by Aaron Pogue
“If I remember right, we have four hours yet before Ephitel is ready to move. Nearly five. It will be a close thing, but that is time enough.”
Corin nodded, feeling even better. “Hours till you need me. Good. Then I will find something to eat and grab a nap.”
“A well-earned reward! Go to the Midnight Grotto and choose your bed. I will send servants with a feast to please your belly. You must be strong and rested when Ephitel finally moves against the city.”
Corin took his leave, with Maurelle right behind him. They turned their backs on the king and headed up the long path toward the exit, but they had barely gone a dozen paces when a new figure darted onto the landing ahead of them. Corin recognized the druid Jeff.
Short of breath and pale of face, he sprinted down the aisle toward the king, shouting as he came. “It’s Ephitel, Your Majesty! He’s armed his regiment with rifles. Even now, he moves against the city!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Corin shouted, full of righteous rage. “Gods’ blood and sinners’ stains! I’d give this kingdom for a sandwich!”
Behind him, Delaen called an admonishing, “Corin!”
Oberon said, “Calm yourself. I’ll see that something’s brought for you.” But his voice was shaky.
Corin sighed and turned back to the throne. “Never mind. I’ll eat when this is through. How can I help?”
“Just bring me the sword.”
Corin blinked. “I don’t have it.”
“But you wrestled it from Ephitel.”
“Aye, and lost it in the dark. The dwarves have it. Avery stayed to bring it to me.”
“Oh.” Oberon’s eyes went distant, and then he said more quietly, “Oh.”
Corin sighed. “I can go and try to talk them back around—”
“No. I may need you here. We can count on Avery.”
Corin frowned. Something in the king’s tone seemed strange, but Corin couldn’t place it.
Before Corin had time to ask, the breathless Jeff reached the throne and launched into his report. “Six hundred men. With horse. One musket each. One pistol. And a bayonet. We saw no powder horns or kegs, or even bags of shot, but they had hard leather cases of a strange design. We don’t know what’s in them.”
“I do,” Corin said. He described the paper packets filled with shot and powder.
Jeff gave a low whistle. “That will help with loading speed considerably. We may have a problem.”
Oberon nodded. “Close the gate.”
Jeff looked doubtful. “That won’t slow him long.”
“I need whatever I can get. Go. Kellen will…no. Not this time. Jeff, I appoint you lord protector—”
Corin interrupted. “What about Kellen?”
Oberon sighed. “As you said, rewards are due. For the valor he has shown this day, I name Kellen, son of Kellen Strong, as the lord protector. But until he joins us, Jeff, it falls on you. Will you be my lieutenant?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Then close the gates, and muster whatever loyal troops you can find within the city.”
Delaen cleared her throat. “Should we send word to the regiments?”
“No. That hasn’t changed. Bringing them would only start hostilities sooner. And we will need the regiments intact, afterward, to put things back together.”
Delaen now watched the king with the same skepticism Corin felt.
Oberon could not have missed it in her expression, but he clearly had no wish to explain himself. “Maurelle of House Violet, for the aid you’ve given me today, I appoint you hostess to the royal court.”
Maurelle squealed and clapped her hands. She threw her arms around Corin in a strong embrace and planted a great kiss upon his cheek, then darted over to kneel before the king. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! You’re so gracious. I wish Avery were here to see this. Such an honor! Really!” She paused to catch her breath, then cocked her head. “What’s a hostess to the court?”
“You will keep track of all our houses and the channels of command. You will coordinate our social efforts and maintain situational awareness and response.”
Maurelle blinked. “I’ll what?”
“You’ll gossip,” Corin said. “And listen to gossip. And filter gossip and keep track of who gives the best gossip.” He closed his eyes, reviewing all the things that Oberon had said. “Oh. And sometimes you’ll throw parties.”
She grinned at Corin, then turned to the king. “Is that really it?”
“In essence, yes.”
“Yay!”
