“You don’t make it this far in an endeavor that is effectively at odds with the desires of the powers that be without being extremely well-measured. This coin was a conscious choice.”
“It was the first thing that seemed suitable.”
“I don’t mind you lying to yourself, but please don’t lie to me.” Trigorah leaned lower. “I recognize that stain on your soul. You aren’t passing my test until I’m convinced you are the one who is in control. What is so special about this coin?”
Deacon shut his eyes. Words began to form in his mind. He took a breath and made ready to defend his statement, that the coin meant nothing at all. But the words rang hollow. For the first time since he’d selected the fateful bit of metal, he considered why he had chosen it.
“It… it isn’t what the coin is. It is what the coin represents. That coin… it is everything. It is renewal. Its very existence is a testament to a kingdom reborn. It is progress toward the goal of reclaiming our world from the damage, the poison of the D’Karon. It is everything that matters. Myranda’s face. The name of the home we have made for ourselves. Our ideals, written plain and clear. Wisdom. Courage. Honor. And it bears the mark.”
“It bears the mark,” Trigorah repeated.
“I needed it. I need something. Something to assure me…”
“To assure you that you haven’t crossed the line. Something to assure you that you are still pure?”
“Yes.”
Trigorah pulled the coin from the pouch and considered it. “Doubt… You doubt yourself.”
“I am as sure as I have ever been that what I seek to do must be done,” Deacon said. “But I can never be truly certain. I’m only human.”
Trigorah flipped the coin and caught it. She held down her other hand to help Deacon to his feet. “You speak with heart and vulnerability. Two things that he never could. I am satisfied.” She handed him the coin.
“Two things who never could?”
“You know precisely who,” Trigorah said, pacing once more into the darkness of the forest.
Her substance, so recently restored by her contact with the coin, unraveled and faded. Soon she was little more than a vague suggestion among the trees. Before she vanished entirely, she turned, a glitter of challenge in her fading eyes.
“And when he shows his face again, you tell him I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget…”
With that, she was gone. A path through the forest opened before him. Another trial gone. Another step closer to his goal. He held the coin firmly in his grip. It felt heavier than before. The mark was cold against his skin. He had to press on. He had come too far. Soon it would be over.
#
Myranda marched forward. She’d done all that had been required of her thus far. Time here was curious and uncomfortable. On one hand, it felt like days had passed. On the other, she’d never once felt fatigue or weariness.
“You’ve done well, Myranda,” Oriech said, emerging from the forest beside her. “Not that we expected anything less. Now you must face your final test. Against the advice and wishes of my colleagues, I have successfully argued that you should be permitted to collaborate on this test.”
Ahead, a table not unlike the one in her war room loomed out of the darkness. Beyond it, another figure stepped toward her. It was Deacon.
“He has had more to answer for than you,” Oriech said. “But he is clever, resourceful, and determined. This is his final test as well.”
Deacon’s face was stern and steady. He looked as though it was taking everything he had to keep himself from losing control of the chaos wrapped around him. So close to him, and with the benefit of time and patience, she finally got a clear view of what had become of him in both body and spirit. Without the crown and the ring, he was different. Fundamentally so. It wasn’t that Deacon was gone. He was still there, still in some measure of control. But his spirit looked fractured. Twisted. He wasn’t a single mind anymore. There was his core self, and clinging to it was a jagged, splintered tangle.
For now, Deacon seemed stable. His body looked very much his own, but there was an artificiality to it. She could see the effort it took to maintain the appearance that should have been natural.
Oriech approached the table.
“This final test should be familiar to you. What you have here is a world. Land, sky, sea, and people. Created just for you, for you to oversee.”
Myranda peered down from one side of the table, Deacon from the other. At a distance, the table had seemed to be a map. But now that she was close, she saw that it was a whole, genuine continent in miniature. Clouds drifted over the surface. Tiny waves lapped at the shores. Myranda found that when she focused upon any part of the map, though it didn’t appear to grow larger, she could nevertheless see with greater and greater detail. A mottled patch of green mountain resolved into a forest and then individual trees, and finally to a mouselike creature with clever eyes and cunning paws huddled beneath the tree.
“Fascinating…” Deacon said, looking over the world.
“I will set your minds at ease—this is not a true world. It exists only for the purpose of this test. But for that purpose, it will behave in every way like a real one. With one small exception.”
He held out his hand. An illuminated golden orb rose out of it. Its light poured across the table like the rising sun at dawn.
“You have control over a single day. You may choose at any time to return to dawn. The rising of the sun will return the world to this same state. Your task is to see the world safely through the day. When the sun sets, your test is done, and you shall be judged. Until then, I leave you to your task.”
Oriech vanished. Myranda paced around the edge of the table to Deacon’s side.
“Deacon…” she said, touching his arm.
He shut his eyes. “I know… I know, Myranda. You can see it in me. You can see what’s become of me. I’m sorry… I thought I was strong enough. I thought I could use it, use the chaos in me, without losing control.”
