The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  The second day proved as uneventful as the first. But knowing they had five less miles to travel to the next sanctuary helped improve their moods. Even a daring merchant met them midday on the second day. Waving atop his cart as he passed by, the man offered only a comment to Einar and Saen to be wary of Guardians. Sharing a glance, neither companion knew what to make of the comment, yet they took the man’s words at face value. Neither had seen any of the Guardians north of Tolsont, and hearing of the potential encounter this far north of Tolsont sapped their already-diminishing energy.

  Einar had been watching ahead for signs of hooves, other than the merchant’s cart mules, along the track since leaving Jasten. But the mud path offered no help. The temperature had held to freezing until nearly mid-morning, but the thawing conditions caused whatever tracks there may have been to muck together. If only I had Kirian here. He can track nearly anything. Saen had been a decent tracker as a youth, but too many seasons inside her inn had rusted her abilities. Every few minutes while peering down, Einar heard faint mutterings from Saen about the blasted weather. Apparently his own frustration shown plainly, despite his efforts; she offered a polite apology at his question to continuing to look for tracks.

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled along the road, Einar,” Saen said. Placing a hand on his elbow, she continued, “We’ll find them.” Seeing her earnestness, he nodded in agreement.

  With night falling on the second day, they had nearly reached the second and last sanctuary before North Sacclon. The smell of smoke as they walked closer to the sanctuary, brought them up short. They stood several hundred paces from the low rock wall, forming a semi-circle around the small sanctuary absent of any trees. Firelight danced over the waist-high wall and one lone horse hobbled inside the stone semi-circle. A person, an older man, stood up after a few moments of them watching, and he moved to the horse. Within a breath, singing reached their ears, and Einar and Saen looked at each other with a grimace; the song held some familiarity, but the man obviously had no clue he was off-key, or he simply did not care.

  “I’ve heard better mules braying after a branding,” Saen quipped before pacing toward the sanctuary.

  The man stood next to the horse while they approached. From twenty feet away Saen raised her voice with a “Hello.” The singing cut off as quickly as it had started. Saen’s voice carried a friendly tone, yet both Einar and Saen heard the drawing of a blade before seeing the person move to the road just a few feet from the rock wall. The falling sun and fire offered enough light to make out that the man stood at Saen’s height and had a full head of short gray hair. His face, wrinkled with age and clean-shaven, looked as grim as the shortsword held calmly in one hand before him. The sword’s tip dipped with each heartbeat, slow and steady. His plain clothing and brown cloak offered no symbols or insignia.

  He pointed the sword in their direction and asked, “Who are you? Tell me quick or be on your way.” His voice, laced with age, bore no hint of weakness. If anything, age had honed his voice as sharply as his blade; his accent sounded like a voice Einar had heard recently. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Einar couldn’t place it, and his thoughts were interrupted with the man saying, “Well?”

  “We’re just travelers on our way to Tolsont. We were planning to stay at this sanctuary for the night, but we see that you’ve already set up your camp. We certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt your solitude, sir.” Saen’s words held the politeness she used to win over her inn’s patrons. It held no sway over this man.

  “That’s fine and all, but you’d be fools to go any further this evening. You don’t look dangerous—to those not looking though.”

  “What do you mean by that—” Einar began. Saen’s rising hand forestalled anything else he had to say.

  “What my friend means is that we are no danger to you. I agree that we are dangerous, but we only hold danger to those who would get in our way to our destination. We are attempting to get there quickly.” The words seemed to have some effect. The man lowered his sword and sheathed it in a blink. The blade seemed to be part of him.

  “My name is Quint. You are welcome to my fire and my company.”

  “As long as there’s no more of that noise.” Einar requested. “My ears can’t handle it. Not tonight.” Quint inhaled sharply at the words that came out unbidden. The slight movement of the man’s hands caught Einar’s eyes. He had reached for his sword.

  “What do you mean by noise?” The man’s gray eyes locked on Einar’s widening eyes.

  Einar sighed and prepared to apologize, but the man raised his empty hands and laughed.