“But for now, this is what I need of you: spread the word within the city that trouble’s coming. Raise the fire brigades. And evacuate everyone within a mile of the city’s southern gate or anywhere at all on Moneylender’s Lane.”
Delaen started forward. “She can’t do all that! Even I couldn’t do all that.”
Maurelle looked crushed at Delaen’s words. Corin said, “No. She can’t. But I suspect she could name the ten people who among them could accomplish it. She could likely even tell us where to find them.”
“Oh, I could!” Maurelle cried, triumphant. “It won’t even take ten. Give me half an hour and I’ll have it done.”
“Then go,” Oberon said. “But before you do, hear this proclamation. For the service he has given on this day, I name Avery of House Violet as mayor of Gesoelig. I’ll entrust to him the smooth running of this city. As soon as he reports for duty, I will place him at your service for the evacuations.”
“Oh, he’ll like that,” Maurelle said. “He does love making plans and setting them in motion.” She grinned, imagining, then snapped back to herself a moment later. She threw a hasty curtsy, whispered, “Majesty,” then darted from the hall about her errands.
“And your reward will have to wait, I fear,” the king told Corin. “I would not send you home without the sword.”
“Would not, or could not?” Corin asked.
Oberon shrugged. “It matters little to a king and less to a creator.”
“And less to me, I suppose,” Corin said. “For I would not leave anyway until this mess is done.”
“That might be too much to hope for. This mess will not be over for an age. Still, you shall see the shape of things, and that should satisfy.”
“Perhaps,” Corin said, doubtful, but Oberon clapped his hands.
“I will settle for perhaps. Now go and eat and wait for Avery. I must discuss my plans with Delaen.”
Corin looked longingly toward the Midnight Grotto, but then he gave a groan and tore his gaze away. “No. I think I’ll stay. I’ve seen too much to walk away at this late hour.”
“You’ve earned your rest.”
“I’ve earned a place upon your council,” Corin snapped. “I may know other things of value, like the paper bullets. I beg the chance to contribute to your plan.”
The king hesitated, clearly on the verge of saying no. Then he threw his hands up and sighed. “Very well. If you insist. But at least hold your tongue while I sketch out the shape of things.”
Corin nodded his assent and sank down cross-legged on the soft grass before the throne. He fought a weary yawn while he stared up at Oberon.
The king spoke mainly to his druid. “Ephitel means to break my power. That is all he needs. He would prefer to have me dead. He would prefer to take the throne by force and wear this crown upon his brow, but none of that is necessary. If he can show the city that I bleed, if he can start a war, then he will win it.”
Corin nodded in silent agreement, but Delaen seemed surprised. “No. Surely there are those loyal to your name.”
“Not enough,” Oberon said. “Not near enough. Because even if I conquer Ephitel, I will have shown the world that I’m assailable. There will be others sure that they can succeed where Ephitel failed.”
“And you will crush them, too. Right?”
Oberon shook his head slowly. “There was a time when I would have. There was a time when I rode out to war a
gainst monstrosities and myths.”
Delaen licked her lips. “And what has changed? Surely you don’t grow old!”
“Not I,” the king replied. “But the kingdom. This world grows heavy beneath the weight of all the stories it has spawned, and it takes everything within my power to keep tomorrows following on the heels of yesterdays.”
The druid took an involuntary step toward the throne. “Your Majesty! You never told us. We might have helped.”
“You do, daily, just by being you. But already I’ve invested more of myself than I ever should have risked. There is just enough left of me to do what must come next.”
Delaen stifled a sob, but Corin could not guess what Oberon intended. Despite his promise, he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned toward the king and whispered, “What? What comes next?”
Oberon turned heavy eyes on him. “We abandon Gesoelig. We give the world to Ephitel.”
“That is no answer at all!”
“It isn’t meant to be the end. It is just a start.”
“But I have seen the end! Ephitel becomes a god over a wretched world where tyrants treat honest men like their possessions.”
