Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within

by L. J. Hachmeister

  He stepped out of the silverland and placed his hands on his knees, breathing hard. There were endless advantages to the silverland, but traveling through it was unbelievably strenuous, harder than running a dozen miles. He tried to keep his breathing quiet. If he was lucky, none of the guards had seen him. At most, they might have caught a glimpse of silver light, but as Mother had kept his ability secret, they probably wouldn’t know what such a flash meant.

  As Stavark recovered his breath, looked up and—

  And found the human watching him, sitting up on a large hammock in the center of the room. They were alone together, and the human was just as brutish as Stavark had been told.

  Of course, Stavark had seen the human in the glade, but that was from a distance. And the man had been unconscious, helpless. Now he was awake, and Stavark could see the violence in every part of the human. His big arms, wide shoulders and thick fingers resembled that of some muscled beast. His blunt cheekbones, doughy cheeks and round chin were covered with dirty-looking whiskers. His hair was mud-brown, and it curled down over his face, covering one of his mud-brown eyes. There was no curly hair in Sylikkayrn. All syvihrk had ivory skin, straight hair and silver eyes, like captured droplets of moonlight. This human looked like he’d crawled out of a badger’s den. He blinked, like he thought he was hallucinating.

  Stavark’s heart lodged into his throat. He’d only come to take a closer look. He’d assumed the human would be downstairs, in one of the large rooms, unconscious. Stavark thought about leaping out the window and running home.

  “You have flashpowers,” the human rasped. He cleared his throat. “The gift of the quicksilvers. You have it,” he said, and the hoarseness had vanished, transformed into a deep and rumbling voice, deeper than any syvihrk’s voice. It should have frightened Stavark, but somehow it was soothing. “I’m sorry. You don’t call yourselves quicksilvers. It’s syvihrk, correct?” the human amended. He shook his head. “My apologies. That was rude.”

  Stavark looked closer at the human, at his manner and his clothes, and suddenly he didn’t seem so brutish. His linen shirt was dirty, yes, but it had fine lace at the throat and cuffs. His black leather vest, though scarred and worn, bore decorative embossing. This wasn’t a violent animal; he was simply…different than a syvihrk. The human shifted on the wide sleeping hammock, which was secured to the ceiling by four thin poles, then propped himself up on one elbow with a wince of pain. “You probably don’t call them flashpowers either, do you?”

  Was this Stavark’s threshold? Surely having a conversation with the human was enough! Even adults did not do that. Stavark swallowed. He had a choice. Either he could run, or he could stand his ground and speak with the man.

  “How do you know of us?” Stavark asked. After a moment’s hesitation, he found the courage to approach the hammock. “Humans do not know the ways of the syvihrk.”

  “Most don’t.” The human swallowed and winced. “But I do. I find lost information. Things forgotten. Books mostly. I read.”

  “Everyone reads,” Stavark said.

  The cocked his head, as though he found Stavark’s comment interesting. “Not in the human lands. Not anymore.”

  “What do they call you?” Stavark asked.

  The human gave a soft chuckle, and it was also strangely soothing. Stavark expected the human to be feral, with burning eyes of greed and malice. But he wasn’t like that at all. “They call me Reader Orem, actually,” the human said. “At least the ones who speak to me at all.”

  “Your people do not speak to you?” Stavark asked.

  “They don’t like what I do.”

  “That you read?”

  “Among other things,” Orem replied.

  “Did they wound you?”

  “No.”

  “Humans love violence,” Stavark said. “They hurt for no reason. They murder.”

  “All humans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you met them all?”

  Stavark pressed his lips together. “I do not need to meet them all. I do not even need to meet one of them.”

  “More than one, you mean,” Orem said. His lips quirked in a smile.

  Stavark’s face burned, and his anger rose. But Orem was right... Stavark had needed to meet this human. He’d been driven to come to the Life Tree for that very reason.

