“You’re talking about chronomancy.” Salim felt cold sweat ooze from beneath his arms, between his toes. He’d dealt with necromancers, both hunted them for the church and allied with them against greater evils, but chronomancy was a heresy far more dangerous than simply defying death. Time magic defied reality itself—all of it. Across the myriad planes, only the steady progression of cause and effect was a constant. To break that was to invite insanity.
Shyka was nodding. “A crude term, but fair enough. The Shykas of history have all been and will be adept at the manipulation of time. Yet as honored as we are by our position among the Eldest, you can imagine how the temporal limitations of a dynasty—ruling from this date to that, in consecutive order—might seem unbearable to someone capable of viewing the birth and death of your universe. So sometime in the distant past—or perhaps future—we came to an arrangement.”
The woman was now a new figure, this one a seemingly elven beauty with light green skin and pupilless eyes the color of the deepest ocean trench.
“We decided to intersperse our reigns. Instead of ruling in sequence, we trade from moment to moment, sharing completely—our minds, our goals, our existence—so that all may experience the full range of eternity.”
The young black man again. “Reality flickers like the shadows of a magic lantern play,” he said, “giving us a collection of scenes rather than a single long passage. Yet it is a small price for a picture of the whole.” Again the brilliant smile. “So you see, we are all Shyka. And we are all the Many.”
Neila was gaping, and even Delini looked a little shocked at the sudden disclosure. The Eldest’s voice—each of them, though they spoke as one—was hypnotic, and it took an effort of will for Salim to shake off the desire to be lectured and remember why they were here.
“Your nature is fascinating,” he said. “Yet it’s not for your mastery of time that we’ve sought you out, as I gather you already know.”
Shyka inclined his head. “Of course. You seek the use of my breach guardians in assaulting your goddess’s desert dollhouse.” His tone was wry, and Salim remembered that there was little love lost between the fey of the First World and those gods that had abandoned them when the Material Plane was still young.
“Yes. I require only a distraction, not dissimilar to their attack on Anvanory Manor. If all goes according to plan, few should be harmed. They’ll be returned to their post within a day.”
“A day.” Shyka’s blonde, short-haired incarnation turned her eyes upon the satyr. “Delini, do your people know whom they serve?”
“A few, Mistress.” The satyr bowed deep and held it. “Those who needed convincing. But many suspect, and are honored accordingly.”
“And you, Delini. Do you know?”
The satyr looked up, confused and a little troubled. “My lord?”
“Did it occur to you, my lecherous child, that to Shyka the Many, one of your days might be so short as to be completely beneath notice? That it might have no more value than an individual speck of dust on your hooves?”
“Master,” the satyr said hastily, “I sought only to—”
“You sought to impress the humans with the power and majesty of your connections,” the Eldest continued, “thereby increasing your own status in their eyes. Respect by association. You do not need my permission to assist these humans any more than you needed it to attack the woman’s manor, for which you did not consult me. I gave you the responsibility of guarding the breach because I believed you could handle it without supervision. And now I find you imposing upon my hospitality for the purpose of putting on airs.”
Delini didn’t bother bowing deeper. Instead he threw himself on the floor, prostrating himself completely and placing his arms over his head in a posture of ultimate supplication, his goatish tail poking into the air.
“Please, Master—Mistress—I—”
“Peace, Delini.” Shyka’s voice was smooth again, the guillotine steel that had crept into it blowing away like a cloud. The Eldest bent gracefully and placed a hand on her servant’s head. “You have brought me a chance to meet a pair of most interesting individuals, and for that I absolve you of your impertinence, provided you learn from this. And since you come on the pretense of asking permission, I shall grant it: you and your band shall help Salim and Neila, after which you will return to your forest, which you will now hold in the eyes of the local government as well as in reality.”
“And if you ever seek me out again without sufficient reason,” Shyka’s old man form said, “you will return to the valley floor swiftly, and without benefit of the staircase. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Lord.” Even facedown on the floor, Delini was already regaining his composure, though Salim thought he heard a slight quaver that hadn’t been there before.
“If you’ll excuse any impropriety,” Neila asked, “why do you have him guarding the breach near my home? Or do you guard them all?”
Salim was amazed that the girl could so calmly dig for information after their guide had clearly come close to losing his head for wasting an imperceptible amount of the fey lord’s time, but the smile through Shyka’s beard was indulgent.
“No one could guard them all, child. The First World extends behind the entirety of the Material Plane, from the woods behind your manor to the farthest reaches of the night sky. There are thousands of breaches on thousands of worlds, and no one can count them all. Some seek to close them for the scars they create, their gross and static imposition upon the unbounded purity of the First World. Others seek to exploit them, either siphoning energy from one world to the other, or else waiting to bilk travelers of their baubles, such as the Crone in the Cart and her vagabond Witchmarket. For my part, I simply wait, and watch.”
“Watch for what?” Salim asked.
Shyka smiled and shook his head. “That, Salim, would be cheating. Mortal or not, you must live your life forward. Suffice it to say that for someone interested in the vagaries of time, your nation of Thuvia is somewhat intriguing. But for now, I watch.”