“And yet you want to return…”
“Aye! To save someone from just that fate.”
“Your love?” Oberon asked. “This Iryana?”
“She is not my love,” Corin said. “I barely know her.”
“But still you care so much?”
“Aye! Because she’s my responsibility. I placed her life in Blake’s hands, so it falls to me to rescue her.”
Oberon bowed his head. “Gesoelig is no different. More than a million noble lives, and all of them at risk if Ephitel reaches the city. You saw what he had planned at the Piazza Autunno.”
“So you’ll evacuate?”
“Something like it, yes. We’ll disappear, regroup somewhere safe, and come back in force to answer his treachery.”
“Disappear,” Corin said, a growing fear in his belly. “How?”
Oberon spread his hands. “I shall move the very city. I’ll whisk it out from under his advance and hide it in a mountain. Ephitel will march against an empty field.”
Corin only nodded, but his heart felt empty. He remembered the ancient, empty city he had found. For the first time since the fires took him, he remembered the ghostly voices that had so frightened his crew.
This plan never worked. The world forgot Gesoelig and its elf king, and Ephitel built kingdoms on the backs of slaves.
Remember us, the ghosts had begged. Avenge us.
Corin sighed and shook his head. “It isn’t going to work.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Oberon arched an eyebrow. “I did ask you to forebear—”
“I know,” Corin said. “But I have seen where this all leads. If you believe any part of my story, you must believe that. I have seen the cavern where the city ends, and it was not a thriving new home.”
“It isn’t meant to be,” Delaen said. “We have discussed these things before. We’ll make our haven on the Isle of Mists where Ephitel’s magic will not let him see. But first we’ll jump away to the Endless Desert to throw him off the scent.”
Corin blinked. “Oh. Well. I see. That is not a terrible plan.”
The druid loomed closer. “I would like to know how that turns out. What do you know of the Isle of Mists in your own time?”
“Nothing,” Corin said. “No one ventures there, neither men nor gods. For all I know, there could be a bustling metropolis beneath the fog, but…”
“Yes?”
Corin looked away. “It is said the isle is home to none but restless ghosts and ancient sorrow.”
Delaen’s bright-eyed hope faded. Oberon rose and clapped her on the back. “Take heart. That is just the sort of rumor we would spread.”
Corin frowned up at the king, still anxious for a straightforward answer. “Would spread? Or will?”
“Hmm?”
“Binding though you claim they are, you’ve changed your story more than once. These rumors about your final home—are they a plan you’re looking forward to, or a memory you’re looking back on?”
“You would not much like an honest answer.”
Corin snorted. “I have not liked much at all since I came to this place.”
“Then on those terms I’ll tell you plain: it’s neither memory nor expectation, but a dream within a dream.”
“That is no answer at all!”
“But it is the only honest one.”
Delaen raised her voice. “Gentlemen, we don’t have time for this.”
Corin was prepared to agree. Anxious as he was for answers, he was beginning to suspect he’d never understand them anyway. Oberon did at last seem prepared to talk, but every answer only raised more questions. And for all the rage Corin had expressed, he’d admitted twice now that he would war with Ephitel as a puppet or as a free man. There would be time enough to understand the things that had been done to him after Ephitel was dead.
He opened his mouth to say as much, but the king spoke first. “As it happens, Delaen, there is nothing more important, here and now, than this conversation.”
“But the preparations—”
“Are entirely inside my head,” Oberon said. “For my part, anyway. I am hard at work, shifting history, and it will cost me nothing to spare some attention for the man who will have saved a hundred thousand lives on Piazza Autunno.”
The druid twisted her hands together, anxious, and Corin understood her frustration. Everything hung in the balance, and there was nothing she could do to tip it. Talking hardly satisfied.
Oberon seemed at last to sense her angst. He caught his breath and nodded. “That is for me,” he said. “I only have to move the city, but you will have to deal with the aftermath. Go. Find Maurelle and see how you can help prepare the people.”
