Chy

by Greg Curtis

  “Thank you Guardian. I'll see you again in six months,” he told her, then nodded and continued his unsteady march to the portal, determined not to fall down. At least not until he found his bed.

  “Of course. And yes,” the Guardian called after him, causing Chy to stop and turn around. “All is well in my home. Thank you for asking.”

  “I'm glad,” he replied by habit, caught by surprise by what she'd said. The guardians never indulged in idle chatter. And they never answered his questions. But the surprises continued when she unexpectedly asked him about his family. She had never asked such a question of him.

  “All is well,” he replied. “Peaches – my mother – runs the family home like a well maintained steam wagon.”

  Immediately he said it, Chy wanted to cringe. Had he really just said that? Called his mother Peaches to the face of a guardian? It was humiliating! And yet it was what his mother liked to be called. It reminded her of her younger days when her hair had actually been peach coloured and her cheeks rosy. Children and time had robbed her of a little of her natural colour.

  “That is good,” Elodie replied politely, thankfully keeping herself from commenting on Chy's mother's name.

  “Yes and thank you.” He nodded. “Be well,” he added, before restarting his journey.

  Eventually he made the portal, activated it and stepped through, and he congratulated himself on having achieved another visit to the Temple. Of having endured it. And then he headed for the front door and his bed.

  Unfortunately he didn't make it. Instead the world went dark even as he was reaching for the door handle, and he unexpectedly felt the stone of the patio rise up and greet him.

  Chapter Three

  “You should be more circumspect.”

  Elodie turned as she heard Fylarne behind her. And she didn't have to ask to know what he was talking about. “I know,” she replied. “But what was the harm?”

  “The harm was to our image. We are the guardians of the ancient Heartfire. We must always be neutral. The words we speak must always be neutral. There can be no encouragement. No warning. No hint of anything other than our duty.” He stepped out of the air to appear in front of her. He liked playing with the casts of light and deception. It was perhaps the closest he came to ever just enjoying life and the gift. Otherwise he was always the most serious of people – as befitted the leader of their little group of guardians she supposed.

  She looked around and noticed that no one had replaced the other worshippers. They were alone on the terrace. The sprite had gone first, and sat on the throne of force and strength – the three horned bull – for all of fifteen minutes, before staggering out. The sylph was inside now. Chy Waine Martin had slowed things down for a bit as he had pushed himself so far, but now all was running as it should once again.

  “You like him,” Fylarne accused her softly.

  “I do actually,” she admitted easily. There could be no dishonesty here. No hiding things between guardians. But she wasn't bothered by the admission anyway. “Of all the humans we welcome to the Heartfire, he is the one that most surprises me. The one that best approaches the nature of the Heartfire. And he is strong and dedicated. He impresses me. If we were to encourage any one of their people to go further, it would be him.” Of course they couldn't do that. And not just because it wouldn't be proper. But because the worshippers of the Heartfire had to choose their path for themselves. The guardians could play no part in the decisions they made.

  They could only interact with the worshippers in the most basic of ways. So when they first summoned them to the Temple, usually when the worshippers were just children, they imparted the gift of the ancient tongue to them – but only so that they could speak and be understood. And after that all they did was send out a summons every six months and then guide the worshippers through the Temple when they came. It was all they were allowed to do.

  “He is surprising for one of his people,” Fylarne agreed. “His endurance is formidable. But there can still be no hint of impropriety. No friendship. No upset. No emotion of any sort. You know that.”

  “I know.” Elodie nodded to her fellow guardian. And maybe she had gone too far in acknowledging his enquiry about her family. But he had endured a great deal and it had always impressed her that he could push himself so hard. Most of his people couldn't. They didn't. Most other worshippers couldn't either.

  Fully three quarters of the humans that came to the temple, came only once. And less than half of those that came a second time returned for a third. They either could not endure the pain of growth, or they simply did not believe it worth the reward. And of course very few humans even answered the summons the first time. They assumed, she guessed, that it was just a fevered dream. But then their world was rapidly becoming a technological one. Magic had no place in it. And eventually there would be no people left in it with the gift. That would be a sad day. Magic should be encouraged to flower among the worlds. And with the humans, there was no other way that it could. The Temple was all that they had.

  But on top of that she liked him for his boyishness. For his cheek. He was a man in human terms, surely thirty or so, yet he still had the enthusiasm and wonder of youth. The curiosity too. That was a precious thing. And he laughed easily. He had a good laugh.

  “It is perhaps more than just admiration, I fear,” Fylarne continued. “You like him as a man. You would have him as a friend.”

  “I would,” she admitted, though she did not want to. “He pleases me in a way I would not have expected. Certainly not of a human. They are so … inelegant. Clumsy. Poorly spoken and dressed.” And he was certainly all of those things – and yet somehow charming with it. Or maybe it was simply that he was fun. He could laugh even in the face of pain.