  “Amarion is a dangerous place right now,” Orem continued. “People are afraid. Most humans feel books are the reason for their hardship. They think knowledge is a threat, but actually it’s the other way around. Ignorance is what will kill them.”

  Stavark’s heart beat faster. To his shock, he agreed with the human. “It is better to know than not to know,” he murmured.

  The human cocked his head again, and his eyes narrowed. “How old are you, syvihrk?”

  “I am…not syvihrk. I am syvihrk-lan. I have twelve turnings of the seasons.”

  “Syvihrk-lan…” the human said, and he narrowed his eyes as if thinking. “Is that a diminutive? For children?”

  This human wasn’t the feral beast Mother had described. His eyes twinkled with intelligence. He liked learning, liked knowing. Stavark could feel the heat of the human’s aura, pushing toward him.

  “Do all syvihrk have your… What do you call your flashpowers?” Orem asked.

  “We do not name it that way. I step into the silverland. I move through it. I step out.”

  “When did that happen exactly? Or have you always had it?”

  The human’s insight bordered on supernatural. Stavark’s fear prickled across the skin of his arms like creeping frost. “Last week,” he said. “And for none save me.”

  Orem raised his eyebrows. “Only you?”

  Stavark said nothing. He’d already said too much. What was he thinking, giving such information to a human?

  “Gods…” Orem murmured, more to himself than to Stavark. “Any threadweavers here?”

  Stavark hissed. It was the human threadweavers who had stolen the maehka in the first place, twisted it to their own selfish desires. “No syvihrk is a threadweaver! Only humans are so arrogant.”

  Orem paused, then said, “Many wondrous things were created with threadweaving. Once upon a time.”

  “There is nothing wondrous about twisting nature.”

  Orem pursed his lips, and he paused a moment before saying, “You know what your people have told you, syvihrk-lan, but you to not know the whole the truth.”

  “And I should accept your lies instead? You are human. You cannot see truth.”

  Stavark thought Orem would lash back, but he didn’t. Instead, he watched Stavark—not like one enemy watches another—but like a syvihrk watches a syvihrk-lan, trying to help, trying to teach. “You’re correct, of course,” Orem said in that comforting, rumbling voice. “I’m blind to many truths. There’s so much I don’t know. But I am looking. At least I am doing that.”

  “You think the syvihrk are not?” Stavark asked.

  “Are they?”

  Stavark opened his mouth to retort, then realized his anger had run away with him. He did not know the answer to Orem’s question, not a true answer. He only knew what Mother would have him say: Humans are vanvakihrk.

  He suddenly realized he did not feel that truth in his heart. The stories of humans told one thing. Stavark’s own experience—here and now—told something quite different. He could not say for certain that this human was vanvakihrk, a selfish creature bent only on his own satisfaction. He’d seen nothing with his own eyes to confirm that, not yet.

  “Tell me, do you know about what is happening to the lands right now?” Orem asked.

  To a human, everything of consequence happened only to them. Mother said they had no care for the lands, for nature, only for their own grimy cities of stone, but that wasn’t what Stavark heard in Orem’s voice. Orem wasn’t talking about the incessant skirmishes of human kingdoms. He was talking about the lands as Stavark knew them—all the lands—the trees and roots, the sky
and water, the grass and ground, the humans and the syvihrk, too…

  What is happening to the lands right now…?

  Stavark thought of the volverka that had ravaged Sylikkayrn last month, a horror from the time of Dervon the Diseased. Like Stavark’s new ability, such monsters hadn’t been seen for centuries. It slew two syvihrk gatherers and one syvihrk tree guard before it was caught and killed. The volverka looked like it might once have been human or even syvihrk, but twisted, elongated. It had midnight black skin, shiny as if oiled, and spindly arms that could throw a syvihrk twenty feet.

  After a long pause, Stavark finally answered the human’s question in a soft voice. “The lands are sick. Sicker than they already were.”

  The human raised his eyebrows in surprise, then nodded a quiet approval.

  “But you humans caused the sickness,” Stavark said. “You caused the great dying, stole the maehka. You brought the volverka.”

