by NS Dolkart
“Look, I’ve never met Vella, so I don’t have strong feelings about her one way or the other, but just because you think she’s obnoxious doesn’t mean she deserves to die. I mean, I’d have been dead many times over if it worked that way.”
That got a rueful chuckle out of Criton. “I suppose you’re right. It just makes me angry. She blamed me for having a big family that’s dependent on me. Like she thinks after ending the war I should have gone off and been a hermit.”
Despite himself, Narky snorted. He doubted very much that Vella had criticized Criton for “having a big family,” and he had a notion of what her real complaint had been.
“What?” Criton snapped. “Do you have something to say, Narky?”
Not for the first time, Narky wished he had better control over his reactions. Why couldn’t he maintain a polite silence when one was called for?
“No,” he mumbled, “it’s nothing.”
“Stop lying. Say what you want to say.”
Narky sighed, scratching above his bad eye. “Why did you marry her, Criton? She was your daughter.”
Criton slammed his cup on the table between them, hard enough that the ceramic broke and spilled its contents across the wood. “I knew it,” he said. “You all think you know what’s right for her. You think I’m some sort of monster for listening to what she wants.”
Narky stared at the broken cup and the liquor that was slowly flowing toward him. His silence only made Criton more defensive.
“She loves me,” he said, “and I love her, and the rest of it’s none of your business.”
“The less it’s my business the better,” Narky answered, backing his chair away from the little stream of liquid so that his robes wouldn’t get wet. “But if you don’t want to know what I’m thinking, don’t ask.”
Criton scowled. “I’ve never criticized your marriage. Why should you criticize mine? I know what you think, and you’re wrong. You think I raised Delika to marry me. You think I trained her to love me so that I could have a young bride who worshipped me, but that’s not true. I didn’t ask for any of this. I raised her as best I could because it was my duty. The people we’d left her with were hitting her, Narky. I wasn’t going to try to find another family for her after that. She came to me for help, and Bandu took Goodweather away but she left Delika with me. Do you think I shouldn’t have raised her?”
“No,” Narky admitted, “it was right to raise her, but–”
“Not to marry her; I know you think that. But I’ve always done what’s best for her. You think I should be listening to you or Vella instead of Delika? Because Delika’s the one who said she wanted to marry me.”
“And you didn’t try to dissuade her.”
“I did! I told her she didn’t have to marry me to stay in my house – I’d shelter her and protect her no matter what. I thought maybe she was just afraid of losing her home with us, now that she’s of age. But she insisted she wanted to marry me, and I love her. Of course I do. I couldn’t have spent all those years taking care of her without loving her too.”
“So that was it. That was all you said.”
“No, that wasn’t it. I said she wasn’t at a good age to make these kinds of choices, and that I thought she should wait. I was her age when I married Bandu, and it didn’t turn out well for either of us. But I still had the choice, Narky, and she deserves it too. She says she wants me, and she’s proven it. Trust me, she’s proven it.”
Narky was unable to suppress a shudder. “You’re her only father.”
“I’m not her father! She has a father somewhere, and I’m not him. How thick can you be?”
Oh, that did it. “Look, Criton,” Narky spat, “I don’t care who her ‘real’ father is any more than I care who yours was. You raised her, you’re her father. I’m sick of your fantasies about what counts.”
Criton rose to his feet. “That’s enough. I’m done talking to you.”
Narky stared at him, saying nothing. There was nothing left to say. Criton, as always, genuinely thought he had done the right thing. He didn’t think he’d been greedy to take Delika as a fourth wife – he thought he’d been generous.
Narky desperately wanted to still admire him. They had gone through so much together, and Criton had always been courageous, noble, even selfless. He had certainly brought more glory on himself than Narky, whose main contributions had been shooting a man in the back and sneaking up on an injured animal to deal it a death blow.
He tried to reconcile the honorable Criton he remembered, the one whose sense of justice had defied all danger, with this one that stood before him, drunk and seething. How had his friend convinced himself that marrying his own adopted daughter was the right thing to do? Why couldn’t he see that marrying him was an act of desperation, a sign that he hadn’t given Delika any other options?
Narky wanted to see Ptera’s point of view and excuse Criton’s behavior, but how could he? Sure, Criton’s other three marriages were all political. If those marriages had never been designed to make Criton happy, perhaps he could be forgiven for wanting one that was. But Narky’s marriage had been thrust upon him for similarly practical reasons, and he hadn’t felt any need to keep looking. He knew he’d gotten lucky with Ptera, who had turned out to be perfect for him in so many ways; still, no number of loveless marriages could give Criton an excuse to marry the girl he’d raised.
Besides, maybe Criton hadn’t found love in his other marriages because he hadn’t been willing to look for it in his hurry to find something better. He and Narky had always been different that way: Narky always afraid of losing what he had, Criton eternally looking toward his next goal. When they’d both had nothing, that constant striving had seemed admirable. Now that they both had food and fame and power and money – and friends and allies and wives and children – it came off as a good deal less admirable.