“It isn’t too late, Deacon. There’s got to be a way. We can heal you. We can fix what you’ve done.”
“We can’t…” He turned to her, tears in his eyes. “Myranda, we can’t do both. I’ve had time here. Time to think, just as you have. You say that history has been repeating itself, time has been echoing.”
“Yes. With worsening intensity.”
“I haven’t done anything to cause that. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve gathered the ingredients, but I haven’t turned my mind to time at all. Either it is happening because something else I’ve done has caused time to begin to unravel, or it is happening because something I will do will cause time to unravel.”
“If it is unraveling, then we will fix it. If it is something you have yet to do, then you just have to choose not to.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “You act as though time is a thing that happens gradually. It is not. It is gradually revealed to us, but every piece of it is already in place. These echoes are happening, and that means I won’t choose not to. I can’t choose not to create them, because in the fullness of time, I already have. What’s done is done. And what will be done will be done. To suggest I could repair this problem by simply choosing to avoid creating it is to suggest I could repair a bridge ahead by patching the ground beneath my feet. The problem already exists. We simply haven’t reached it yet.”
“Then we can change things.”
“The ritual I have been endeavoring to complete was supposed to be about changing things, about rendering the unalterable fabric of being soft enough to be manipulated. If time has been broken, then it is a result of me changing things. And if it can be fixed, it can be fixed only because of the same ritual. Somehow I’ve created my own prophecy. I’ve set something in motion that I have to see through to completion, because the very act of mysticism I hope to achieve is also the only act that can prevent further damage.”
He t
urned his eyes to the table. “Something is happening,” he said.
Myranda turned to the world they were to protect. The sun had already reached midday. Smoke rose from a section of the forest. As their attention drew it more sharply into focus, they saw beasts similar to the mouselike residents of the world, but a shade more feral. There were many of them, and they were sweeping like a wave across the landscape. The mouse creatures were no match for them, and the ferals were merciless.
“We should stop them,” Deacon said.
He held his hand over the table. Myranda felt him cast a simple spell to draw the monstrous creatures away from the table. The spell did its work, but as the monsters were torn from the ground, the ground was torn asunder as well. Faults split the continent. Fires consumed forests.
“I… I didn’t intend that. I cast the spell as precisely as I could.”
The miniature sun continued its path, shining upon a crumbling, imagined world. Myranda reached out and drew it back, reeling time back to dawn.
“We must be gentler next time,” Myranda said. “Deacon, they say they can cure you here, if you request it.”
“There is only one way through this,” Deacon said. “I need the affliction.”
“You don’t. It is killing you.”
“It is making these spells possible,” he snapped. “The spell I used to reach you all those years ago. The spell that left me with this curse clinging to me. I manipulated the probability of things. It was chaos magic. I thought I could control it, and to a degree I did. But you can never completely control chaos. By its very nature, chaos defies control. It is the counterpart to order. But it is also one of the very fundamental, underlying truths that I’d been trying to uncover. Chaos is change. Chaos magic is what allowed all of this to occur. Whatever I’ve already done, and whatever I will do, it is possible only because of the chaos that his plaguing me. I need it.”
He revealed the coin. “Here. This ritual required a single point around which I could gather the power. It could have been anything. I chose this coin. This coin is the focus of it all. This coin is the key to my intention,” he said.
Myranda took it from his hand. With it in her grip, her mind was awash with sensations she doubted she would have been able to comprehend if not for her experiences with magic. It was a simple coin, the same as any other. But he had done something to it. Through his magic he had turned a common bit of metal into something humming with the power of change itself. The coin felt like an anchor. It felt like the hub around which the surrounding world rotated. It felt like a tool, designed for precisely one task. It was as he said, it was a key. But just as it felt as though it was central to all that surrounded it, Myranda similarly knew at a primal, spiritual level that the lock for which this key had been created didn’t exist. This was a solution with no problem. An answer with no question. It was out of place.
“You can feel it too. You can feel that it has a power, an aspect that does not belong. It feels the same to me. But when I place it in the afflicted hand, I can feel the shape of it. The missing ingredients of the alchemy of reality. And I can feel it drawn toward the final piece. I need the affliction, Myranda. I need its influence on my mind to concoct the spells, I need its presence in my spirit to cast the spells. If something has been changed, I will need the chaos in me to change it back.”
“I read your notes. Even in your wildest musings, you made none of these claims.”
“I’ve earned a tremendous amount of insight in the last few days.”
“How? This plan seems to have leaped from your mind fully formed in the time between when you left Kenvard and when you left the Cave of the Beast.”
The sun rose over the miniature world again. They turned their eyes to it. Sure enough, it was whole, returned to the state it had been during the previous dawn. They both focused their attention on the section of the world where the violence had begun before.
“If you wish to accuse me, accuse me,” Deacon said.
