by Sean Hinn
The method by which his re-entry into his world might be accomplished was still a mystery… would that other Mikallis cease to exist upon meeting him? Would he? Would it be best to wait until the dragon killed the other Mikallis, and then re-enter his world? Could he allow his other self to die? Should he? Would it be too late by then to save Aria from her fate? If for no other reason, Mikallis was grateful for the time between this year and that far-off one, for he imagined it would take quite a long time to puzzle out such answers.
Mikallis swatted a nibbling insect from his sunburnt arm. The sun had now withdrawn, its blistering work done for the day, though tenacious pastel strokes persisted across the sky. A ghostly white thumbnail emerged over the eastern horizon to contrast against a cloudless blueberry backdrop. Bright, twinkling acolytes to the god of death began also to emerge, pinheads of light in white, blue, and red, gleaming in anticipation of another opportunity to guard their master’s pursuit across the sky—or so Mikallis had come to imagine. Opposite, to Mikallis’ right, Lor had just begun to shy, seeking haven beneath the greying hedge of the distant range, hastening now to escape fiery fingers of pink and yellow and orange, these hues displayed haphazardly, each vying for the contested right to paint the few scattered clouds which separated east from west, and day from night.
Mikallis slid from the roof and retrieved the chalk stone from its resting place in a misshapen wooden bowl beside the door. He went to a knee and made his markings. This, the last day of the cycle, was always bittersweet. The top- and bottom-most depictions would on such days be most contrasting, their distances between the Twins and their respective horizons least similar, and thus the depiction of time’s passage was most well-illustrated. The twenty-ninth mark also meant that he would be visited the next day by either Kallar or Shem, or perhaps both as they once had, and their company, however brusque and brief, kept Mikallis from feeling as if he had faded into nothingness. They would trade; Mikallis would have a dozen gourds to offer tomorrow, these now finally ripened, and two full sacks of dried venison. He also had cured the skin of the young buck from which the venison came, a debt which he owed against the advance of two dozen arrows and a bow given him in the second cycle of that year, when the snows were high and the wolves were plenty. In exchange he would be receiving portions of milled flour, salt, and cheese, perhaps a candle or two, and, if Kallar kept his promise to consider the matter, he may also receive a few ingots of iron from which he might attempt to cast spearheads and nails.
These mundanities were pleasant to consider, but the night before the first day of a cycle also meant he would be wiping clean his marks the next day. On the wall inside his cabin he would duplicate only the last mark of the cycle. Now there would be eight, one for each cycle since the first he had made in the Spring, but before he could leave his timeless, doorless prison, there would need to be over six hundred.
Mikallis stood, squinting as he tried to compare his poor drawings of the Twins on the jambs, but the light of day had faded. He turned to face the fire pit which sat between his two gardens, then back to the scant pile of wood which sat beside his door. He decided against a fire; he had gathered very little wood this cycle, busied with the task of reinforcing his roof, and there was no telling when the rains might come. He would forgo his nightly fireside conversation with the as-yet-unborn princess of Thornwood and retire early this night. He stepped through his door and lay upon his bed of hay, which had begun to reek. Perhaps his visitors would bring a bale to trade.
Only at these times, only when the day had been spent and no light remained under which he might busy himself, did Mikallis allow himself to consider The Question.
What is the truth?
The question had been an enemy the previous winter, a teasing cruelty, taunting him as he shivered and starved and fought his instincts to use his magic for a bit of comfort, or to manage a meal. By spring it had become an annoyance, a resented thing he preferred to keep at bay. By summer, as sweltering boredom and loneliness sank in, it had become a welcome distraction, one he realized he had begun to indulge far too often when he might have instead been improving his homestead. So, he established a policy: he would restrict its consideration to these quietest of times, when no other task called to him. Now, knowing that Ronun might come at any time expecting an answer, the question had again become a worry, and he regretted not giving it more attention. What might Ronun do if his answer was incorrect? What might he think of Mikallis’ failure? Failure was certain. He had not settled on an answer. He did not even truly understand the question. The truth about what? The truth about himself? About Ronun? About time, or life? Perhaps righteousness? Good? Evil? And who decided what was true, in any case, on any of these subjects? Who was the arbiter of truth and falsehood? Did such a one exist? Certainly, Mikallis would fail this test. In his failure, would he forever lose the chance to ask Ronun for his own answers?