He wondered if this new marriage might even be doing Criton political harm. The first three wives had cemented alliances – with Criton’s example and encouragement, the Dragon Touched and the humans of the northern plains had integrated into a single society. His first two fathers-in-law, the plainsmen, had gained power and prestige for their connection to the Dragon Touched leader, and his marriage to that Iashri woman had quelled any resentment among his own people, but would Criton’s many in-laws and relatives-by-marriage not balk at his taking Delika for a fourth wife? Such an obvious and frankly disgusting love-marriage could only dilute their power and make a mockery of their daughters.
Narky doubted their anger would prove physically dangerous to Criton – no one would dare to conspire against a man who had already risen once from the dead – but it could cause other problems for him. Resentment had a way of poisoning all sorts of plans that required cooperation.
Criton still stood above him, wobbling from the liquor, and Narky watched his friend slowly realize that he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, that he couldn’t be intimidated into fleeing. The air of righteousness was leaving him – he was growing embarrassed about his outburst. He’d drunk too much – a good deal more than Narky, anyway – and was slipping now from anger to remorse.
But he did not apologize; he only turned unsteadily on his heel and stalked from the room.
Narky sighed. Morality was one thing, but who was he to judge Criton’s political errors? He was about to make one of his own, if he wasn’t careful. His every instinct said that Ravennis was speaking to him through Sephas, and yet… nobody else could see it. Criton, like everyone else, had advised him to treat the scroll as a dangerous heresy. What if they were right? What risks was Narky taking if he pursued his enemies but let their teachings spread?
And if it was a prophecy, what then?
Nothing had gone right since that quake shook the sky. Narky’s political needs were at odds with his beliefs, his faith in his friends was crumbling, and through all this, Ravennis’ message to him – if indeed that was what it was – was about prizing eternity over one’s l
ife. If his own premise was correct, that seemed to mean his God expected him to sacrifice himself somehow.
He left for home the next morning, demoralized and disturbed.
14
Psander
“You’re distracted,” Psander told Phaedra, looking over the top of her codex to find the younger woman fidgeting. “We can’t afford for you to be distracted.”
At least Phaedra had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s been such a long time since I was last here, and… I wasn’t expecting to find things the way they are.”
“How so?”
“I thought Hunter would be married and have children by now, but he waited for me.”
“He’s an idealistic fool,” Psander said, laying aside her book since it did not appear to have any applicable information in it. “But his tenacity has been extremely useful in other respects. I thought his martial training was a waste of time for a village-worth of farmers and children, but he proved me wrong. It’s really quite remarkable the way he turned the elves’ thought-reading against them without so much as a hint of magic.”
She picked up a scroll this time, a history of the War of the Heavens that might conceivably discuss some aspect of the mesh’s nature that she’d forgotten over the years, but apparently Phaedra wasn’t done talking.
“I told him before I left that I couldn’t marry him, because of what you said happens if a wizard gets pregnant–”
“Quite right. You can’t possibly be reconsidering your position – any additional unpredictability at this juncture could result in the world’s end.”
“Yes, I know, but he… he found a scroll.”
Psander looked up at her sharply. “A scroll?”
“One of the few texts you had from the age of healers. It’s… instructions. On how to sterilize a man.”
“I see.” Hunter was more dedicated to his cause than Psander had realized. She vaguely remembered the scroll in question, a treatise she had received as a gift early in her career. As she recalled, it had been written by a court magician somewhere south of Parakas, whose patron queen had wanted to keep several consorts without any of the attendant risks. The procedure had not been entirely voluntary, or at least that was what Psander remembered from the tale of the woman who’d given it to her. Batra was her name. A poor practitioner, but a fine researcher.
Psander had liked Batra. She was too modest to mind Psander’s competitive streak, and found her demeanor funny. She was twenty years Psander’s senior, but so pleased to have the company of another woman that she hadn’t minded the younger wizard’s inexperienced nonsense. They were the only two of their generation, women who had pursued academic wizardry rather than simple witchery, but it was from Batra that Psander had learned of the others, the many others, who had come before them. She’d given Psander the extra confidence she needed, not in herself, but in her tradition. Until then, Psander had always told herself that she would succeed even if she didn’t really belong among these men. It was good to realize instead that she did belong.
She had met Batra at Gateway, where her mentor Pelamon had sent her to round out her education. It was also at Gateway that her pregnancy had made such trouble for the researchers, until its messy but fortunate end. She had appreciated Batra’s support after that ridiculous disaster.
The whole thing had started as stupidly as it ended. Psander had never felt sexual interest toward anyone, but one particularly irritating researcher at Gateway had briefly convinced her that her disinterest was actually fear. That had triggered her pride, as he had always meant it to, and in the course of proving herself unafraid she had become pregnant. It was a foolish mistake, and she blamed herself for rising to the bait. The man, as mediocre a wizard as he was a human being, deserved no credit for his success: she had known his motives from the start, and had fallen for it anyway.
Batra had given her the scroll in confidence, a few days after her pregnancy had ended. She had apparently used it many times, not as instructions for a magical procedure, but to comfort herself after a failed affair or some other man-based frustration. The procedure was not blunt and brutal like a castration – it was subtle and easy to miss after the initial recovery period, and Batra could pretend that she might practice it on some man without his knowledge and leave him secretly sterile, wandering around as arrogant as ever without any knowledge of his loss.