  “The life of a guardian is a hard one,” Fylarne reminded her. “To give up all attachments. To put aside family and affairs of the heart in return for the life long service to the Heartfire. Many find it too hard as the years pass. But I had hope that you would not. That you had the strength to remain true. Is that still so?”

  “It is,” she assured him hastily. She wouldn't want him or anyone else to imagine that she was no longer fit for the station she had been given. Being accepted as a guardian had been one of the triumphs of her life. She had worked and trained hard for the posting. And when she had been accepted into the order her entire family had celebrated for a week. She had seen long lost aunts and uncles and fifth cousins. Family members she hadn't seen for years had visited. She could not fail in her duty. Not for any reason.

  “I am always true to my vows,” Elodie continued. “If I speak a little out of turn it is only a momentary lapse. Nothing more.”

  And it was. But still it was a hard station, which was perhaps why he asked and why she had strayed from her duty if only ever so slightly. She missed her family. Her friends. She missed her home town of Gwillith Fey. She missed the simple pleasure of talking about anything and nothing with the people she loved. She missed not knowing what her family were doing. How their lives were. She missed the endless fields of grain and the tall, elegant mills with their great wings turning in the breeze. But when she had taken her vow, she had had to give up such things. And she intended to remain true to it. She had said farewell to her family ten years before, and apart from a yearly letter, she had heard nothing from them since.

  But she knew that they were well. That her younger sister Aleth had married and now had two small girls. And that the mill was doing well, producing plenty of ivory for the family. And that was all good. But it wasn't the same as being there. Sharing in the family's happiness at each new and joyous event.

  “So who's next?” she asked, wanting to change the subject. And even though others had taken over with the worshippers while she had been busy with Chy, she was not finished for the day.

  “Yarin Coldstream is about an hour away on the road,” Dylarn told her. “And Felicia Di Mon will portal through in two more hours.”

&nbs
p; Elodie tried to suppress a groan at the word of the dwarf's impending arrival. She didn't completely succeed. But Yarin Coldstream was one of her least favourite worshippers. The dwarf only ever came for two types of magic – strength and earth. And he used them both for the most terrible of purposes. He was trying to gain the throne of his clan – Strongvein. He was transforming himself slowly into an unstoppable warrior that the people of the Strongvein Clanhold would follow. It had never seemed to occur to him that magic was a boon for all people, not a means of controlling them. Or it should be. And like the rest of his people it never occurred to him that the endless wars between the clanholds were a terrible thing.

  How was it that the dwarves, one of the smallest of peoples and a people who valued their ability to build so highly, could be so warlike? All while the giants of whichever race, who would surely make terrifying warriors, were so peaceful? She didn't understand that.

  But again, that was never something a guardian should wonder about let alone comment on. They were the attendants to the Heartfire and they saw to it that those who sought its wonder received it. They didn't tell those who received it, what they should do with the power they gained. It wasn't their place. And no more could they stop those who would use it wrongly from taking a seat.

  Unfortunately Fylarne saw her expression and guessed what was on her mind.

  “You know better than that, Elodie,” he told her. “The dwarves have their own world, their own realm, their own ways. We do not judge.”

  “I know,” she agreed. But still she kept thinking, sometimes they should. Especially when the gift would be used to cause great suffering.

  But then again this was the world of the ancients. The one true world. All others were but shadows of it. And that included her own world – Thiessen. The dwarves of Stalen were no different to the rest of them. Shadow people from shadow worlds. So who was she, a copper elf from one shadow world, to judge a dwarf from another shadow world? Especially here in Prima, the only true world, and the world that none of them truly belonged to. That however, made her wonder about something else. A question that had been gnawing away in the back of her mind for over a year now. Ever since she had heard the translation.

  “You know that Chy Waine Martin is growing in his magic. He is young yet he pushes himself to his limits. And unlike all the other worshippers, he has sat in all twelve chairs – twice at least. Could it be that he will one day become?”

  “Myless Elodie Mae!” Fylarne exclaimed. “We do not give credence to such stories! Most especially not in here of all places!”

  He was upset by the suggestion. But was that, she wondered, because he considered the entire legend a myth? Or because he feared it wasn't? Elodie wasn't completely sure she wanted to ask.

  And for herself, she wasn't sure either. It was a legend. An interpretation taken from the tracings made of the columns and walls of the temple. One that no one dared to believe was real. And yet one that no one could deny. A simple prophecy that one day there would come a mortal from one of the shadow worlds who was no mortal at all, nor truly from one of the shadow worlds. And when that one came and rose to his full power, he would stand in the heart of the Temple of the Heartfire and reunite the worlds. There would be no more shadows. Only the light of true magic.

