by S. J. Ryan
The only witness was Matlid, who stood impassively. If an officer of the army had entered just then, Inoldia would have slain him on sight, lest the secret of her transformation be revealed. But Matlid was trusted with everything. Almost.
"So," Inoldia said between chews. "What goes on here?"
"The Plague takes its toll. Many talk of returning home for late-spring planting."
And bring the Plague to their villages, Inoldia thought. All to the better. How close they had come to winning this island without a battle!
"They'll see action soon enough," she answered.
She swallowed a big bite and willed the mass to her upper body. Having filled out her basic form, she concentrated on sculpting. Muscular arms, they wanted to see muscular arms. And of course, the bigger the chest – the louts.
Matlid coughed lightly. "Mistress, did – do you know of the sign in the western sky?"
"Tell."
"I've only heard second-hand, but many have witnessed. They say it was a great ball of fire that roared!"
"Undoubtedly only a thunderstorm."
Inoldia paused, remembering the words of the High Priestess. And the sky did seem to be getting rather active these days. First the comet in the south. Then the fuss about Moonstar. Now a fireball? Perhaps it would not be wise to dismiss.
"When did this happen?"
"In late afternoon, or early evening."
At that time, she would have been over the Lowlands, heading east, feet to the west. With the wind whipping at her ears, she might have missed the noise too. Well, it was probably nothing.
Matlid coughed again. "Mistress, another matter. I don't know if I should mention this. It seemed to have some importance to you at one time . . . . "
"Go on."
"You recall that you once gave orders for a certain woman if ever she was to appear in camp."
Matlid abruptly stepped back, for while she had seen her mistress in many forms, some so hideous as to cause men to faint, she had never before seen her mistress shudder.
Inoldia slowly looked up from her plate and said in a low voice, "Arcadia, of North Umbrick?"
"Yes, Mistress. That was the name she gave in registration."
Matlid waited blankly. She knew nothing about the Incident that had occurred ten years before. Inoldia had concealed details in the past, for Matlid was fond of children and would only become upset. But the girl today would no longer be a child . . . .
"Is she still in camp?"
"No, Mistress. Your orders were to have her depart immediately."
Inoldia had reasoned that if the girl still existed, then she might have the power to recall Inoldia's transformation-scent. And that could ruin everything.
"And did she take with her a full patrol, as I requested?"
"Yes, Mistress, with the other two members of the Leaf that were identified in camp."
"The Leaf!” Inoldia scowled. “If only we could rid Britan of those vexing insects, we'd have full control of this island and found the lost mother by now!”
Matlid bowed deeply.
As she resumed eating, Inoldia reflected that it couldn't possibly be the same girl. An unfortunate named Arcadia of North Umbrick, yes, but not the same. It could not be!
Ten years ago, when Inoldia had swooped upon the woman and the little girl gathering flowers by the stream, it had been just a routine assassination. But then something primordial had taken control. She had slashed until only shreds remained. Not even the Sisters could have restored those tatters of flesh to life. Not Pandora Herself!
That was the end of the matter until about a year ago. Valarion had off-handedly mentioned that Roman patrols venturing into the Northland reported of ambushes, apparently by the Leaf, and of a young woman fighter with flaming hair and 'extraordinary athleticism.' A fellow attacker had allegedly shouted toward her, "Arcadia!"
It is not a common name, but it could not be the same girl. But . . . if it was?
Inoldia heard a loud crackle. Her hand held a crumpled iron goblet.
"This girl," Inoldia said. "Did she have orange hair?"
"I was told she did not."
But what difference does hair color make if she has powers? Inoldia stroked her own red tresses.
Regaining composure, she unlocked the box at her feet. Under Inoldia's direction, Matlid removed parchment and stylus and took dictation. When finished, Inoldia scrawled her signature, the only thing she knew how to write, and Matlid lit the candle and pressed the wax with the private seal of the Tenth Sister of Wisdom.
