I know that the papers erupted with the story because I received a copy myself – delivered to the fortress door a scant few days after we arrived. Which meant Johnny – or whichever one it had been – had followed us there; proven when, upon finishing the article, I was advised in a newsboy's own words to 'follow the path of dominoes through the city', where finding one's way to the fortress was concerned. Dominoes I had not strewn. Either the city had conjured them itself, and the newsboy had taken note of the trail, or he had scattered them himself, in our wake.
And it was a good thing – I had not know how to advise anyone of the path myself. I knew it by instinct. I had left it up to fate – or the gods – to guide them, same as one of those two forces seemed to go about guiding everything, with or without my help.
But I would have known that the story made its way into the paper even if I had not had a copy delivered to our new, colossal doorstep, because it wasn't long before the people started to arrive. They came from far and wide, Darathian and Serbaen. Even the occasional halfbreed. They began to fill the halls of the fortress that I had built, responding to that article in the newspaper like it was the voice of deliverance they had all been hoping, and praying, and waiting for.
The only thing that didn't make it into the paper regarding the perks and quirks of the journey through city to fortress was the watching creature we encountered along the way. But in truth, I think I was the only one who saw it. Who saw her.
I glanced up, during the taxing trek, and saw that ashen Ambassador standing in the frame of another open, detached door at the top of a hill of rubble. She was watching in her gray, haggard way as we traveled past below, and she met my eyes, and smiled her red-streaked, ash-cracked smile down upon me, as if blessing us en route to that butterfly-effect-rendered fortress.
And that's when I knew I was right. She was Ambassador for the Great Butterfly, whom the Ambassador for the Angel of Death had said would be leaving this place. But not before bidding us farewell, and blessing our journey – seeing us off to the place it had helped craft for this purpose.
Then a wind drifted by, and the door slammed shut on the ashen woman, and she was gone.
E p I l o g u e –
A Year of Thresholds
I dreamed of Tanen, in that fortress. I would go to sleep at night and be transported somewhere else, where he was. It was a rubble-strewn land, just like ours, but devoid of human life except for us. Sometimes I would just see him, across the jutting hilltops, and smile. Sometimes, he would see me and smile. And other times still, we actually came together, and exchanged words.
One such occasion went something as follows, long-winded in a way that dreams easily allow, because it can all be compressed into a mere concept that was the atmosphere of the dream, by morning:
I approached him, on his hilltop, and searched for what to say. I had already told him, during a past meeting, "I'm so sorry, Tanen. I did everything I could to save you." To which he replied: "You can't save everyone, Vant." This time, I started whereabouts we had left off, then;
"I know I can't expect to save everyone, but I was wrong, Tanen. Right, but also wrong. It's me, as well, who needs to soften," I admitted, and then began the process of explaining; “I thought I was one of them. The Serbaens. I've spent so long with them, admired them from day one, and learned from them all these years... I came to believe what they did, and heard stories about their country and loved it as they did, and became familiar with the plights they face and... became a defendant against that, as if I were one of their own.
"I think of them as my family and fight for them as if they are. And they've always accepted me as if I were one of them. But... aspects of my duties have hardened me, in other ways. I would wish to humanize people on their behalf, but I am de-humanized myself. I wasn't born with their sense of faith and harmony, and I have to quench my fear when I go out in that field every night to sing among the prowling wardogs; and I have to remove myself from the harm that I inflict when I fight someone over... necessities in the city. The darkskins are so peaceful in the ways they think, and in my mind I aspire to that, but then I go and kill someone to provide for us. And it just seems to clash so much with what I've learned from them, and what I aspire to – but the maddest thing is, in the face of that, they maintain that harmony that I attributed to them. They maintain that...'nature takes its course, and justice will be done' mindset. And the truth is, I'm confused. I love what they believe, but I don't practice it with the grace that they do. I can't; I struggle. I think I know who I'm aspiring to be, but am I able?
"And not actually being one that is responsible for forgiveness where Serbaens have been wronged, I fill only with bitterness when I hear of the things that happen to them. What the whiteskins do to them isn't mine to forgive. So I am only angry. And not just angry. The duties which have jaded me have reinforced other attributes. The fact is, I am proud... And I am...stubborn. And those are things I have painstakingly become.” I glanced down at my hands, who were no help to me, and back up. “And acknowledging a thing doesn't change it. To reverse the process is just as painstaking.”
He considered all this, seemed to see what I was getting at, that I was awarding him the confession that I had been as wrong as him, in ways, but also that that wrongness now required additional soul searching, and therefore I could not award him the additional things one might also expect to come with discovering I had something backward and righting it. But he had his own ideas – and instead of expecting me to tie off the confession with some act or deed that finished making things up to him, in some way, he looked at me with more understanding than I could boast.
