by Vic Connor
Eventually, however, she finds him as good as new. She’s eager to return to regular quests and adventures, but something has changed. As powerful as Aremos has become, his warband seems reluctant to fight alongside him. Of course, there are many others desperate to join Aremos, and Somera creates a host of ad hoc warbands, taking on one or two adventures with each, showing off her skills new and old to dozens of excited fans.
But they are not the same: They are not her family.
She can only spend a little attention on these in-game issues, anyway. The school preparations keep her busy. Even with her father helping her, both in completing paperwork and appealing to some of his contacts for speedy access to their region’s creaking bureaucracy, a lot needs to be accomplished in a short amount of time if she wants to enroll for the following academic year.
About six weeks after Aremos’ defeat of the necromancer demon, Somera is skipping down the steps of the American embassy. Her father has driven far from their hometown to get here, but the trip has been a success. All of her paperwork is in order, and she has just been granted her visa. Her father’s contacts have paid off: Everything went through in record time, as smoothly as she could have ever hoped for.
Her father stands at the base of the embassy’s steps, smiling sadly up at her. “Is all done?” he calls up while she hurries down.
She nods, ecstatic. “Yes, it’s all gone through.” She waves a folder containing all her paperwork. “I’m going to San Francisco!”
“Oh, my beautiful daughter.” Her father sighs. He embraces her, hugging her warmly, holding on to her tightly.
“Papa, come on,” Somera says, struggling free. “You’ll suffocate me!”
“I’m sorry, Somera,” her father replies, letting her go. “It just, suddenly … it became real, is all. Real that you’re leaving, that I will not be seeing you every day. An adventure for you means an absence in my life.” He smiles again, wiping a tear from her eye. “But this is my burden to bear—the tragedy of all fathers everywhere.”
“Come on, you old fool.” Somera laughs. “Let’s go home before mama misses us too much.”
They drive for a couple of hours through hilly, green countryside. Somera gazes out the window as they go, watching the world pass her by. Pakistan is the most beautiful country in the world, she thinks. How can it not be? Forests stand tall and thick and lush, and the mountains line every horizon, stark and handsome even as the blooming foliage softens every edge.
I will miss it, Somera understands. Not just her parents, not just the visits home by her brothers, but the land itself. I’m of this earth and it’s within me, she thinks, and fights back more tears.
Her father speaks to her every so often. Conversation carries on naturally, relaxed, before dipping once more into amiable quietness.
“You know I worry about you, going to such a foreign country,” her father says after a little while. The sun is setting, casting a breathtaking ruddy glow over those distant mountains. They’re about an hour’s drive from their town, and the road lies empty ahead of them—there’s nothing but their own car and the half-light of dusk.
“There’s no need, papa.” Somera laughs. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“So you say, but you’ve never had to before,” her father replies, frowning, deep in thought. “This is the worry of all parents. We spend our lives looking after you, making sure you’re never in danger, only to release you into the world where we can do nothing to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what, papa?” Somera asks. “There’s nothing coming to hurt me. I’ll be at school the whole time!”
“Ha!” Her father’s laugh echoes through the car. “That is precisely what I’m worried about. You’ll be at that damned big college with all your professors and all your students, surrounded by different people. Their ways are not our ways, Somera. They might try to tempt you away from your studies, your dreams … your virtues.”
Somera blushes, realizing what her father is talking about. “You mean boys?” she asks. Now it’s her father’s turn to blush, turning as red as the sky above.
He shrugs. “Well, you know, they have different ways of doing things… They date, for heaven’s sake. They do … you know, all sorts, before being married, before getting to know each other properly.”
“Father!” Somera exclaims, putting a stop to this ridiculous conversation. It has gone far enough, and she wants to hear no more of it. “I’m going to San Francisco to study. Nothing else.”
“You say that now—”
“Enough, father!” she snaps.
Her father shrugs again, still blushing. “Just promise me a couple of things, please, Somera?” He looks over at her, meeting her eye. “Put your old papa’s mind at rest? My heart is not as strong as it once was.”
“What?” Somera asks, softening. “What do you want me to promise you?”
“Keep your headscarf on, my darling,” he says. “Please.”
“Why on Earth would I not?”
“Because they might try to make you take it off… Or they might make you want to … or … I don’t really know,” her father stutters helplessly. “Just promise me. Do not let them take your identity, stay true to yourself.”
“I promise, papa,” Somera replies, smiling sadly at her father.
“And call us!” her father adds. “Bloody call us. Your brothers are bloody useless. For all the technology they seem to need just to leave the house in the morning, you’d have thought they’d know how to use a bloody telephone. But no—apparently not. We don’t hear from them one month to the next. I can’t stand the thought of you doing the same, darling.”
“Papa, of course—”
“And I’ve been looking it up,” he continues. “Asking around at work and suchlike. Did you hear of a thing called Skype?”
“Yes, papa, I know it well enough—”
“Because they say you can use it to call anywhere in the world for bloody free,” her father says, shaking his head in amazement. He has always been a technological dinosaur, despairing of innovations, Somera knows, but now he’s showing it for real.