Mikallis kept returning to the idea that the answer to The Question was in some way tied to his own question of why the Stone Elves punished the use of magic as they did, but try as he might, night after sleepless night, he could trace no thread between the two.
Mikallis’ eyes began to droop.
Goodnight, Aria.
~
Mikallis awoke before dawn to the sound of a whinnying horse. So early? he wondered. They usually come at noontime…
He stood and stretched quickly, rushing to pull on his one fresh pair of pants and lace his sandals. He emerged from his cabin as his grey woolen tunic fell to his waist. The bright flames of a fire in his pit greeted him, a pot boiling in its center, its orange light revealing the silhouette of a horse and wagon. He turned to see Ronun sitting on the stump beside his door, sipping tea.
“You have grown lean, Mikallis of Thornwood. It has been a difficult year, no doubt.”
Mikallis stammered. “I… um, welcome, Ronun—”
“Have Shem and Kallar not traded generously with you?”
“Ah, no, I mean, they have traded fairly—”
“Fairly? Hmm. Tea?” Ronun handed Mikallis a cup.
“Yes, thank you. Please, forgive my stuttering. I did not expect you this morning.”
“I can see that. One could surmise also that you did not expect Shem nor Kallar today.”
“Oh, no, I did, but they usually—”
“Do the Alvi of Thornwood no longer practice the honor of Sif Rhai?”
Mikallis tilted his head, confused.
“The Gift of the Chair,” said Ronun. “Has this practice fallen out of favor?”
“Oh… no, it has not—”
“Do you not honor Shem and Kallar, then?”
Mikallis’ shoulders slumped. He thought for a moment before responding, examining his feelings on the matter before answering. He had promised himself to choose his words carefully with Ronun, to speak the whole and honest truth.
“I am grateful to them, Ronun. But also resentful. I did not think to honor them—”
“Why resentful?”
Mikallis sat on the ground before Ronun. “I am not sure I can put it into words. It is a selfish thing to feel, I know. It…. it is envy, I suppose. That they should have freedom while I—”
“I can see this is difficult for you to admit.”
Mikallis nodded. “It is.”
Ronun sighed. “It should not be. It is how you feel, no more. Though, you are unwise to feel as you do. Or perhaps only ignorant. May I enlighten you?”
“Please do.”
Ronun bent and moved from the stump to the ground, an action Mikallis saw to be generous. He offered a hand to assist, which Ronun accepted. The old elf sat cross legged beside Mikallis, facing out from the cabin. The two sat in silence for a few turns, Ronun in no hurry to begin his sermon, content watching the tops of the trees brighten from charcoal black to dull grey as the first diffuse light of day pushed aside the night.
“Do you recall the things I said to you in our last meeting?”
Mikallis nodded. “I do. Every word, I think.”
“I imagine you have searched your memory of those words for clues, yes? Clues to the question I asked you?”
“Yes. Exactly that. More times than I can count.”
Ronun nodded. “Because you wish to ask things of me. And you believe that you must first answer my question of you.”
Mikallis nodded.
“I am…” Ronun paused, “a bit disappointed. Though not altogether surprised. You have spent a year alone, visited only by two others, once per cycle, and you have overlooked the most important thing I told you in our last conversation, in favor of wasting your attention in service of your own ends.”
Mikallis looked up, shame and shock etched on his face. He moved to speak.