  Then again maybe Fylarne was just out of sorts because today was the day when the sprites came to visit. Not to use the services of the Heartfire Temple as their fellow sprite had, but to speak of how it should be used and inspect its running. Naturally they believed they could run it better.

  “When are the winged vermin arriving?” She asked before he could start on one of his lectures, but mainly so that she could be somewhere else and not have to see them when they turned up.

  She disliked the sprites. Everyone did of course. But then why wouldn't they? The sprites were a duplicitous people. Always smiling and laughing and making fun of everything, but behind the scenes plotting and scheming. And the thing they most desperately wanted was to take control of the Temple. The strange thing was that they could barely use it. Very few sprites came to receive a blessing. And those who did, seldom managed to receive much from it. Five or ten minutes was all they could stand. But then they claimed endlessly that they didn't need it. The Temple was only a curiosity to them. Their magic was far beyond what it could teach. But still they wanted it.

  It had to be to do with their legends. They believed that they had once been the most powerful of all the races. That their wings had not just been the tiny things they were, but instead had been so great that they could actually fly. And that their magic had been vast. Beyond that which others could understand. So great that the gods themselves had grown frightened of them and struck them down. Diminished their power. Shrunk their wings to leave them destined to walk. And the Temple, they believed, would show them how to return to their greatness. Until they sat on a throne. After that they mostly wanted nothing to do with the thrones. But they still wanted to command the Temple. Who truly understood the mind of a sprite?!

  “The sprites,” he emphasised the name, “will be here in a few more hours.”

  “Of course.” She nodded respectfully. Maybe she shouldn't have called them vermin. Even though it was what they were. She didn't really like the name sprites – even if it was what the magic of the ancient language named them as. It sounded too friendly. And she would never call them the term they called themselves – Nabris ne Yall, which meant rulers of the sky – or sky kings.

  Still any hint of impropriety on their part would give the sprites another excuse to claim that the Heartfire Temple should be their own. To become its guardians. They would not succeed. It could not be allowed. Her people were the guardians of the Temple and had been for a thousand years. They had discovered it as they had discovered Prima. And they allowed the casters of the other races to come to it and drink in its magic as they would. They even allowed some of them to watch them as they ran the Temple freely for the benefit of all. But maybe, she kept thinking, that had been a step too far. Maybe some peoples shouldn't be granted its blessings.

  “I apologise for my words, Fylarne. I spoke without thought. But you know they only seek power.” She apologised as she had to, but still they all knew the truth of the winged vermin.

  What would the sprites do if they somehow claimed the Temple? If they took control? She didn't know but she doubted it would be good. And nor would it be run fairly for the benefit of all. They would likely exclude the other races from it. Even if they couldn't gain much benefit from its blessings let alone the power they dreamed of, they would want to prevent others from gaining that advantage.

  The sprites were a terrible people. They looked so innocent. Sweet and childlike. And when they smiled it was almost as though the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. But behind that smile lay true evil. They captured people and kept them as slaves. But that was merely the beginning of their crimes against others. Meddling in politics was an art for them, but one they played with terrible intent. Destruction was always their goal. They brought down ruling houses and systems of government, and left realms in chaos wherever they could. Where they made a trade deal they always cheated on it. To grant the sprites the sort of power that the Heartfire Temple held would be a mistake – for all the worlds. To grant them any sort of power was a mistake.

  And the Heartfire was power in every sense.

  Among the magical realms, the Heartfire Temple was considered a potent weapon in maintaining political order. It was a throne. If you controlled the Temple and could decide who among your people could and couldn't receive its gifts, you controlled the spell-casters and through them the people.

  Even among her own people that was a temptation.

  “And does not everyone seek power?” Fylarne replied. “Some are just perhaps more open about it than others.”

  Elodie wanted to disagree with him. Especially about their own people. But she couldn't. The Darisen were a fair minded people, she thought.
But their system of rule was confusing, especially to others. Some called in chaotic. They had both nobles and their houses and councils. And the one thing they didn't have was a central government. No kings or queens. No realms either. Just one world filled with lords and ladies and mayors. And there were always some amongst their number who would want to deny others the right to sit on the thrones. Rivalries and feuds, family grudges and political considerations were at home among their people just as they were everywhere else. Which was why no guardian could ever come from a noble lineage or an elected position.

  And she knew it was the same for others.

  Maybe not so much for the dwarves and the humans of whom few had the gift, and those who did were never rulers. To them it was mostly an interesting relic – if they knew of it at all. The humans didn't even know what magic was save as a story sometimes told by the bards in some of their lands. So how could they take charge of a Temple they knew nothing about?