“I know, papa—”
“And you can even video call, of all things,” he goes on. “What is that, this video call, I asked the boys at work. Young boys, all laughing at your old man. But they told me—we can talk face to face, seeing each other in real time.”
“Yes, papa—”
“Promise me we can do this?” her father asks, looking for all the world like a desperate child.
“Yes, papa,” Somera replies gently. “I’ve already loaded Skype on to the home computer. I can show you how to use it later.”
“Ah, good, good.” Her father nods, watching the road as darkness falls. “There’s a good girl, Somera, my darling. Thank you.”
By the time they arrive back at home, Somera has made all sorts of promises to her anxious father. She won’t get overly friendly with any boys; she won’t skip prayer on Fridays; she won’t go to parties and drink alcohol, “or do any of the funny stuff … you know, ganja and what-not,” her father had said, making her laugh at him once more; she will keep herself safe, stay in the nice neighborhoods of the city, do her work at college and be home at a reasonable time. “You’ll be needing your sleep, my girl, or else you won’t be worth a bloody damn come exam season—you can take that from your old man, it’s bloody true.”
Her mother has a very similar conversation with Somera a few days later, while they’re out shopping. Somera’s mother tells her, “We want you at your best, don’t we? All sorts of high-ups to impress, and our family, our bloody culture to represent in bloody America. Ignorant Yankees—we want to show them what is what, no?”
“Of course, mama.” Somera sighs, allowing herself to be dragged along to the shops. They drive three towns over to a large center and spend a whole morning browsing for new dresses, new shoes, new everything. She will get all the hardware and software she needs as part of
the grant: A brand new laptop, new rig, all the apps and programs she could ever want. But it feels nice to be with her mother, trying on clothes, taking a little part of Pakistan with her.
“But you’ve got to promise me a few things, missy,” her mother demands as they leave the shops. Somera groans and rolls her eyes, knowing what’s coming. “You have to call me, twice a month—no, twice a week. And you had better keep your headscarf on, do not let those bloody Yankees lose sight of who you are. And boys! Bloody boys, everywhere, and all of them horny as bloody hell—take it from me, your mother knows…”
And on and on, so that by the time they arrive home, Somera is eager to head to her bedroom for a few hours of peaceful solitude.
The goodbye comes, as it always had to, as all three have been dreading. Though Somera’s excitement for the future has been profound, nearly eclipsing her anxiety and the sadness of having to leave her home and her parents, it hasn’t been quite enough. The grief is there, the tension is there, and it has been rising to the surface more and more as the day of departure looms large before them all.
She received messages from two of her brothers last night. Abbas, true to form, has ignored her news entirely. The couple of times he has made calls to their parents, he has cut them off and hung up when they have brought up Somera’s news. But Dawud and Altaf sent her emails wishing her the best of luck, telling her that she was amazing, that she would take the world by storm.
She rereads them in the airport as she queues for her plane. Her eyes are red and puffy, as indeed her parents’ eyes were and have been for several days now, as tears both shed and unshed have welled within them. The goodbyes shook her, she wept along with her mother and father, she clung to them and they clung to her…
But enough, I cannot think about it, she tells herself, wiping away a fat tear as it rolls down her cheek. My life will be busy, I can’t afford such painful distractions.
The Pixel Academy sent her some hardware by courier a week or so ago and she has spent the last few days getting to know it. There was a laptop and a tablet, alongside some gamer equipment. She has checked most of her equipment; it’ll be placed in the hold by now. She has a heavy rucksack thrown over her shoulder with a few more bits in it, and she thinks through them all. She keeps her thoughts focused, away from her parents, away from…
No, no, I cannot … I can … I cannot…
She wavers, and more tears roll down her cheeks. A deep ache crawls into the pit of her stomach and she feels like she could scream, like she could throw her travel papers in the air and run back through the airport, through the security and check-in, and leap into her parents’ arms.
“I don’t need to go to America,” she could tell them. “I don’t need to study. I can stay at home with you, get married, live nearby and bring your grandchildren around to visit with you every afternoon. Mama, papa, it can be as you always wanted. It can be safe and secure and comfortable.”
But she will not. She can’t. There’s too much for her to lose. So, instead, she wipes her eyes and, feeling sick and shaking with nerves, she digs out her passport and boarding pass. The queue shuffles onward as the gate opens and people begin to board. Somera holds out her papers to show the woman at the gate, who takes them and smiles at her calmly.
“First time away from home?” the woman asks Somera.
Somera can’t talk. If she opens her mouth now, she won’t be able to hold it in any longer. She’ll sob and break down and it’ll all be over. Instead, she bites her lip and nods.
“Don’t worry,” the woman says, touching Somera’s arm gently. Her voice and her gestures are full of warmth. “It’s never as bad as you think. And the adventure is always worth it.”
Somera sniffles and nods again before shuffling forward to board the plane and find her seat.