"As soon as we leave this tent," Inoldia said, "give that to our special courier. Tell him that it must be delivered to the imperial residence in Londa by morning."
"Yes, Mistress."
As Inoldia watched the letter vanish within Matlid's robes, she pondered.
If this girl is whom we fear, are ten enough? Still, I have a battle to attend. What Valarion said was probably only his idea of a joke. If so, he will pay. Enough! Don't think of it more. It will drive you mad!
She hastily cleaned the last platter, burped loudly and arose. Her head brushed the top of the tent and she backstepped and nearly toppled.
"Curse this hulking top-heavy body, I'll never be used to it!"
But she was pleased with the sense of command it carried, though personally she could see no reason why baselines were so impressed with size. Oh well, not even they themselves fully understood their muddled minds.
She returned to the mirror and carefully placed the massive tiara of golden snakes with diamond eyes. She bowed at the reflection. There! Could the Boudica of Ancient Aereoth have been more impressive?
The servant was looking away, hands writhing.
"Matlid. Speak your thoughts."
"Mistress, if you please. My skin has started to wrinkle again, my bones ache in the morning chill."
Matlid was the closest Inoldia had ever been to any baseline human, and certainly none had proven more loyal for less maintenance. Inoldia often wondered if their relationship over the past century approached what humans referred to as having a pet.
"Of course. Queen Boudica can't have a crone as her servant girl." She clasped the old woman's face and let power flow, until the skin was smooth and the body no longer stooped. Then she buckled on the breastplate and said in deeper voice:
"Time for theater!"
14.
After healing Aralena, Matt had wolfed down three servings of potato soup and was ready to go to sleep. Few things are as fatiguing as sleeping seven centuries in biogel. But then he heard voices talking softly and excitedly outside, and saw silhouettes glimpsing into the hut, and he realized that his job was just starting.
"Ivan," he said, "rig for an all-nighter."
"Regular natural sleep is the best kind," came the canned response, but Matt was to be treated as an adult now, and so Ivan did as requested.
That evening, Matt was dragged to every hut in the village, healing young and old, male and female. As he went from home to home, men and women wept for joy and children danced behind him in growing numbers. Somewhere he heard a flute playing, and villagers cast long shadows as they danced around a bonfire.
Then, at one stop, it seemed that he had arrived too late. A family's father was wrapped in blankets and being solemnly dragged out of their hut. Without really thinking about it, Matt checked the body temperature and Ivan determined the time of death as a mere hour. He and Ivan defibrillated the corpse back to life. Suddenly the background babbling and dancing and flute stopped.
“Uh,” Matt said to the astonished faces. “Turns out he wasn't that dead.”
The petitions for his services resumed, though for a while Matt noticed that the voices were lower and stammered more, and less eye contact was being made.
Village followed village. Sunrise came and it was mid-morning and he was ready to flop onto the mattress, but then emissaries from Hawk's Grove and River Fork and Berry Glen begged his presence. The sun had long set before
Tret returned him to Fish Lake.
Ivan advised, "Regular natural sleep – "
"Yeah, I know."
He had ended the day back in the hut of Tret and Layal. Layal was already sensitive that Matt had an aversion to non-printed meat (aka 'corpse food' in twenty-second century slang) and served him a simple meal of bread and carrots and potatoes. The family raptly watched him gulp it down as if it were their high entertainment of the season.
“Are you a god?” Aralena asked.
Matt barely suppressed a choke. “No, I just come from a place where medical science is more advanced.”
“What does 'medical' mean? What does 'science' mean?”
“Aralena,” Layal said. “Let the man eat.”
“If he is a man,” Tret said.
Matt swallowed hard. “Uh, what do you mean?”
“You look as if you are only a boy. Just how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
He saw their astonishment, then remembered that years were different here. With Ivan's consultation, he corrected, “I meant, twenty-one.”
“Still quite young,” Tret said. “For who you are.”