  “I love to sing, but nobody but Slant over there seems to appreciate my tunes. It’s quite alright. I’ll hold off my singing until I’m alone. Have a seat and join my meal.” Smiling and showing a full set of perfectly white teeth, he waved toward the fire.

  Both Einar and Saen muttered their thanks and gathered around the fire. What looked like stew bubbled in the small cast iron pot. “Let me get some more bowls and spoons, and you can help yourself. I’ve already eaten.” The bubbling caused the stew’s aroma to waft upward; Einar felt, more than heard, his stomach rumble at the enticing aroma. Saen’s stomach echoed the sentiment.

  They placed their packs against the wall opposite of Quint’s belongings, then filled proffered bowls. As they sat, they both noticed the stranger had fixed his gaze on them. He cradled a long-stemmed pipe in one hand and lit the contents with the other. In between puffs, he said, after throwing the match into the fire, “Going to Tolsont, huh? Interesting.” Quint trailed off as he inhaled pipe smoke and then exhaled, a pleased look upon his face. The two companion’s faces shrouded their confusion. He pointed the pipe stem at Saen. “Well? Tolsont, you said. Why are you two going there? Roads are terrible. Weather’s just as bad.”

  Saen glanced at Einar, who shrugged, and replied, after finishing a spoonful of the stew, “That’s correct, good sir.”

  When neither companion offered an explanation for their trip, Quint said, “The name’s Quint Stoutheart. Just call me Quint.”

  “Very well. Quint. We appreciate you letting us share the sanctuary this evening. It’s quite a relief. We’ve been on our feet all day. We have several days ahead of us, too.”

  “Aye,” Quint responded as he turned his gaze to the fire.

  Several moments passed before Saen realized the man was obviously content, then she resumed eating. Einar smiled as he dug into his second bowl. The stillness of the sanctuary washed over the companions and the stranger. The two moons, now both waning crescents, offered little light. Instead, the clear sky offered a brilliant counterpoint to the nearly ceaseless days of the storm’s continuous cloud cover. Even the stranger appeared transfixed by the rare sight. He pointed the pipe upward, and a brief barking laugh startled the companions out of their reverie.

  “Funny, that.” He laughed again like a delighted small child.

  For several breaths they waited for a comment which never came. After taking a sip from his canteen, Einar, his frustration growing at the man’s obscurity, asked, “What’s funny?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” the man began. Einar goggled and Saen held back a laugh of her own. “That is funny. I had forgotten about it for some time, I suppose,” Quint continued, then pointed upward again with the pipe after inhaling. Einar’s eyes took in the sight. The only thing he noticed was a constellation of seven stars forming an obvious ladle-shaped figure. He never had taken the time to learn many other constellations, but The Ladle’s location had been taught to him by his father. Memories of The Ladle pointing to a fixed star in the sky had wriggled their way back into Einar’s memory. Vague recollections of the war in which he used those exact stars to find his way once late on a night, much the same as this evening, tickled his thoughts. He brushed those aside as quickly as they formed.

  “I don’t see what is so funny about it,” Einar whispered. He continued staring upward until memories of childhood bubbled up in hi
s mind. Pleasant memories of the time before his Test, and even before he realized he could scribe. Memories of his father teaching him the history of Solis under these very stars. Forcing his gaze back to the firelight, Einar pushed the thoughts away.

  “It’s funny, son, because people fought over that grouping of stars.”

  “Yes,” Einar muttered. “Who cares? That was thousands of years ago, give or take. What difference does it make now?” Normally he would not have minded such a discussion, but he felt himself grow irritated at the prospect of a history lesson in the middle of nowhere from a stranger. The food and drink had erased some of the day’s weariness, but his body ached, and he longed for nothing more than sleep. He peered at Saen, and it was her turn to shrug, confusion masking her face. Then, a thought flashed through his mind. He said his name was Stoutheart. How did I not realize that earlier? The thought pricked his tiredness like a bubble, and he felt himself ripped back to full awareness, his tiredness gone.

