The Seeds of Dissolution

by William C. Tracy

  “Councilor Ayama,” Jhina said.

  She jerked her head to Vethis, lounging against a wall. “I want him out of here before I give any more information. This is a Council matter.”

  Vethis’ head came up at that, and he popped away from the wall, mouth pulled down like a pouting toddler. “I demand satisfaction for my claim!” he said, before anyone else could answer. His voice was high, shrill, and Rilan would have laughed if she didn’t feel so sick. “There is no evidence this matter is anything but what I have said.”

  Rilan caught Feldo’s sigh, though he tried to hide it. “I…must agree with Majus Vethis,” he said. ‘Unfortunately’ hung unsaid. “You have not yet said anything to show this is a matter only for the Council.”

  Rilan watched the others, weighing her options. Her chance to control the flow of her story was gone. Vethis would not stop until she removed his made-up accusation. Vague evasions would never work with Feldo. The truth, then.

  “My apprentice cannot add her voice to mine because I do not know where she is. She was separated from me early this morning when we encountered one of the voids Majus Cyrysi warned you of. You should be receiving reports, if you haven’t already, of a city on Methiem destroyed by a void.”

  There was silence, then everyone began talking at once. Rilan didn’t even try to parse five different conversations. She watched the Effature, the only other silent one. He watched her back, but his bland, kindly face was sad.

  Finally, Jhina thumped the table with a fist, and the room quieted.

  “We have had preliminary reports of some disturbance in Dalhni. It is time for you to tell us your important news, Councilor,” she said. “You have our attention. All of it.”

  “First, he leaves,” Rilan said, swinging a thumb at Vethis.

  Jhina nodded, her mane of hair waving back and forth with the motion. “I believe we all regard the matter raised by Majus Vethis to be satisfactorily answered.”

  There was a squawk of protest from the majus, but Rilan had said enough to ensure this was treated as a Council matter. A small victory. She wished the she could feel any satisfaction, instead of nausea. Jhina looked quickly to the other councilors to receive their nods of acceptance.

  “You will repeat none of what you heard here, majus,” Feldo cautioned. He leaned forward, staring into Vethis’ pale face.

  “But—” began Vethis.

  “Not a word,” Feldo growled. “We will check.”

  Vethis opened his mouth again. Rilan was surprised he had the compunction.

  Feldo raised his eyebrows. “You wish to debate the Council?”

  Vethis closed his mouth and glowered, fingering his moustache. After a few moments he gave a half-hearted bow. “By your leave, Councilors,” he said stiffly.

  “Go,” Jhina said.

  Tension left with Rilan’s odious rival. Now I just have to deal with the worst news I can think of, and— Father. She kept her face neutral with an effort, but there were tears in her eyes again. No weakness.

  “He won’t keep silent,” she said. “You should have let me raise this as a Council issue.”

  “We have ways to deal with him,” Freshta countered. “Am still waiting for explanation of why apprentice is missing.” Rilan tightened her lips. The other councilors were more tactful than the Pixie, but their expressions said the same.

  Rilan took in a deep breath, let it out. Just make it through without breaking down. She began her story.

  * * *

  “She has been gone for quite a long time,” Origon said, pacing the length of his carpet. He had checked the dimming walls every few minutes, it seemed. It was getting close to night. Rilan had been gone for over three darkenings.

  “This one has made such observations several times,” Caroom said placidly. They had elected to stay until Rilan returned, and both they and Inas now occupied Origon’s living room. The young man was pale, and had his knees up under his arms on the couch, staring at nothing.

  “I worry for her conduct with the Council. Not only are our apprentices lost, but with her father—” Origon turned to the Benish. He ached to focus on Sam, and Enos, to contact Mhalaro and what the scientist had found out about the Drains. But Rilan’s father. He had met the man several times—admired him, in a sort of morbid, terrified way, though the man was only a couple cycles older than him.

  Rilan’s father had been the kind of man who could survive anything, pushing until the forces of nature gave way in front of him. It was easy to see where Rilan got her determination. The Drains were not a force of nature. They were abominations. He had to stop them, for his lost song, for Rilan’s father, for Sam and Enos.