Conversation lapsed after that. Tret went out to get firewood. Aralena wandered out to play with a friend. Layal cleaned the cookware. A trickle of visitors was waiting for him after the meal, and then he felt drowsy and decided not to have Ivan stop him from sleep. Before he could ask where he could rest, Layal had already laid out bedding. The mattress and pillow were straw, but in his fatigue they felt as soft as the highest resolution of printed duck down.
He awoke refreshed in the empty hut, and heard a voice speaking outside at length, without interruption. Matt emerged and found the villagers gathered around the fire in the village center.
"And then one day the rabbit saw the great yellow hru – " The storyteller halted at Matt's approach.
"Don't mind me," Matt said. He sat on a spare log. "Please go on."
The storyteller replied, "Wizard, we'd rather hear your tales." The rest nodded and gave verbal affirmation.
"Not much to tell," Matt said.
"I believe there is very much to tell," Ivan said. "Considering their presumed lack of basic scientific knowledge – "
"My boat was in a storm," Matt said. "The sail was damaged. I drifted off course and ended up here."
They stared at him raptly, and then the storyteller said, "You speak metaphorically, of course."
It was Matt's turn to stare. "Why do you say that?"
"Many have witnessed that you fell from the sky," the story teller said. "Your boat must then be one that sails between stars, and gives passage between the worlds that circle around the stars."
Matt nearly fell off the log. "You – you believe that worlds circle stars?"
"Is . . . is that not correct?" The storyteller looked at the others. "Alas, I presume knowledge, but it is only the folk tales that our fathers of our fathers told us. Please tell us then of the truth."
"Actually, what you said just now sounds about right. So what do you believe the stars are?"
"Stars are suns."
"And what do you believe is a sun?"
"It is a great ball of fiery gas."
"How big?"
"Thousands of kilometers . . . no, millions? Someone, bring the book on astronomy from the library!"
Matt thought, Book. On Astronomy.
And that was what the boy bought back and breathlessly placed into Matt's hands. Not a regular book composed of electromagnetic storage media, of course, but the old fashioned kind, made of pulp called 'paper' grown from trees and cut into rectangular sheets and bound together in what Matt knew was called a 'binding.'
Fortunately, Matt had been fascinated with ancient technology when he was younger and knew how to operate the book without assistance. Simply pry open the cover. Gently stroke the corners, and the pages lift one at a time.
Like the verbal language of the villagers, the printed language of the book was Standard.
He leafed through the pages and let Ivan take pictures. He would scrutinize the text later, but for the moment he focused on the illustrations, diagrams, and tables.
"Do you find it?" the storyteller asked. "The size of the sun?"
In the back of the book was an appendix with a table listing the planets of the Delta Pavonis system, with sizes and orbits and other parameters. The radius of the sun itself was listed as 850,000 kilometers, which was close enough to leave Matt more than a little rattled. And they use the metric system!
"Yeah. Uh, where did this book come from?"
The boy pointed. "In the front is a page that is blank, and after that a page with the title of the book. On the other side of that page it will say where it came from."
Matt nodded sheepishly and flipped to the front of the book. He read aloud, "Printed by House of Blen, Londa, Britan. You mean, like London, Britain?"
The storyteller answered, "If by 'London' you mean 'Londa,' which is the largest city of Britan."
"Would you happen to also have an atlas? I mean, a book of maps?"
The boy dashed and returned with a second book. The drawings were crude and a little distorted, but unmistakably showed the lay of the island, as well as the archipelagos beyond, just as in the satellite view telemetry provided by Herman the Space Station.
Matt was immediately struck with the correspondence of terrestrial names. He remarked to Ivan, "It's like they overlaid a map of Earth on top of this planet's geography and tried to match up as best they could."
“Who are 'they?'” Ivan asked.
“Good question. Oh, look here. See how some of the place names on the northwest coast of 'Britan' have been put on the northeast coast. I wonder why they did that.”