  “Volverka…” Orem puzzled through the word like he had syvihrk-lan. “A volverka is a monster? Does it have thin limbs? Long teeth? A small head?”

  “You’ve seen them.” Stavark felt ill thinking that there were more volverka in the lands, running free, killing…

  “We call them darklings.”

  “They are here because of you,” Stavark said.

  “Not this time. Yes, human threadweavers caused the great dying. And yes, if this word maehka is what I think it is, we stole that, too. But we didn’t summon the darklings. I do know where they’re coming from, though. I just…I can’t fix it by myself.” Orem turned an intense, unmistakable gaze on Stavark. “I need help.”

  Stavark took a step away from the hammock. After all the humans had done, after all they’d twisted and destroyed, Orem dared to ask for help? Stavark’s help? The arrogance of the man!

  “Your ability to use the silverland makes you one of the most powerful beings in Amarion,” Orem pressed. “You could fight a darkling…a volverka…and win.”

  Stavark’s heart beat faster. As fast as a volverka was, it wasn’t faster than one who could walk through the silverland. The human’s words rang true. Stavark felt confused, lost, like he had swum into the waters of a lake and suddenly the shore had disappeared.

  “You are human,” Stavark spat. “You lie. You are selfish and self-serving!”

  “Am I lying about the sickness? About the volverka? Is it selfish to want to return the lands to what they once were? To bring back the maehka?”

  No and no and no and… Stavark’s head spun. He couldn’t find the lie in the man’s words, couldn’t find the rightness in his own heart, couldn’t see past the veils of his own fear and anger.

  He backed away another step. This was why syvihrk were forbidden to interact with humans. Mother was right. She was always right.

  “I should never have come here,” he whispered.

  “And I say you were meant to. You, the only syvihrk who can step into the silverland. Me, the only human who sees what’s happening and wants to help. We were meant to find one another.”

  Stavark fled. He stepped into the silverland and raced to the window. Too quickly, he shoved it open, and cracks spiderwebbed on the frozen, silver panes. The instant he left the silverland, the window would explode, blowing shards of glass to the ground below. He didn’t care. He jumped out, slowly fell to the silver ground, and sprinted into the silver woods. He didn’t stop until his lungs were nearly bursting, until he reached his hammock in his own home tree.

  He lay there, lungs burning, straining as he sucked breath after breath. He’d made a horrible mistake. This was why syvihrk and humans could not interact. Humans were a mass of confusion and deceit, and Stavark had somehow been tainted by it.

  Yet this human had wisdom. He spoke truth. The lands were sick. And yes, Stavark wanted to bring the maehka back…

  But that was impossible. The idea of a syvihrk-lan going on a human quest was ridiculous. Mother and the elders would see it as an abduction, and that was worth a war with the humans, especially if the syvihrk-lan abducted was the only one who could open the silverland.

  He twisted his fingers together like the branches of the ceiling overhead.

  “Stavark?” Mother’s soft voice came through the door. Stavark jumped like someone had poked him with a sword. He almost fell off his hammock. Mother parted the leafy vines and stepped inside his room. “You’re still awake,” she said, so calm compared to the frantic beating of his heart.

  She walked smoothly to the center of the floor, made of thick and thin branches so expertly grown together that they made a perfectly flat surface. Her arms were folded, hands hidden inside her sleeves, and she waited for him to speak first.

  He held his tongue.

  Finally, a smile turned up the edges of her mouth. “He who speaks first reveals most. Well done, syvihrk-lan. But set your mind to rest. You need not hide what you’ve done, for I already know. For one who is listening, the air rings like a bell when one steps into the silverland. The old texts talk of music in the trees of Sylikkayrn when all syvihrk could use the silverland. I heard you tonight; I knew you followed us. I know you were there when I made the decision to heal the human.”

  Stavark didn’t breathe for a moment, waiting for her to condemn him for talking with Orem. She held her head slightly cocked to the side, as though she could hear the cold sweat seeping into his palms.