  Studying the stranger, Einar asked, “Did you say your name is Stoutheart?” The words rasped from his lips, and Einar felt Saen’s hand fall upon his forearm. He looked down and realized his fingers hesitated, just enough to keep from inscribing.

  “If you’re going to find your family, Einar, then you’d be wise to not jump to conclusions at a mere name.” Quint’s words caused Saen’s hand to form an iron grip upon his forearm. He tried to stand, but Saen kept him in place. Einar peered over, and she stared pointedly at the older man. For all Einar could tell, Saen had completely forgotten about him and she tried to pin the man down with her gaze.

  Her lips finally parted to say, “Explain yourself, old man. How do you know his name? I’ll not ask again.” If Einar’s words carried any danger, then Saen’s words overshadowed his to nonexistence.

  “T’would seem I’ve hit a sore spot.” Looking up, Quint continued, “And here I was, just casually talking about the stars.” Then, eying both companions in turn, he inhaled and exhaled on the pipe between careful study of them.

  “My patience is past worn thin, sir.”

  “I told you to call me Quint.”

  Saen released her grip from Einar. She began to stand.

  “Ok, ok. I’ll speak,” he interjected as Einar followed his friend. Waiting until they settled back to the ground, Quint watched the firelight dance across their faces. Whatever tiredness they carried had washed away; he could not turn away from the grimness which settled on their brows and cheeks. The flickering shadows urged his words.

  “Let me begin with the basics.” Quint puffed again then continued, “I’m a descendent of Goshon Bantry.” Quint stopped and gazed across the firelight in apparent expectation, but only a flicker of confused recognition appeared on Einar’ face, while impatience lined Saen’s. He sighed. “You know that pretty face of yours wouldn’t be so annoyed, if you’d just wait for me to finish. And apparently even you, Einar, weren’t taught much in that school of alteration you attended?” The question came across accusatorially and almost under his breath. “But if I recall correctly, and I know I do, you weren’t there but three years of the normal nine. Not sure what prompted your Test so early, but maybe you can offer insight on that topic another day. Maybe the war…” he trailed off. His eyes darted from one to the other.

  “Quint, you seem to know something about us, but I’m not going to divulge a single additional thing until you’ve explained what you mean.”

  Quint’s sigh was followed by a long stream of pale smoke billowing from his nose. “I figured. Bantry is one of the Originators. Maybe that means something to you?”

  Saen scoffed before she spoke. Her hushed tone held reverence as her gaze danced over the flames. “The Originators saved humanity and helped it evolve. The names of the Originators were lost to the peoples of Solis when the Great Dread War ended.” Staring deep into the orange-red fire, she continued, “Only the remaining nine Auctorians know the names, as they are Ageless and no longer walk the face of Solis. To protect and serve the Ageless in their stasis, the Originators founded the Heritages of the Auctorians.” She inhaled deeply, then said, “Odd. I’ve not even given those beings a thought for years.” Her eyes lifted to settle on Quint. Einar nodded in agreement with his focus on Saen.

  “So. I see they still teach that nursery rhyme to children.” Amusement in Quint’s voice irked the two companions; they had believed the words since they could walk. Einar had told his children the same story. He paused and caught Saen’s eyes. As if to himself, Quint asked, “Why would you think about them?” Exhaling, Quint continued, his voice firm. “The Originators helped—no, pushed—humanity’s evolution, but they also strained it to the point of breaking, even after all the centuries of rebuilding following the moon’s split into two pieces. They realized long ago, before either of you were born, that their names should be purged from the record to stop the spread of falsehoods about what they did, even though it was inadvertent. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize the power of what they had unleashed in their tinkering, and that living people can only be made to forget forcibly.”

  “You are making no sense, Quint. Nothing of what’ve you said matches anything I learned in my time at the university nor in my subsequent research.”

  “No sense, as you know it, Alterator. But sense, nonetheless.” Other than the crackling of the fire and the horse rubbing against the stone wall, silence fell over the campsite. They sat unable to meet the eyes of the others.