“Be still,” Ronun urged, “and listen. In our last meeting, I told you that you would be visited each cycle by a sentry, and that he or she would make a great sacrifice to ensure your well-being. Tell me truly. How much time have you spent considering what sacrifice Shem and Kallar have made for you?”
Mikallis shook his head. “Almost none. I…”
The realization struck Mikallis like a falling boulder.
“Oh, dear Father. I just assumed they were inconvenienced. But… the threads… the reason I am here, secluded…”
“Go on.”
The boulder settled in Mikallis’ belly. “They have isolated themselves, haven’t they?”
Ronun nodded.
“To protect me. To protect your people from what harm my presence here might—oh, Ronun, I am a fool. I did not—”
“I do not think you a fool, Mikallis, for whatever value my assessment is worth. Nor do I think you wicked. I can see that this realization is profound to you. But you must be truthful with yourself, now, if you are to gain wisdom. One’s heart is only as true and pure as the mind which controls it. When we think only of ourselves, of those we care about, of our own challenges and griefs and heartaches, we can bring no good to the world. It is the conscious act of setting aside our own worries in deference to the well-being of strangers—enemies, even—that brightens one’s heart. There was once an adage taught within the ranks of the elven knighthood. ‘Honor cannot be but for sacrifice, and sacrifice—’”
Mikallis completed the axiom. “—cannot be but for love. It is still taught in the knighthood.” A pang of longing struck as the former elven captain thought of Barris.
“Very good,” said Ronun. “I am pleased that the old wisdoms still pervade among your people. But there is more to ponder in such timeworn words than their obvious meanings. To sacrifice for one that you love is a noble thing. It is no great thing, however. Even the most craven among us may find the strength needed in a chaotic, fearful moment to martyr oneself for someone they love. The terrible prospect of facing grief and loss may propel any to heroism. But true honor—the sort that goes unnoticed, unheralded, the sort that will never be sung about in taverns or in great laments—is found in the quiet sacrifice we make in our own minds when we choose to consider the perspective of another. This is the truest love, Mikallis, for it is selfless and pure.”
Mikallis did not realize he had been weeping until a tear crept into the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away.
Ronun placed a hand on Mikallis’ shoulder, using it to brace himself as he stood. Mikallis helped the old elf to his feet.
“I will cook breakfast.” Ronun said, “if you will unhitch the wagon from Magsilla. Her hip troubles her; she will be glad to be rid of it.”
“I… you intend to leave it here?”
“I have no use for it. And as I say, Mags despises the thing. Bring me the sack in her left saddlebag. With luck the eggs have not broken, and I can make you a proper meal—”
“Please, Ronun, you need not—”
“Mikallis.”
Mikallis fell silent.
“I wish to cook you breakfast.”
Mikallis nodded. “Thank you, sir. I will get the sack.”
Ronun hummed a tune as dawn brightened the clearing, cooking eggs and fatty meat and small green potatoes as Mikallis worked to unhitch the wagon from Mags. The mare made to nip at Mikallis a time or two. He imagined she might be hungry. He jumped into the wagon to see if there was anything she might eat. There Mikallis found a veritable bounty: baskets upon baskets of fruit, huge bags of flour, large, wax-dipped wheels of cheese, enough salt to last a season… he nearly wept again.
Mikallis took three of the apples and jumped from the wagon. He fed them to Mags, grinning ear to ear. The old mare gobbled them eagerly; she might have bit off Mikallis’ finger had he not snatched it back in time. He turned to see Ronun watching him, smiling.
The two lingered long over breakfast, talking of weather and food and simple things only. Mikallis had tried to thank Ronun for the wagon repeatedly, but the elf droned over him, refusing to acknowledge the gift. A lull fell in their conversation. After a few turns, Mikallis broke the silence.
“I am sorry I did not make you a chair, Ronun. I did not see it at the time, but you honored me when I arrived here. Nü glahr ni.”
Ronun nodded. “I can see that you are sorry. And I know that when I return, you will have made up for the slight.”