  He suddenly realized she didn’t know he’d gone to the Life Tree, didn’t know about his conversation with Orem. It was the only reason for her calm. Stealing out to look at the human was one thing. Talking with the human was…what? Horrible. Possibly treason. He kept his mouth clamped shut.

  “I am sorry, my son, that I let you follow. I see now that I was wrong. I could have stopped you, but I thought allowing you to see the human would be educational. I often forget just how young you are. I’m sorry you had to see that. And…my failure.”

  “Failure?” His whirling thoughts stopped at the word.

  “Perhaps I thought to show you a syvihrk’s compassion. Perhaps I thought…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. It was a mistake. And a hard lesson will follow for me, I’m afraid.” She drew a deep breath and let it out. “But I will bear the consequences.”

  “What consequences?”

  “Some of the syvihrk no longer trust that I should be the Syvihrk vik Kalik. They may choose a new leader.”

  Stavark’s whole body ached. Suddenly, the rules of his people felt like walls around him, close and confining. Mother had listened to her heart; she’d chosen the right. How could they punish her?

  “What will they do…with the human?” he asked.

  She sighed. “That is another hard choice, but one I won’t fail to make this time.” She reached for his hands, and he made sure to take hers quickly with the tips of his fingers so that she would not feel the sleeves of his tunic, so she would not know he was still fully dressed. “I think it likely that you, Stavark, will one day serve as Syvihrk vik Kalik. Like me, you must learn to make hard decisions. I hope you will let my mistakes guide you. I hope you will be a better leader than I have been this day.”

  “What will they do with him?” he asked again.

  “He woke tonight. Woke and saw the bole of the Life Tree, broke the window in his room and saw all of Sylikkayrn. Perhaps he was trying to escape; he wouldn’t say. I thought…” she hesitated, then sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I will pay the price for my mistake, and now so will he.”

  The realization struck Stavark, a stone to his chest. “They’re going to kill him,” he whispered through numb lips.

  “Please understand, Stavark. They must.”

  “No.”

  “We cannot afford to set the human free to tell others about Sylikkayrn.”

  “But Mother, syvihrk do not kill. You taught me that. On a hunt, yes. To defend the right, yes. But not this. Not murder. The human is helpless.”

  “Not murder, my son.
A restoration of the balance.”

  “Balance? We are choosing to end a life!”

  “We are choosing to save the syvihrk. The human is a plague that will spread. If we spare him, more will come with their violence and their greed; it will cost the lives of many syvihrk. No. He will be stopped here, now. It was the law, and a rightness, to leave him where he had fallen. I turned from that rightness. Now, his death falls upon my shoulders.”

  Stavark’s hands gripped hers harder. “You must stop it.”

  “I must wield the blade.”

  “Mother—”

  She pulled her fingers from his and stood up. “You do not see it yet, syvihrk-lan, but you will. I apologize that I have filled your head with such concerns. Someday, they may be yours to bear, but not tonight. Please, go to sleep. Rest knowing that we do what we must for your safety and the safety of all others in Sylikkayrn.” She turned and walked to the curtain of leafy vines. “I love you, Stavark. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and once again we may seek the right.”

  His breath came fast, and he held back the ideas that sprang to mind. She would not listen to his words anyway—he was only a syvihrk-lan—so he must speak with actions. And also, if he told her what he planned to do, she would try to stop him.

  But he needed to say something; his silence was conspicuous. He searched for words of truth, and he found them.

  “I love you, Mother,” he said softly. “No matter what you decide. No matter what….burdens I may someday bear. Know that I love you, and I always will.”

  She smiled. It was the smile of a mother to a syvihrk-lan, to a son who had not yet crossed his threshold.

  His heart hammered. He knew what his threshold was now. He saw it before him, and it was more horrible than he could have imagined. The consequences could burn him for life.

  Mother left the room.

  Stavark laid back, staring at the ceiling of twisted branches, paralyzed.