  Saen’s deep exhalation broke the silence, “So, which of the Originators did Bantry serve and create the Heritage for?”

  “Jonathon Stoutheart.”

  A pause, then deep laughter rolled from Saen and Einar’s lips at the mention of the name. Their laughter cut short as both saw Quint’s hand had moved to his hilt, and an inch of the blade glinted in the campfire. Einar coughed and said, “Next you are going to say you know the sword style of the Elitree.”

  Another low laugh began, but was cut off when Einar and Saen saw the sword flow from the sheath like a ribbon of light. A fearful gasp issued from both companions as they watched the firelight diminish and the metal slowly took on a glow. Not the red or blue of metal just pulled from a forge’s heat, but a glow of pure white brilliance, the whiteness of newly-fallen snow. The light gave off no glare, allowing them to look without issue. Quint lured the sword, once finely-wrought metal, from the sheath and held it in front of him. He had not simply drawn the sword. He allowed it to be witnessed. An afterimage of light trailed the sword as Quint held it with the steadiness of a weapon master. Einar’s mind raced from stark terror at the sight to consuming fascination. Only concern for his friend prickling his consciousness forced his eyes askance; seeing her face shining with curiosity allowed any lingering nervousness to dissipate.

  Quint continued holding the sword aloft, and the whiteness slowly seeped out of the blade. Small, nearly indistinguishable motes of light flitted away from the blade and back to the campfire. If not for the blackness outside the campfire, the motes would have been impossible to see, Einar thought. The campfire’s brightness regained its previous luminosity in the corresponding dimming of the blade.

  “You could say I know a little bit,” Quint said. As he sheathed the blade, he watched the companions glance at the sword’s hilt as if they had lost their best friend. Their eyes rose in unison to Quint’s. His full grin of, white, crooked teeth brought a smile to their own lips.

  Einar sighed, releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “I never thought the stories of the Elitree were true.”

  Saen could only whisper, “Teach us what you know.” Any hesitation they had when first entering the sanctuary had fled with the sight of this old man’s ability. She glanced down at her lap; her cheeks flushed red.

  Quint scoffed. “Just like that, girl?” The words pulled her now blazing green eyes up as he continued. “I will, if you’re able. But you need rest. Your minds have already been stretched thin. I can see it in your eyes.” B
oth Saen and Einar opened their mouths at once, and the turn of his head and narrowing of his eyes brooked no argument. “We will talk on the road. Tomorrow.”

  The stranger stood with grace belying his age and paced to the edge of the stone wall closest to the road. “I’ll stand watch. You two rest.”

  They offered no argument and quickly settled in close to the campfire. Within moments, Quint could hear the rhythmic breathing of two exhausted humans. Staring up at the two moons’ crescents, white and blue, the color of his regular exhalations matched the white moon’s. Finally looking back down at the sleeping companions he thought, It’s good to see the two of you. After so long. Thank the Originators I found you both. As usual, the Originators did not respond. He stared upward expectantly, nevertheless.

  Einar and Saen woke simultaneously to a chill offset only by the campfire continuing to blaze. Standing almost where they had seen him last night, the stranger stood scanning over the open plains bisected only by the road. Over his shoulder, he said, “About time you two woke. Sol rose almost half an hour ago. Food’s cold now, but I’m sure you’ll eat, anyway. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Einar looked, momentarily annoyed, at the hardened man and noticed a smirking frown on his face. He looked not at the still-prone companions, but shifted his gaze north. The smirk disappeared, leaving an expression of focus.

  “Nine minutes.”

  The reminder ushered groaning, but they devoured the food as soon as they could scoop the solidifying porridge. A water skin lay close by, shared between bites of food. The man walked to the saddled horse and nearly leapt atop.

  “I’ll scout ahead. North Sacclon is not far. I plan for us to sleep under the stars again tonight with the protection of the next sanctuary. Clean up camp and follow the road. I’ll see you before you reach the town. You’ll not want to keep your family waiting, Einar.”