The Pixel Academy sent her a portable rig, alongside her other things. It’s compatible with the tablet they sent and has enough power between charges to last her a good portion of the flight. The take-off is a bit bumpy and they get caught in some crosswinds before reaching altitude, juddering the plane and making everyone a little nervous. It’s the first time Somera has ever flown, and she’s much tenser than most of her fellow passengers. Her nerves are jangling, and she feels a little sick. A kind-looking man next to her asks if she’s okay and she nods, trying her best to smile.
I have never flown, but Aremos has, she reminds herself as the plane rocks and buzzes all around her. He has ridden Pegasi and Great Eagles, he has even been transformed into various birds on several occasions. If he has done it, then I have done it.
And she gets through it okay. The plane hits the cruising altitude, the seatbelt sign goes off, and an announcer tells them that the wi-fi is operational. Somera is grateful—she wants to forget the real world for a while. She needs to escape it. It’s all too much, there’s too much emotion pent up within her. It threatens to overwhelm her in sadness and anxiety.
Fine then, she thinks. It’s time.
She takes out her tablet and rig, sets it up, and closes her eyes, disappearing from this world. She enters the armory first, wanting to upgrade some of her old gear to better suit the Staff of Adamant.
Aremos awakens, feeling a little giddy. The spirit Somera must be unsettled, he thinks. But no mind: she is with him, and she is strong—the day must continue.
He has had no word from his warband in quite a while now. Anxiety has turned to nervousness, and nervousness, in turn, has given way to anger. How dare they shun him? he thinks. How dare they not get in touch? With Somera’s anxiety within him, goading him toward unsettled emotions, his wrath builds in his heart. Aremos surveys his surroundings, glaring as he does so, angry at everything.
He stands in one of the many squares of the Capital, a short run from the Palace of the Makers itself. People stop to stare at him, whispering. A few even call out greetings whilst surreptitiously checking out his new gear. In addition to his staff, his robes are brand new. He has only just this day dispensed with his gambeson, spending some of his hard-won XP and coin on a new tunic of Silverthread. Harder, finer, softer, and lighter by far than his old armor, Silverthread is a rare commodity unavailable to characters below level thirty. Looking at his defense bar, he sees it increased by a full forty percent, all without slowing his movement capacity. Good, he thinks: I’m protected; there’s little that can hurt me now.
Aremos also wears a ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Cast in obsidian, it’s plain enough to look upon. However, his available curses are all ten percent cheaper to cast—they’ll cost far less magic to manifest as long as he’s wearing this ring. Though not as impressive as it was against the plague demon, when he was granted the Maker’s own power, Aremos’ capacity to attack, to visit ruin upon his enemies, increases all the time.
But enough, he thinks, grinding his teeth to keep the child Somera’s grief and angst at bay. This is no day to admire oneself—dire work awaits.
He sits down in the shade of a white beech tree, crossing his legs, and places his staff before him. One hand folds over the other in his lap as he prepares to meditate. He whispers a couple of words and equips his second sight. The world around him vanishes as the whole of Arkhart blossoms into view, its expansive map his to behold.
Of course, anybody can view the map. Anybody can search it for current or future quests to be embarked upon. Anybody can travel to any area immediately, using the realm gates granted by the Makers. But only magic users can truly See it—in all its spectacular detail. They can search for specific users, as long as that user has their profile set as “friendly” toward the caster. It’s how he has always been able to search out his warband, even without messaging them first.
However, he struggles this time. The whole continent flashes before him, flickering with friendly users off on adventures. But as he searches for Eirrac he finds nothing. Odd. At this time, Eirrac should be available, off on some mad-cap quest wrestling trolls or fighting rival smiths for their
knowledge. No matter, Aremos thinks. He searches instead for Sah. Again, however, nothing comes up. This is even stranger: For one to be missing is peculiar, but for two to be missing… It means they aren’t missing, he thinks, knowing that his fears are realized. He searches without hope for Asba and, unsurprised, finds nothing. They’re all unreachable to him.
They’ve all blocked me out. They have all set themselves against him, rescinding their “friendly” status. Aremos’ blood boils, anger fueling him as the child Somera, unbalanced, washes him with her own emotions. He thinks about what to do next and smiles. He’s feeling vindictive in a way that is entirely new to him.
He has a plan. He won’t be able to find them individually, but as a group… He sets his filter for low-level demonic magic, elven magical artefacts, and dwarven runes. A few spots flash up on the map. One is in a city they never visit—the quests there tend to be too easy and offer little reward. Another is out to the sea, just off the eastern coast. Hmm, possibly, though none of them have ever been too fond of sailing before. Aremos has always been the only one eager to go out that way. The third, however, looks far more promising. It’s in the far north at the top of a mountain range. There’s a quest attached to the area called “The Eyrie and the Egg.”
Aremos pulls up the quest’s description. It says that a dark phoenix has made its nest along the ridge of one of the highest mountain ranges in Arkhart, leaving a clutch of eggs there. If those eggs hatch, all hell will break loose: The only thing worse than one dark phoenix in the area is a whole family of them. They’ll tear the inhabitants of the surrounding towns to shreds just for sport, so a local baron is offering a chest of gold to any warbands able to go up there and destroy both the eggs and, if possible, the mother.