  “I greatly respect the councilor, and by extension, that one’s progenitor.” Caroom was leaning against a wall, as the Benish were not well equipped to sit. Their torchlight eyes twinkled as they regarded Origon. The Nether translated the expression as a sign of true grief. “However hard the last few days have been for, hmm, all,” they waved a hand at their apprentice, watching them blankly from Origon’s couch, “these here must now concern ourselves with the voids—the ‘Drains’. This one believes that term may be more accurate, now one has been seen. In any case, they are, hmm, more important than they appear.” Caroom’s gnarled toes gripped the carpet as they pulled upright.

  Origon forced himself to stop pacing. Finally, another majus accepted his term for the anomalies, and thought the Drains had to be stopped at any cost. His eyes fell on Inas, white-faced, and trembling. Origon hoped he wouldn’t be sick on his carpet. Still, the young man reminded him of Sam, when he first arrived in the Nether. If not for the next generation, why were they stopping the Drains?

  “How are you faring, Inas?” he asked.

  “I must get my sister back,” Inas whispered. His voice was raw, eyes unfocused. Origon frowned. This was not Sam’s panic, but something quick-growing and wild. The boy was devoted to his sister, surely, but the physical signs were concerning, and Origon wished Rilan were here to tend to Inas. Comforting people was not his strongest attribute.

  “We must be waiting for news from Methiem,” Origon said. On a whim, he went to the communication System buried in the knick-knacks on a display table. He barely ever used the thing, preferring face to face communication, but tonight it was broadcasting official news from Methiem. The news of Dalhni had flown across all ten homeworlds in the last several darkenings.

  The System arose in a swirl of colors. A non-majus wouldn’t be able to see that part, of course. They would only see the image it projected. The Systems were fairly expensive, both in cost and in song, contributed by maji. Every full majus was required to have one, paid for jointly by the offices of the Effature and the Council. Non-maji could buy them, at great expense.

  An emergency report about the situation on Methiem scrolled in letters the Nether translated to Origon’s brain. It was the same message as it had been. Origon was about to switch it off when another line of text appeared. “There is news.”

  Caroom stumped over to the terminal. Inas stayed on the couch, rocking slightly. Origon watched him for a moment to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.

  “Dalhni is mostly destroyed by the effects of the void—the Drain,” Caroom read. “The city’s Symphony is too changed for maji who have been there to, hmm, return, but a majus has traveled there from a nearby town, and made a portal to the Nether to re-establish communications. Survivors say the, hmm, disturbance in the sky is no longer in evidence, ceasing to grow this afternoon, then suddenly drifting away into the, hmm, atmosphere.”

  Origon beat a fist into his other palm. “They will have to spread the new melody of Dalhni through the maji before we can be making a portal there. Once again, we lose the chance to study it.”

  “Would this one have preferred the Drain stayed?” Caroom asked.

  Origon shot a look at them. Of course he didn’t want more damage and death. “I am not in favor of more chaos,
especially not with my apprentice missing, but the aberrations must be studied. It is the only way to stop them from causing more damage.”

  “This self agrees,” Caroom said. “Though if these here are to, hmm, apply logic instead, there may be more answers than thought.”

  Origon eyed the other majus. What had the Benish neglected to tell him? “Meaning?”

  “This one knows of three Drains, yes?” They gestured to Origon.

  “Four,” he said. “The first on Methiem’s moon, the one at ChinRan, the one that was driving Sam here, and the one in Dalhni.”

  “Hmmmm,” Caroom rumbled for a moment. “That is unfortunate.”

  Origon raised his thick eyebrows. He wanted to shake the information out of the Benish.

  “Otherwise,” Caroom explained, their voice agonizingly slow, “all Drains have occurred on or near Methiem. It is enough to draw conclusions. The, hmm, outlier is Sam’s.”

  Origon hadn’t thought of that pattern. “You are right,” he mused. “Maybe there is to be something special about the Methiemum. Sam is one of them, even if he comes from another homeworld. Rilan has confirmed this.”

  Caroom nodded their head with a creak. “Then there is a possibility the Methiemum have been, hmm, targeted.”