“You say you haven’t been taken by Epidime, and I don’t feel his presence in you. But you did encounter him, didn’t you?”
“I encountered him. I spoke to him. I learned from him.”
Myranda felt a flare of anger. She forced it away and tried to keep a closer watch on their world. “He doesn’t need to be in control of you to manipulate you.”
“He is a repository of knowledge. He told me things I never could have known. The story of our world will be complete because of him. And with the knowledge he provided, our world will be safe because of him.”
“There are some things we are better off not knowing.”
“That is simply not true.”
On the world below them, the attack they had witnessed the previous day began again.
“I don’t have the control to fend off the foes gently enough,” Deacon said.
“Let me try.”
She set her mind to the task, curling the merest whisper of power into the world. It still struck the land like a hammer. It didn’t rend the earth asunder as before, but it was as destructive against those Myranda sought to protect as it was against their foes. It still ended in a rout. She pulled the sun back and awaited her next opportunity.
“We are being too direct,” Myranda said.
“How are we to protect this world if we don’t take a direct role in doing so?” Deacon asked.
She gazed at the sun as it climbed into the sky. “The gods do not protect our world directly. And it is for this precise reason. They have too much power to do so safely.”
“Mmm… Yes, of course. The world needs Chosen.”
They waited for the dawn to come again, and they each swept their attention across the world. Though these beings were not real, mere flickers of will, Myranda could feel their virtue, their bravery. Not as true traits, but as though they were simply colors of paint used to render them. She picked the most virtuous of them and shut her eyes. The merest thought in the direction of the creature stirred it to greater power. Deacon selected another, the one he deemed to be the wisest and sharpest of mind.
With their avatars selected, they watched and waited. The battle began. It quickly became clear that something was wrong. Those they had chosen were far from the early attack.
“We need to get them where they need to go,” Myranda said.
Deacon touched a hand to her shoulder. “We need to learn where they need to go. And what they need to do. For now, let us observe.”
The battle raged. It consumed the world. When it finally reached their warriors, the battles began to pitch against the evil, but it was too little, too late. A handful of the creatures survived, but by the time the sun was sliding from the sky, it was clear this world belonged to the ferals. Deacon pulled back the dawn, and together they selected new Chosen. They chose those nearer to where the first battles were fought. Perhaps in that way the war would be ended before it began. Alas, such was not the case. Deacon’s Chosen lacked the courage to fight until it was too late. Myranda’s fought bravely but lacked the strength.
They began another day. Again they tried. Again the world fell. The balance of the battle was so delicate. If they empowered too many, the Chosen would end up fighting among themselves. If they empowered too few or the wrong ones, they did little good. For victory to come, the proper creatures had to be in the proper places. And things never unfolded as they needed to in order to provide the besieged creatures with victory.
“A prophecy,” Deacon realized, just as the sun was rising over a new world. “It worked for our world. We need the Chosen to know their purpose. We need them to know where they need to go.”
Myranda nodded. She leaned low over the brightening world and whispered of the coming battle. She spoke of the threat and where it would begin. She spoke of those who had the tools to succeed. She spoke of their need to stand up for their fellow creatures.
With avatars selected and messages delivered, Myranda and Deacon step
ped back to watch and wait. The battle began, as it always did. But the Chosen had found each other. They fought for the people and rallied them to the cause. The sun crept across the world. The battle raged on. Many fell. For a time, there was a stalemate. Clouds curled over the field of the most intense battle. Rain began to pour. The feral beasts shrugged off the weather, continuing their vicious assault. The other creatures faltered.
Myranda struggled with the desire to reach out, to turn the tide herself. But she already knew how that would turn out.
“They can’t win if we help,” Deacon said, voicing her concerns. “And they cannot win without our help.”
“It’s all been about a gentle touch,” Myranda said. “As little as we can do. We’ve gotten them this far…”
“Then we need to do something, but magic will be too much.”
Myranda nodded. She leaned low and pursed her lips. With barely a breath, she blew upon the clouds. They curled and drifted. The setting sun shone upon the battlefield. Freed of the weather, the Chosen led their forces valiantly. Finally, the foes were beaten back. The day was won. Myranda looked down on the battlefield.
She knew these were not real creatures. She could feel the magic that fueled them. They were little more than puppets, illusions. But for an undefinable amount of time, she and Deacon had worked to save them. Seeing the battlefield scattered with their fallen was troubling. As the sun neared the end of its arc, Myranda reached out to it. She was already thinking of the ways she would push and prod things, to try to lead them to victory more swiftly, more certainly. She was trying to find ways to save more lives. Deacon caught her hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
“That was not a proper end. So many of them died. We can do better.”
“The world is safe. The battle is over.”
“But we didn’t save everyone.”
“We can’t always save everyone.”
Myranda grappled with his words as she watched over the false world she had been charged with protecting. When the sun set, the table vanished.
The Coin of Kenvard Page 27
