymore. I’ve . . . I’ve moved beyond that.”
“Hissssssssss!” Gesstesseth said, as he walked by.
“That’s not my problem!” Davachan insisted. “Don’t mind him – he’s just upset that you died and then came back to life. For four minutes, there, it appeared as if he’d have dinner. Now he has to eat fungus stew, like the rest of us.”
“Well . . . tell him I’m sorry I didn’t – no, never mind,” I decided. I turned to Lilastien, instead. “Are you ready?”
“If I don’t get out of here soon, there might be trouble,” she agreed, handing me my plasma rifle. I didn’t activate it, like I wanted to, but I felt more comfortable with it. Andrews had carried one for years, after all.
“Agreed. Well, gentlemen, we bid you farewell,” I said, as I slapped my wizard hat back on my head. “I think we know the way out.”
“Of course,” Davachan said, bowing. “Farewell, Minalan the Spellmonger. Farewell, Lilastien the Sorceress. May you think of us kindly,” he said, and then turned and started arguing with his colleague.
We walked up the long, steep passageway to the surface largely in silence, occasionally using Lilastien’s medical tablet for light. Soon, however, we saw a dot of pale illumination in the distance, and eventually we came to the mouth of the passageway.
It was dawn. The sky in the east was growing pale. The darkness in the west was receding. It was a new day. And I had been dead just an hour before.
That sort of thing offers a man some perspective.
“Dawn,” Lilastien said, as she regarded the stony vale below. “It is ever the hope of man and Alon.”
“It’s just the planet turning,” I dismissed, irritated. “It’s not inherently meaningful.”
“But it is symbolically meaningful,” she argued. “It’s a new day. I see it with new eyes. That means something,” she stressed.
“The promise of a new day is the promise of a better life,” I said, in Alka Alon. Sarcastically. It was an old, old proverb, one that had come from Alonaral.
Lilastien looked at me, shocked. “You just spoke Alka Alon! The old form!” she accused.
“I had a busy night,” I shrugged. “Let’s head for the Leshwood. And try to avoid the putrid carcass of the decaying maggot. I want to eat again, someday.”
We continued without further discussion.
We did manage to avoid the Kurja corpse, but the smell lingered still over the valley; dawn might bring new hope and resiliency in us foolish mortals, but it did little to improve the aroma. As soon as the rays of the summer sun started beating down upon its rotting carcass, the putrescent odor choaked our throats closed. It also inspired us to hurry. There was another Kurja moving up from the vale for the promise of a good feed on the scavengers consuming its brethren.
But by the time the sun peeked up over the southeastern ridge, we had made the thorny gate of the Leshwood, where Bomoadua stood watch.
“You are alive, animals,” she stated, as her speaking gourd descended next to an eyestalk. I’d like to think there was a note of astonishment in her words, but I’m not that subtle.
“Once again,” I agreed. “That wasn’t always the case. Just a few hours back, actually. It’s been a busy night,” I said, apologetically.
“Sadness. You are mad,” she said, a second eyestalk joining to survey us.
“Just a bit. It will pass,” I promised.
“Take us to the Court of the Leshi Fathers,” Lilastien instructed, in a businesslike tone. “We have to report to them.”
“We do?” I asked, surprised.
“Once you enjoy the Grandfather Tree as a host,” she reasoned, “you feel a certain obligation to let him know what is going on.”
“You know what’s going on?” I asked, surprised. “Oh, thank Briga’s blessed biscuits. I have no idea,” I assured her.
“I know enough to know what to tell him,” she promised. “This involves the Met Sakinsa, too, after all. The Vundel were just going to leave them here. Like the Alon,” she added, sadly. “It’s one of the sins of my people I have to . . . contend with,” she said, considering her words carefully.
Bomoadua, for her part, wasted no time in leading us beyond the central moot meadow and into the dense grove where the Court sat. It was early morning when we arrived. The glade was filled with brightly colored insects blithely pursing their simple tasks to ensure the continuance of their simple life, here. The bastards.
“I present Minalan the Spellmonger and Lilastien the Sorceress,” Bomoadua said with great courtesy. “They have survived their trial with the Yith.”
“That might be over-stating it,” I offered.
Lilastien shot me a dirty look. “My friends . . .” she began, to the three trees who waited on us. “We have, indeed, returned. And we have fulfilled the Grandfather Tree’s prophecy. The Spellmonger did die, for four long minutes. My skill brought him back to life without recourse to necromancy,” she added proudly.
“And did he find the answers for which he was seeking?” Deeproot asked, lowering his speaking gourd and a few eyestalks. One of them got uncomfortably close to me, and I realized it was using sound to scan inside of me. I ignored it.
“I did,” I agreed. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Broadleaf asked.