“You will return, then?” Mikallis asked hopefully.
“Mustn’t I? You have not answered my question, and I have not answered yours.”
Mikallis smiled.
“You are welcome to try at it, if you like,” said Ronun.
Mikallis sat in silence for a turn. Finally, he shook his head. “No. It would not be an honest answer. Only a guess.”
Ronun moved to stand. Mikallis rushed to help him.
“Then I will see you next autumn, Mikallis of Thornwood. I pray that you fare well.”
“I pray the same for you, Ronun.”
“I will suppose that your next visits with Shem and Kallar will be more fulfilling to you both. I ask that you be as kind to them as you are able. As you know, they have sacrificed much. They are as lonely as you.”
“They will be treated with all the honor due them, Ronun, and more. I swear it.”
Ronun smiled. “As least offer them a place to sit. That would be a start. Would you help me to my horse?”
~
When Ronun returned the following year, he was treated to a morning spent in blissful repose, breakfast simmering in a pan upon his arrival, this served with steaming tea as he rocked gently in an ugly beast of a chair, this, Ronun had said, as comfortable as any he had ever sat in. Mikallis asked only one thing of him then, which Ronun promised to consider. He left when it began to rain.
On his third visit, the chair had been moved to beneath a grand awning attached to what was now far more than a humble cabin. They cooked and ate their breakfast together, indoors. Ronun commented how healthy Mikallis looked, but suggested he begin to train with a staff. It would not do for a friend of his to be incapable of sparring with him on his next visit. Ronun left his own grey staff behind, along with the box Mikallis had requested the year before. “You must keep these secreted, Mikallis, for as long as you remain here. Be careful what you—”
“I understand, Ronun. You have my promise.”
Ronun nodded. “A thing which I trust.”
Mikallis watched as Ronun and Mags rode off that afternoon, sad to notice that Mags’ gait had worsened, but glad to know she had Ronun on whom she could rely. When the two had made it out of sight, Mikallis entered his home and opened the box. Within he found one hundred pages of blank parchment, four feather pens, and three large bottles of greenish ink.
He went to his hearth and lit a long piece of hay, which he used to light a candle. He used that candle to light another. Soon his home was well-lit. He sat at his dining table and took out a sheet of parchment. He uncorked a bottle of ink and dipped a pen.
Dearest Aria,
It is the year of Evanti, 866, the first day of the tenth cycle, and you will not be born yet for another twenty-five years. I w
ill not be born for another fifteen. But I will begin this first letter as I shall end every other:
I love you, and I miss you...
XXX: THE GRAND BARRACKS
GENERAL,” SAID CAPTAIN Varyl, “You’re gonna wanna hear this.”
Slater ignored the captain and barked at a young corporal. “Tighten those straps, soldier, or you’re gonna fall right off the saddle! And get yourself a helmet that fits! Who’s your sergeant? Well, tell him to get his sorry arse over here! Move!” Slater turned to Varyl and Nia.
“Make it quick, Captain. A bit busy at the moment.”
“Ah, I’ll let her explain it, Sir, if you please.”
Slater glared at Nia. She spoke quietly. “Maybe you’ll want to hear this in private, General.”
“Did you find what you were looking for or not?”
She nodded. “I did. Forty or more.”
“Then why in Fury are you still here? Varyl, my orders—”
“Sir,” said Varyl. “Private might be better.”
“Dammit, follow me,” he snapped. The general led the two to an empty stable stall.
“Out with it.”
Nia took a breath. “Ah, the thing is, I don’t think I can get to them in time.”
“You sure as sunrise can’t by standing here yapping at me, young lady.”
“She won’t make it on horse, General,” said the captain. “Not soon enough, at least. If her intelligence is accurate, the Mother is already stationing spellcasters around Tahr. We won’t have surprise.”
Slater sighed. “That’s a problem. If we take to the streets and they’re ready for us—”