“Perhaps you should not reverse the process,” he suggested gently. Fondly. “Maybe you are proud, maybe you are stubborn... Maybe those are things that you are. Recognizing it is good. If you recognize it, you can manage it. You don't have to change it. Maybe together, used in a civilized manner under said recognition, those things simply make you...independent. Maybe you are independent, Siren, and that is just who you are. Who you have become, who you are supposed to be.”
“Confused?” I challenged. “Is that who I'm supposed to be? Stuck between two spectrums? The duties I was born into, that shape me, and the conscience I would rather live by? I am violent, and I want beauty. I fight for peace, and I fight for my life – both on a daily basis. I come home with blood on my hands, and I tend a garden. I beat someone senseless and then treat the flowers with all the tenderness in the world.”
“They're vegetables.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Don't pass sustenance off as frilly nonsense. It does matter.”
“I tend to that life with the tenderness I was taught. How can I go and bash someone up directly after? It's this profound balance, which I subscribe to, but when you think about it, it just...clashes. I don't understand how the two can coexist in the same philosophy. I can accept it, but I don't understand it. For years, I accepted it. And I still do, but... I don't have all the pieces, Tanen. That's all I'm saying. I thought I did, and I don't.”
He was listening, still, but his face held a seriousness of its own as he prepared his response. “Nobody has all the pieces,” he said, convicting me. “Nobody.” Then his response took a different turn, progressively teasing; “And you are just trying to make yourself look entirely too noble with this humble tirade/confession of escalating nonsense. Truly, Vant, enough with the overkill. You could have just said you were wrong, instead of throwing your corrected self at my feet and flattering me to no end with the presumably smooth presentation of so many uncertain questions clearly intended to make me feel complimented in that you were coming to me for guidance on top of everything else.”
“I was not–“ I began to object, at first hurt that he was not taking me seriously. But the fond smirk on his face told me he was only being good-naturedly lighthearted, and I could not help breaking into a bit of a smile seeing the joke. “It wasn't flattery,” I finished mor
e practically, trying to resist the widening of my smile but letting what was already there stay.
“Maybe not. But I have another theory. Maybe it's easier for you to admit you're wrong under the pretense of such a lost, pitiful story. That way, I begin to take pity on you, and in appreciation of your circumstances, your character is preserved.”
I was going to object, again, but then I stopped, something in his theory ringing true. It wasn't that I would do such a thing to save face where he was concerned – at least, I hadn't – but it almost felt like I might have done so, at least to some extent, for my own benefit. To convince myself that I was not to blame, that I had been so lost, and preserve character where my own dodging conscience was concerned. I ducked my head, considering that I might have gotten to feeling sorry for my guilty self and dramatized such a charity act. It was true that I was confused, but had I only made myself so? Had I contrived it amidst my brooding and moping? Or maybe realizing I was wrong on one front had simply made me question the rest.
“Just admit that I taught you something. You don't have to be wrong about everything.”
Feeling at little bit better, I let myself catch on to the mood he was playing at; “Now, hold on, I never said you taught me, Cathwade. I simply learned.”
“But you wouldn't have learned if I hadn't come and rocked your world, now, would you?”
I struck out at him, playfully, and when he dodged and ran off down the hillside, I chased him, laughing. At last he turned, allowing himself to be caught, and stopped me – taking first my hand, then my face.
“Vant. I don't think there's any question about who you are. You are...the bringer of a great eclipse. Avante, Bridge-Builder. You've made a name for yourself; a great name – a legendary name. The things you were appointed to do have unmistakably named you. The gods knew who you were. And I think it was undoubtedly realized, by you. Look at what you've done.”
He was almost laughing as he said this, at the stark astonishment that it was, that I surely couldn't deny. “Don't question yourself,” he forbade, disallowing it. “You are where the two spectrums meet. At least where they met. The sparks that come from that are nothing but the fire the gods have put in you. The fire for the purpose you fulfilled. That you will undoubtedly continue to fulfill. A person in your appointed shoes has to have fire, Vant.” He pushed me then, forcefully but playfully, as if to provoke that very fire, or simply as though one with fire could take it. “You never had all the pieces,” he proposed. Then he jutted his head at the surrounding rubble to illustrate his next point; “You hardly ever had any pieces. This is what you had to work with.” He gestured to the debris fanning out all around us.
“Tanen...” I said wryly, taking my own turn at teasing; “this is...a lot of pieces.”
His noble facade broke, and he chuckled heartily. He reached forward to push me again, but this time I dodged. And once again that light-hearted dream haze took over, and we played across the rubble.
*
These were the kinds of encounters we had, in that dream world. Lengthy and summery and airy, and at times almost candy-sweet. And that's how dreams are, I suppose. We had endless time to kill, therefore plenty of time to say whatever we wished to say to one another, and consequently only good things to say about each other – and that's how we got to really know one another; in this alternate, fantasy-like setting. I looked forward to going there, at the end of every day, and spending time with him there in that other world, where everything was clear and lazy and so unlike our other times together. It seemed to make up for how things had gone for us, in this world.