“Yes,” I sighed. “I learned that masa – Hawking radiation – severely retards the ability for a consciousness to have a direct effect on the universe in accordance to will. Magic, in other words. There is a huge singularity at the center of the galaxy,” I explained. “A black hole that has consumed thousands of stars. On its surface it produces masa – Hawking radiation – the Withering Light that affects the quantum realm, and reduces what I would call the etheric density of all it touches. Collapses it, actually.
“That is why the Met Sakinsa had to leave their homeworld,” I related, sympathetically. “They were exposed to Hawking radiation, and that devastated their biome. And that’s why the Alon left Alonaral,” I added. “They had a star convert to a singularity only two hundred light years from where their planet was. I’m certain it’s gone, now,” I said, sadly, feeling Mel Thenreyal’s perspective on the death of her homeworld. “They had to flee. Without magic, they would decline into simple beasts. Like the humani,” I added, out of spite.
“For millions of
years betwixt the Great Eye – the massive singularity my people once called Sag A – and Callidore has been a dense nebula. It blocks most of the masa energy from reaching us. That’s why we have magic – rajamar – the Magosphere.
“Now, the shadow of the great nebula that has protected Callidore from a similar fate is expiring. Our sun is moving into the path of the Great Eye,” I said, using the Alka Alon word. “Under its influence, the Withering Light will eat away at the Magosphere. Slowly, at first, but then with greater directness. At some point, it will be strong enough to see the spells of the Vundel fail. The Formless will escape their prisons. They will consume the great reefs. They will consume all magic, rendering Callidore a barren wasteland at land and undersea. Unless it can be stopped,” I added, with especial emphasis.
“And you think you can stop it, animal?” Deeproot challenged.
“I think I have the ego to try,” I agreed. “And, after my ordeal, the knowledge to be effective. With snowstone, there exists a substance that can challenge the Withering Light,” I proposed.
“You have formulated a plan?” Wideleaf asked, curiously.
“I do not yet know the specifics,” I admitted, “but there exists within the warp and woof of possibility the chance I can figure it out,” I pledged. “If that can be done, then some spell or stratagem can be employed that will preserve the arcane on Callidore.
“That can keep the Formless imprisoned. That can ensure a long, long life on this world that natural forces would diminish. Once, the Celestial Mothers used their vast power to move the very stars out of their paths and dragged our very sun back behind the protective cloud for a few hundred thousand years. With sufficient support, I think I can use snowstone to the same effect,” I promised.
In truth, I had no such confidence. But it was the best I could come up with. And it was what they wanted to hear. Never diminish the importance of the client’s fears. That was basic Spellmongering. Their fears are what compel them.
“You gained that much wisdom in a few hours?” Deeproot asked, skeptically.
“I gained that much wisdom in an instant,” I countered. “It was a long walk, though. Past a festering maggot. These things take time.”
“I see,” Deeproot agreed. “I shall relay your findings to the Grandfather Tree. Bide,” it instructed, as it withdrew eyestalks and vocal gourd.
“How do you think Grandfather will consider this?” I asked, Lilastien, in a low voice.
“The Met Sakinsa are as desperate as the Vundel,” she decided. “They do not want to die. They will, if forced, but that is not their inclination. I think the Grandfather Tree will champion you,” she decided. “That’s really in his nature. That’s the reason the Met Sakinsa are here on Callidore in the first place. If you can provide them with survival, they will do everything they can to support you.”
“That’s gratifying to know,” I admitted with a sigh. “You know, I know the theory for producing snowstone. That’s a long way from seeing it done.”
“And I know the approximate remedy to correct the sins of my ancestors,” Lilastien agreed. “That doesn’t mean I know how to execute them, properly.”
“Good,” I decided, after a moment’s thought. “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy on them. Or us. Bad form,” I declared.
“Agreed,” Lilastien said, proudly. “If the Grandfather Tree wants our help, wants to assist us in preserving the world, he can make the effort. It’s not going to be easy.”
I thought about what she said, as the implications of my experience washed across my soul. I knew the universe didn’t care about humanity. About the Alon. About the Met Sakinsa or the Vundel. Or even the Yith and the Formless. Not one godsdamned bit. Of that I was assured.
But that didn’t mean that I didn’t. Perhaps the universe-at-large had no consideration for life – including the minor, unimportant bits on Callidore – but I did. I might not matter, either, but if I didn’t matter, it didn’t really matter what I did, now, did it?
While nine other perspectives whirled around my brain, the little part of me that was Minalan, now, had decided that my primal, primitive, simplistic perspective on the universe was important enough to rail against the cosmic inevitability of our demise. I could foresee the extinction of all life in the universe – even the nearly-immortal elder races who clung to existence as desperately as I did. But I would not consign myself to that inevitability.