“Fair enough,” Salim said, unsure whether or not he was relieved by the answer. “In that case, unless you have further matters to discuss, we will happily repay your graciousness by not intruding on it further. Delini? Neila?”
The noblewoman was already bowing, and the satyr did likewise, simultaneously getting his feet back under him and somehow making the whole thing look graceful.
“Indeed,” Shyka said, back in her original form. “I wish you luck, and will take steps to ensure you have safe passage back to the breach.” She waved a hand in casual dismissal. The three petitioners turned and started for the door.
“Oh, Salim? A moment more, if you would.”
He stopped and turned. The woman-Shyka was standing with one hand on her chin and a finger to her lips, studying him.
Something was wrong. Not with Shyka, who was still exactly the same as when they’d first entered, but with the rest of the scene. The air looked strange.
With a start, Salim realized that Neila and Delini hadn’t turned with him—were in fact both still frozen in the motion of walking away, their postures impossibly still. Neither chest moved. Just below Delini’s beard, a tiny bead of sweat had fallen and been stalled in midair.
Salim broke off his examination and took a step toward the Eldest, hand going to his sword.
“Release them,” he growled. The air—as dead and still as a crypt, with the dust hanging motionless in space—burned in his lungs. He took another step.
“Please.” The fey lord waved wearily for Salim to cease. “They’re perfectly fine. As far as they’re concerned, this isn’t even happening. I’ve simply taken you outside the continuum for a moment so that we might converse in private.”
It was true that neither of the frozen figures looked like they were in pain. Salim quit advancing, but kept his posture stiff and ready, left hand remaining on the hilt of his sword. Shyka ignored this minor rebellion and advance
d. Hand still on her chin, expression pensive, she circled slowly around Salim like a woman studying a horse she intended to buy.
“You must understand that the others are of only mild interest. There are innumerable spoiled nobles and randy satyrs in their little nation alone. But you—you, Salim, are something special.” As she moved around behind him, she trailed a hand lightly across the back of his shoulders, the motion at once sensual and dangerously proprietary.
“A servant of a goddess, yet one who has no faith of his own. A priest-hunter who serves alongside the clergy. An immortal who disdains eternity.” She completed her circuit and stopped just in front of his right shoulder, peering up at him with shockingly green eyes. “You are a paradox, Salim. A study in contrasts.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“On the contrary, Salim.” She waved a delicate finger. “The question is: what do you want?”
Around the two of them, the castle dissolved into a gray haze the color of Shyka’s robes, taking Neila and the satyr with it. Though Salim’s body told him that his feet remained firmly planted on something solid, he and Shyka appeared to be floating in a sea of mist that stretched out of sight in every direction. Slowly, shapes began to swim into view through the fog.
“Time is the true illusion, Salim,” Shyka murmured, now in the solid baritone of the young black man. “The idea that what’s been done cannot be undone. Of the lies mortals tell themselves in order to make sense of their surroundings, this is the greatest.”
The mists thinned, receded to the edges of the walls. They were in Salim’s house in Rahadoum, as it had been the day everything had gone awry. There was Jannat, sprawled on the floor, dress askew and blood congealing in the dark pool around her. Everything was still. Silent.
Then he entered the room. From a point somewhere to the side, in the dining area, Salim watched as a younger Salim, resplendent in the glittering armor and cloak of a Pure Legion officer, rushed to his wife’s side, going to his knees and staining the immaculate breeches, blood wicking its way up through the fabric. He saw himself stand and rage, rushing from view with sword drawn. Though the mist muffled all sound save for his own breathing—that of the real him, not this long-lost echo—he could imagine the crashes, the screaming as he frantically searched the house for someone responsible, something that could be killed, punished. After a time he returned and knelt by his wife’s side once more, hanging his head.
And then the memory changed. With gentle fingers, the figure on the ground reached out and closed his wife’s eyes. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her bloody lips. And then he stood, back straight and face set, and left the room.
“Nothing is fixed, Salim.” Shyka’s voice was a whisper, reverent as a man in church. “Nothing is permanent. Time is a stream. And a stream can be diverted.”
The room disappeared. In its place, Salim was assaulted by a fusillade of images, each lasting no more than a heartbeat. Salim standing proud as he accepted command of legion forces in Azir. Salim on a shore where waves surged between rocks large enough to support trees, a new woman beneath his arm. Salim dandling a boy on his knee, then showing an older child the basic sword forms.
Salim on his deathbed, hand closed around a gray-haired woman’s as he closed his eyes.
He shut his own now, blocking out the sight. “Why are you showing me this?”
“There are many worlds,” Shyka said softly. “Many branches of the stream. You chose yours in haste, but I am master of the stream entire. I can give you the choice again. The chance your goddess never allowed you.”
Salim opened his eyes once more and met Shyka’s, earnest and brown.
“I can give it back,” the Eldest said.
Salim reeled. To take back his prayer, his betrayal, so that he and his wife might live and die as the world had intended—hadn’t he wished for that every day since his flight from Azir? In truth, hadn’t he known his error the moment Jannat opened her eyes? Yet he had been blinded by love, by his own desperate need, and he had faltered. If he could undo his mistake, let his wife find what peace she could in the atheist fields of the Boneyard, and join her himself in his time ...