Then, one night, the dream took on a more dire exchange. He told me something he had never told me before. About his past.
And a slave girl named Aliyah.
*
"I don't know how it is you picked up on the fact that I have Serbaen in me, that tiny little trace nestled in my deepest recesses, and did not pick up on Aliyah," he said to me where we sat upon a hill of debris. I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. For he was right: never had I picked up on any 'Aliyah'.
"Who was she?" I asked.
"She was a slave, in my house. The most beautiful thing you've ever seen. I never touched her – couldn't bring myself to – but for a long time I sheltered controversial feelings for her. My mother knew – could tell by the way I treated her. Different than the others. More playful. I suppose I looked at her, more than I ought to have, as well. Noticed her. And my mother was quick to correct it, after my father died. She would catch me in the act, and pull me out of it, and ask, 'Is that how you want to honor your father?'
"She started sending Aliyah out on all the dangrous errands, and eventually that demanded its price. Aliyah was killed in one of the early shifts in our town. I was so stricken, so angry – and somehow managed to convince myself I should have listened to my mother, because only pain came of loving a darkskin. After that I never wanted to let another darkskin in again."
I stared at him, astonished. For I never would have guessed. Even gifted with feeling the essence of things, getting to the root of things... I had never felt this, in him. The only conclusion I could come to was that it had not been mine to discover, not then. It was another one of those things that just went to prove I had judged Tanen the same way he had judged the Serbaens, without exploring the extent of those feelings and from whence they came. It just went to prove he was a person as much as they – one that had been shaped, who felt as keenly as anyone, who ended up on the wrong path now and then, but the gods were in the business of making everything – everyone – fit together in a profound, convicting, and often ironic pattern.
Something that Letta had said, once, came back to me: "There are wicked things in the world, Avante, but nothing the gods cannot use."
How true that seemed to be, at least in that dream world where the ghost of Tanen existed. I liked to think it was true in the real world, too.
And then, one day – as it was always day, in the dream world – Tanen pulled a book out of the rubble. It was the book that described the theory of dimensions, which I had burned in the real world. And I thought to myself – it was day, here, while it was always night that I went to sleep to come here. Almost as if this place lay on the other side of the world – or a different side of the world. Another layer of it. Could it be that this was not a dream at all, but in fact something real, after all?
I hardly dared hope such could be true, really true, but for the first time I considered actually pursuing something that had been tickling at the back of my mind ever since Tanen had vanished behind the door spawned by the momentous ground-splitting of the Ravine.
*
The steam had burned the gift from my fingers, that day. They had sparked with fizzling visions as I dragged Tanen over the rubble, across the bridge, and to his resting place across the way. The last thing I had felt, before the ability to glean insight through my fingers had gone dark completely, was the faint compulsion to search behind more doors, when I had opened the one that landed over Tanen and found him gone.
The move to the fortress had established itself as priority, after that, and I hadn't thought much of it since. But perhaps... Perhaps I ought to heed that last trickle of insight; honor that one last thing the gods had thought to present to me (if that was indeed what it was).
I went door-questing, after I woke up the next morning, trying the knobs of a dozen different slabs that I found propped this way or that way in the rubble. Behind all of them, I was met with disappointment. With each door, my heart gave a little flutter, hoping that this might be the one to open up to the dream world Tanen and I had been sharing. And then, I would open it, and only the other side of the field of rubble would greet me. The same side I could walk around to, if I left the door shut.
I returned to the fortress discouraged, but went out again the next day.
For weeks, I did this. Not necessarily from any great sense of determination, for the insightful prod
that had inspired the quest had been subtle, so very subtle, and in all honesty it seemed likely there was not really any substance to the hunch. Rather, it was merely something I took up to occupy my time, while the city was healing itself, because why not, really. I had to go out and scavenge anyway. I might as well explore any prospective portals along the way. After all, I knew some of them led to greater things. Ombri's winter was one of them, and wherever the Great Butterfly Ambassador had disappeared to another.
While I didn't quite give up hope of one day stumbling upon the portal that would prove my hunch correct, I stopped hoping that each and every door might be the one to prove it. It became merely a thing of habit – opening a door when I came to it. Peeking through, and then closing it.
More than a year passed.
And then, one day, it happened. I turned a knob, and pulled the slab open, and he stood there – just beyond the threshold. For a moment, I lost my ability to breathe. Instead, I blinked.
He didn't disappear.
"Tanen?" I whispered.
He smiled – real and dazzling, in a way that no dream world could ever top. "Hello, Siren."
In his hand, he held something straggly and roughly circular – a nest, I saw, when I at last let my eyes pause from feasting on the miracle that he was to wander down to his hold. A breath of wry astonishment chuckled out of me at the sight of it, and he held it up, offering it to me. I stepped over the threshold, bringing my hand up beneath his so that it cupped his fingers and, in turn, the nest as well, through him.
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