You can credit that stubborn resistance to a greater understanding of life, if you will, or a conscious desire to spit in the face of creation, but my pride would not let me concede to the nihilism I felt was the natural inclination of any entity who had a greater understanding of the universe. It did not matter that life, itself, would someday be extinguished in the cosmos. It mattered how fiercely we struggled to preserve it.
Mattered to whom? In the absence of evidence of a supreme intelligence responsible for the madhouse that was the universe, I would substitute my own perspective. In truth, I could trust no other. Was I flawed? Scarred by experience? Shackled by doubt, insecurity, and self-loathing? Of course I was.
But my conscience was the only compass I had to navigate the treacherous shoals of the universe. To ignore it, or eschew it, would be to abandon the one tool I’d been provided. I would save our world because I felt it needed saving, for as long as I could make that happen. Callidore would, I knew, inevitably fall. The great Orion Empire fell. All empires fall. All worlds die. I knew that with certainty, too.
But it would not do so due to my unwillingness to preserve it. That is the legacy of life, I decided, while I awaited the judgement of an intelligence that stretched back hundreds of millions of years.
The Grandfather Tree and I might disagree on many counts, but the idea that life had worth and merit was not among them. We were both worthy to exist, by our own judgement. We did not need confirmation of that from anyone else. We deserved to at least try to exist for no better reason than we felt we deserved that opportunity.
If life, itself, was an unfortunate self-aware by-product of cosmic physics, then we owed it to ourselves to preserve what we saw as sacred in the course of that existence and seek to develop it and propel it forward into the future. Not for the gratification or fulfillment of any being who had come before us, I realized. But simply because the inevitable evolution of our selves through an eternally changing universe had an essential beauty that would not be denied.
My love for Alya, for instance. It might be base weakness, but it had become the most important element in my existence. And if that base weakness was a flaw in my character, it would be a flaw I would embrace.
Alya and I had agreed to face the horrors and joys of the universe forever. Together. Live or die, in health or at death’s door, we were together. That was the agreement. It might be a petty thing, in light of the cosmic forces at play, but it was one I would honor not out of duty, but out of self-preservation and joy. In the brief few years of my existence I would know, I craved another who could offer me companionship, fellowship, and intimate love that demonstrated that I was not alone in this universe.
Yes, I would save the world, for Alya. Or die trying. In truth, I had done just that.
And I had no regrets, I realized. I would do it again to have that feeling.
Love. The element that preserved me from abject and eternal madness.
“Dear gods, I need a cocktail,” Lilastien declared, staring up at Broadleaf. “Any chance you can mix me a dirty martini? I need a dirty martini.”
“How heavy on the vermouth?” asked the ancient arboreal being asked, as it lowered the oddly shaped gourd. “The ethanol hasn’t aged appropriately yet, but I can always increase the acidity of the olive flavor to counter it.”
“I trust your judgement,” she dismissed. “I’ve got seven new people in my head. I just need a drink that doesn’t taste like honeycombs and hopeful wishes for the future.”
“And you, Minalan?” Wideleaf asked.
“I�
��ll have what she’s having,” I decided. “I’m still struggling with the fact that I was dead. And now I’m not. And necromancy wasn’t even involved. Hells, I need a drink. A strong one.”
“I’m gratified I can assist,” the great tree said, sounding pleased through its speaking gourd. I had a chorus of perspectives on the situation, from my hosts, but I ignored them. I had yet another long night. I needed a drink to combat the existential dread that now haunted my soul. That wouldn’t cure it, but it would give me a temporary distraction. I wasn’t about to apologize for the weakness it implied.
The Leshi father delivered on his promise, and I reflected he had a promising future as a bartender, as I sipped a truly fine double dirty martini from a gourd. Andrews was especially appreciative of it, but plenty in the chorus saw its merits.
“You know,” Lilastien said, thoughtfully. “This changes everything.”
“The martini?” I asked, confused.
“Our . . . transformation,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I know so much now. I have to do something with that. I’m compelled to,” she said, urgently.
“I am, too,” I agreed, with a sigh. “I still can’t make sense of it, but I feel a sense of purpose, now, that I didn’t before. There are too many people in my head who would do what I need to do. It’s as if I don’t have a choice, anymore.”
“We made our choice when we made our bargain with the Yith,” she reflected. “All the rest is consequence.”
“That’s hardly encouraging,” I said, staring into my gourd. “But you are right. We must make use of this knowledge. We paid too high a price for it not to.”
She made a face. “You humani and your transactional nature both intrigue and disgust me. We lived. We learned. We just learned a hell of a lot more than most.”
“My sanity has a price,” I argued. “It’s the salvation of Callidore. Nothing less is worthy.”
“You understand that you may be frustrated in that bargain?” she challenged, as she took another delicate sip from her gourd.
“If there is no risk, there’s no glory,” I countered. “It’s a purpose. A higher purpose.”
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