Delaen swept a graceful curtsy. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She went two paces, then turned back. “Fortune favor, and statistics all be damned.”
It had a ritual sound to it, and Oberon grinned in answer. “And you as well. Evermore and evermore and evermore, amen.”
The king and Corin watched her go. Neither spoke until she’d left the landing, and then Corin realized that he was left alone in that vast chamber with the king.
The world was ending, but for just a moment, there was nothing more important than a conversation. The maker-king himself had said so. But for all the maddening things he’d seen, with Delaen’s parting words still hanging in the air, Corin could only think of one question. He turned toward the king. “What are proofs and postulates?”
Oberon smiled. “Filthy words.”
“And…scientist?”
Oberon gasped. “Who in all Hurope would speak that name?”
“Kellen. He said it to Ephitel.”
“Ah. If ever any black soul deserved such slander, it is Ephitel.” Oberon thought for a moment. “No. It is fitting. A scientist is one who would trade all the magic, all the majesty of this world for a little bit of power. It can be done with ways of thinking, or by remembering forbidden lore, or through certain artifice…”
“Guns,” Corin said. “And cannons. Ogden said you feared the dwarves.”
“Not the dwarves themselves,” Oberon said. “No more than I would fear my precious druids, though they carry living science in their strange little hearts. No, I fear what other men would do with their secrets.”
Corin nodded, very nearly understanding. “Tell me the story, then. What is yesterworld?”
Oberon heaved a weary sigh. “It is math and science. Schools and jobs. Reason unrestrained, taming all the fascinating mystery into one broad and pale monotony, as far as the eye can see. Politics and forms. Taxes. Statistical significance.” He sniffed and dabbed fresh tears from his eyes. “I watched a world of wild fancy reduced to tedium by the postulates and proofs, and then I dreamed a dream. I dared to make a new world untarnished by such things. I formed Hurope and welcomed cer
tain of my brothers and cousins to enjoy the taste of magic once again. I even brought some selected few from among the mortals of that world—”
“Your druids.”
“Even so. Because…no matter how I hated reason, a world must have some to work at all. I chose representatives as devoted to the dream as I, and they brought with them just enough of rationality to keep the sunrise running smoothly.”
“I thought…” Corin started, but he trailed off, considering his words. He nodded. “I thought perhaps you were drifting, there. Perhaps you were telling tales to avoid thinking of the matter at hand.”
“No.”
Corin shook his head. “No. I think Ephitel is threatening your dream, in a very real way.”
“Just so. For the sake of power, he will undo the world he wants to rule.”
“I have seen the world that he rules,” Corin said. “It is not as bad as you predict.”
“Are there schools?”
“Aye, in the larger cities. Rikkeborh has a famed university, but it is lovely. It is useful. Ephitel’s true villainy lies in his abuse of honest men.”
Oberon waved that away. “Honest men will always be abused. It is their nature. In a fairy world or yesterworld, honest men will suffer. But we could have a world with mystery—”
“There is magic in my world,” Corin said. “There is mystery enough to drive a storm.”
“Heroes?” Oberon asked. “True heroes?”
Corin hesitated. “There are stories.”
“Old or new?”
Corin shrugged. “We know Aeraculanon. Tcilleas and the Hivernan War. Disis. The heathen Alleshim and his companion. And…well, there are those who know of Avery of Jesalich.”
“So. Age after age has passed, and these are the names you know? Avery who made his name on this very day. Aeraculanon who is ten years dead. Tcilleas lived to see the fall of Old Maedred, and Disis might still be enjoying himself on his little island kingdom. I remember Alleshim, and a hundred other heroes you’ve forgotten. But you cannot name me one I haven’t met. What does that suggest to you?”
“That there is greatness in your land—”
“No. It tells you greatness died at some age long past. It began to die when Ephitel attacked the city. In my time—in this time—there were heroes ever rising, falling, but in your time they are just a memory.”