Psander hadn’t needed the scroll to nurse her pride, but she had taken it anyway because her appetite was voracious and she’d spent two months already starved for a scroll of genuine worth to read. The subject was entirely unlike anything else she had researched, with jargon that she couldn’t begin to interpret, but she’d read it several times with the notion that she might somehow derive the entire ancient practice of healing magic from the principles and language of this one procedure. It hadn’t worked, of course, and not long thereafter she had been sent back to Pelamon with the message that her education was complete.
How long had it been since she’d even thought about this scroll? Forty years?
“I take it you’ve discussed this with Hunter already,” Psander said, returning to the history in her hands. “What was your conclusion?”
“He wants you to do it,” Phaedra said. “I’m not so sure.”
“Not sure he’s worth the time it would take to learn and perform the procedure? I sympathize, though I confess I’ve never understood the drive to begin with.”
“Oh, he’s worth it,” Phaedra said. “I don’t mean that at all. I just don’t think he’s really thought it through. He’s always wanted children, I know he has. The way he acted with those children we rescued from the elves… he’d be a good father. I don’t want to be selfish and let him do something he’ll regret.”
Psander put the scroll down with a sigh. “One can only make a finite number of choices in life. Regret has less to do with those choices than it does with one’s approach. I have never subscribed to the notion that having physical children grants one some kind of immortality. If Hunter wants me to sterilize him, I’ll be glad to review that scroll again, once we’ve dealt with the impending problem of all our deaths. Now have we resolved this issue sufficiently for you to concentrate on the matter at hand?”
“Yes,” Phaedra said, though she sighed and looked forlorn and generally made every indication that they had not resolved the issue. “I’m sorry if I’m wasting our time, it’s just… you asked what was distracting me.”
“I didn’t,” Psander corrected her. “I only pointed out that you were distracted, and you brought the conversation to the source of your distraction yourself. As I recall, I only said that we couldn’t afford it.”
Phaedra’s nostrils flared. “Fine. You’re right, I misinterpreted you. I thought you might want me to deal with the problem, rather than burying it.”
“Whatever makes it go away.”
Phaedra stared at her for a long, angry moment. Psander met her gaze with her own irritated one until at last, Phaedra sighed. “So, the elves are asking their castles to help us?”
“Yes. The new gate established by the Yarek is the source of the problem, after all, so there is some possibility that Goodweather or Illweather will have a solution for us. I have tried to devise some way to weaken the connection ourselves, but as far as I can tell it cannot be done. The Yarek draws itself together more strongly than ever. If I may say so, it was clever of God Most High to split the plant beast into the halves of kindness and cruelty, because while cruelty seeks to wield kindness to its ends, kindness resists the marriage. I suspect that Goodweather has done far more than God Most High to keep the halves separate.
“But of course, that’s where we come in. By bringing the more benevolent force to our world, we strengthened the cruel voice of unity here. I think – I cannot prove, mind you – that if you had grown Illweather’s seed in our world rather than Goodweather’s, we might not be in this predicament.”
“You’re saying we should have made
our world worse by giving the nastier half of the Yarek an anchor there?”
“I’m saying it might have prevented the end of both worlds, yes. But I can’t know for sure.”
Phaedra rubbed her forehead, then her temples. “Well, let’s say the Yarek can’t be stopped from reunifying. What then?”
“Then in the process, the meshes overlap and shred everything. Whether the Yarek could eventually recover, I don’t know. Presumably the Gods’ world and the underworld would remain intact.”
Phaedra’s mouth quirked. “I’m sure Ravennis would love that.”
“It might be overwhelming, even for a God, to deal with all of creation arriving on His doorstep at once. But I’m sure you’re right.”
“Do you think Illweather is doing this on purpose? Killing itself just so it can bring the rest of us down too?”
“I have no idea. Everything I know of the castles, I learned from you islanders. Especially Hunter, since I’ve had more time to talk with him. The rest has just been observation, testing the ground roots, and so on. I do not have the kind of familiarity with the Yarek to ascribe nihilism to one of its halves, nor to deny it. I suppose we will find out when the elves return.”
They fell into contemplative thought, each sitting in her own hard chair, surrounded by books that, for all their collected knowledge, didn’t seem to hold any answers.
“Someone should ask the Yarek,” Phaedra said. “The one in our world. I should go back and talk to it – maybe it’ll have more to say than Goodweather or Illweather.”
Psander considered that. “Yes,” she said, “I believe you’re right. But let us wait first for the castles’ answers. It would take weeks for you to go and speak to that portion of the Yarek and return, and we are at the point where we must be efficient with our time. We haven’t got much left.”
Phaedra agreed to that, as Psander knew she would. If she was already considering a union with Hunter, mere days after arriving here, she could not possibly be too eager to return to her world. Psander wondered if it might be expedient for her to review that sterilizing procedure sooner rather than later – Phaedra and Hunter were neither of them impulsive creatures, but as a rule it was wiser to underestimate people’s willpower than to overestimate it. Those two might not be teenagers any longer, but no age was immune to poor decision making.