In his mind, he saw again the image of him on his deathbed, the gray-haired woman at his side. Yet as he watched, she turned, and her face changed, losing the weight of years and becoming that of Neila Anvanory.
He looked over at Shyka, who still gazed at him expectantly.
Suddenly he was filled with rage. His hand shot out and grabbed the fey lord’s arm, squeezing hard. The Eldest’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Take us back to Neila and Delini,” he commanded.
“Salim,” Shyka said soothingly, a little affronted, “I assure you that I truly have the power to—”
“You always do,” Salim spat. “Your kind has the power, so you use it, playing with those less powerful for your own amusement. Gods, Eldest—it doesn’t matter.” He squeezed tighter, fingers digging into Shyka’s arm hard enough to turn brown skin pale. “I made the mistake once of trying to undo what had already been done. It cost me my honor, my wife, and my soul. I won’t make it again.”
Even in his anger, Salim knew that it was himself he was talking to, letting his rage act as a buffer against that desperate longing to erase the sins of his past. Yet as the emotions churned inside his chest, Neila’s face floated into view again, unbidden. There was no way he could abandon her to Khoyar’s schemes after coming this far. He’d failed to protect his wife, but Neila still had a chance.
To his surprise, Salim discovered that the fey lord was smiling broadly. He released the Eldest’s arm.
“Fascinating,” Shyka said. “To make the decision so easily. Truly marvelous.”
The fey lord brought his hands together in a clapping gesture, and the mists flew apart, leaving them back in the receiving hall of Shyka’s castle. Delini and Neila were still there. At the sound of the Eldest’s hands, they broke free of their stasis, taking a few more steps before looking around in puzzlement, spotting Salim and the Eldest farther behind them than they should have been.
“What just happened?” Neila asked.
“Nothing, child—nothing.” Shyka was back in her blonde incarnation. “I simply called Salim away for a moment to discuss something—a matter of no particular importance. And now, I believe it’s time for you three to be off.”
Neila looked toward Salim, expression concerned, yet he strode past her before she could ask the question on her lips, leading them briskly from the great hall.
“Salim?”
The swordsman whirled, almost drawing steel at the fey lord’s playful tone. Behind them, the Eldest was grinning.
“Don’t forget: Regardless of the things we discussed, I’m still lending you the assistance of my servants. Which means there’s a debt between us.”
Without answering, Salim spun on his heel and shoved open the big metal doors, stalking out into the bright, omnipresent light of the First World. Behind him, he heard Neila and Delini scramble to keep up, followed by the hollow boom of the doors closing.
Gods, he thought. They were all the same. And now he was indebted to two of them.
Jaw clenched, he moved quickly back toward the portal, and home.
Chapter Twenty-One
In the House of Death
The journey back to the breach was uneventful, just as Shyka had promised. Several times during their trek, Neila looked over at Salim inquiringly, but after his first noncommittal grunt she didn’t bother asking him about his private conversation with the Eldest. Salim appreciated the discretion.
They found the breach again easily enough, though Salim couldn’t have said exactly how, given that the fields which had originally surrounded it were now a miniature orchard, with trees no higher than Salim’s waist bearing an explosion of strange fruits, no two of them quite alike. Neila seemed delighted and prepared to investigate, but Salim and the satyr pulled her along in their wake, marching through the tear i
n reality without so much as a last look around at the warped pastoral paradise of the First World.
On the other side of the portal, Delini greeted its guardians. The two satyrs had been relieved of duty, and a gaggle of bleary-eyed pixies sat on mossy patches along the stone steps. One of them tossed Delini a salute as he came through, though he didn’t bother to stand.
“How long have we been gone?” Delini asked.
“Through the night,” the commanding pixie answered, gesturing at the weak light filtering through the canopy and following it with a little hiccup. “You missed all the fun.”
“On the contrary,” Delini said. “The fun’s just getting started. Hold your post—I’ll send a runner to let you know what’s happening.”
“Not a problem,” the fairy said, and settled back on his elbows.
With no further discussion, Delini led the humans at a brisk trot back through the trees, which gradually lost their unnatural fecundity to become simply the heart of a Thuvian river-wood. After a short time, the nearly invisible deer trail they followed broke through into the clearing of the fey’s original gathering.
The celebration that had been beginning when they left had clearly lasted all through the night, a bacchanal that must have rivaled the temple orgies of the lust goddess Calistria. Berry wine and fermented tree sap stained the earth where goblets had been knocked over, and those fey who remained in the clearing were sprawled in twos and threes in leafy bowers and beds of soft loam, some even perched precariously in the branches of trees, their sleeping forms held there by luck alone. Delini strode over to the nearest group—two satyrs and a pixie, all bundled together in the same long streamers of beard moss—and toed them roughly awake.
“Up!” he cried, cheerful as a circus barker. “Up, my beaming brethren! Today’s the day, and now’s the time, and anyone who doesn’t bestir his ass will find it stirred for him!” He winked at Neila.
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