“It is likely just an error. Human copyists are prone to make mistakes, which then continue to appear in later editions. Propagation of transcription errors has happened many times in the history of terrestrial cartography. For example – ”
“Uh, yeah.” Aloud, Matt said, "So this island is called, 'Britan.' B-R-I-T-A-N, without a second 'I' after the 'A.'"
The storyteller crinkled his nose. "Why would there be a second 'I?' Would not the name then be pronounced, 'Brih-TANE?'"
Too-Shay, Matt thought. As Ivan had remarked, given the passage of time, spelling and pronunciation variants were to be expected – and sometimes, Matt reflected, might be for the better.
He quickly turned the pages, so that Ivan could get a picture of each. Then he handed both books back. And then he thought about what he really wanted to know.
"Do you have anything about the beginning of the world? Uh, not about the astronomy or geology. I mean, about the history of the people?"
The boy scurried back to the library and returned this time with a pair of books, one big and thick, the other big but thin. The title of the thick book was, History of Aereoth. Matt thumb-fanned through the picture-less text, letting Ivan photograph each page.
“Summary?”
“Allowing for transcription errors, it appears to be a collection of selected readings from ancient historical writers, including Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybius, Strabo, Diodorus, Titus, Livy, Plutarch, Tacitus – “
“I get it. So it's a book on Earth history.”
“Yes, Matt, but only ancient or 'classical' European history, and only up to but not including the period variously known as the Crisis of the Third Century, the Imperial Crisis, or The Anarchy.”
Matt shut the book and examined the title on the cover. “'And again, 'Aereoth' is probably Earth.”
“Yes, Matt. Your earlier hypothesis appears to be confirmed.”
Matt examined the title of the second, thinner book: How the World of Ne'arth Came to Be. “And this planet is called 'Ne'arth.'”
“The name appears to be a contraction of 'New Earth.'”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
Matt put the thick book aside and opened the thin book – which, because it was thin
, he intended to read directly. He quickly realized from the large font and full-color illustrations that it was a children's picture book. Well, he thought, have to begin somewhere.
Because he wanted commentary, he read aloud to his patiently-awaiting audience as he flipped from one illustration to the next:
"'One day, long ago, there were Lords of Aereoth who were called Star Seeders, who sowed seeds on other worlds of other suns. So they made a special Box, and sent it to this world, Ne'arth, and out of the Box came everything we see, the plants and animals, and humanity itself, and even the air.'"
Matt turned the page. The title at top of the page read: The Box That Everything Came In.
The box in the illustration was about a meter long by half a meter wide and high, about the size and shape of a beverage cooler for a camping trip. Despite the illustrator most likely having no idea as to their purposes, Matt recognized the accurate portrayal of antennae, lenses, and spore release ports. And of course, he recognized the logo of the Star Seed Project.
"A seeder probe," he said to Ivan. “So they actually went ahead and did it.”
He flipped through the rest of the pages, looking for a specific number, and found none. He asked aloud, "When did this happen? Can you give me a rough date for when the history of your world began?"
The men and women looked at each other and shrugged.
"If it helps in any way to know," the storyteller said, "it is now the Year of Our World, 701."
Matt had Ivan convert to Earth years and then back date. Ivan replied, "Their calendar's Year One would correspond to Standard Year 2273."
Matt subvocaled, "So a seeder probe arrived here a little over a century after I left Earth. But that would mean they had to have launched it in the twenty-first century.”
“By 'they' you mean the leaders of the Star Seed Project,” said Ivan, always a stickler for pronoun-identification.
“Yeah. The blog rumors were true. Roth must have known, at least. There's no way the proton cannons could have been targeted toward Delta Pavonis without his authorization.”
Matt became aware of their stares and made a mental note to be more careful about not appearing to be talking to himself. No more punching virtual buttons in the air when people are looking, he also thought. He continued with Ivan, “Back in the twenty-first century, though, the proton cannon arrays weren't powerful enough to send people . . . so when did the people come?"