  Targeted. A thrill of excitement lifted Origon’s crest. A small difference in wording generated so many more questions.

  “You are saying the Drains are not natural occurrences.” Origon stared at the wall, letting the Symphony run through his head, tagging the trilling phrases defining the airflow and speech in the room. It helped him think. He had been so busy trying to find out how to stop them, he hadn’t considered where they came from. The Drains were the opposite of natural. They defied all laws of the universe.

  “It is a possibility,” Caroom repeated.

  “Someone is trying to hurt me and my sister?” Inas said from the couch. His voice was still weak.

  Origon frowned at him. “I am doubting that,” he said. Both he and Sam were overly dramatic at times. Origon shook his head at the oversimplification of youth.

  “The question stands,” Caroom said. “What one would, hmm, do this thing?”

  Origon was about to reply when the door banged open. Rilan stood in its frame, pale, with bruises around her eyes. He wondered if she had been sick. She did not take care of herself when she was stressed. Origon went to her quickly, pulling her inside.

  “Are you well, hmm, Councilor?” Caroom said. Their eyes flickered in concern.

  Rilan’s face went even whiter, somehow, and she clutched at Origon’s arms, putting a significant portion of her weight on him. She was lighter than he remembered.

  “I’m afraid not, Caroom,” she said weakly. “You will be the first to know. It’s no longer ‘Councilor.’ It’s just ‘Majus’.”

  Origon blinked at her, not comprehending. “You no longer wish to be addressed as ‘Councilor’?” He felt stupid, even as the words left him.

  “They removed me. Unanimously.” Rilan took a few aimless steps away from him, then turned back. “All of them. Even the Effature voted.” She stopped, hands grasping at nothing. “He was only there to stop Vethis, he said, but after what I told them—” She stopped again. “I lost two apprentices, Ori,” she said, then collapsed into a chair. “And my father.” Her gaze was far away.

  Origon stared back, his mind blank. His crest was rippling with anxiety, and he couldn’t control it. He didn’t know what to say.

  Rilan pushed back out of the chair. “I’m going to bed. I’m done for today. I pray to all the gods that tomorrow is better.” She walked toward the door, then stopped, as if she didn’t know where to go.

  “Stay here,” Origon told her.

  “Thank you.” Rilan’s voice was soft, her back to him. “I will.”

  “Should I come with you?” he asked.

  Rilan turned, watched him for a long time. Caroom and Inas faded from Origon’s notice. They had not shared a bed for many cycles, and he had never offered directly, after they parted ways. He had no idea what made him say that, now of all times. He waited, like a small animal trying to avoid a predator’s notice.

  “No,” Rilan answered eventually. “I want to be alone tonight. I’ll use the spare bed, since Sam isn’t—” She broke off and swallowed, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Isn’t here.” She turned to go, turned back. “Thank you.”

  Origon watched her retreat, braid swinging side to side. He also hoped tomorrow would bring a better day.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lost

  -“The Dissolution is coming, and to counter the death that will ensue, we must create a coalition of those standing for life.”

  Slithen the Dreamer, Sath Home, 902 A.A.W.

  Sam lifted his head. Not dead. He blinked bleary eyes and shivered. It was cold, but not the numbing, deathly cold of before. It was a brisk winter day, though sunlight touched the ground instead of the pitch blackness of before.

  Before.

  The claws of panic rose up, and he huddled into the brick wall. Enos stirred, buried in his side. She raised her head, eyes hollow and pained.

  The Drain. It was gone, and the sky was visible through a small gap in the buildings above them. Frost dusted the ground. Where did it go? Something that big can’t just disappear.

  “We are alive.” Enos pushed away, and Sam instantly missed her warmth, missed her resting against him.

  We are alone. Lost, in an unfamiliar, dead, city. He felt sick, and tried to grip the ground with one hand. The other dug into his vest pocket, and found his watch still there. He hadn’t lost that, too.

  “I can’t—can’t move,” he breathed. Panic thrilled through him. The brief moment of alertness was fading into the morass that accompanied a full attack. His vision dimmed to Enos’ round face. His hands dug at his shirt, his pants, scraped the watch down his side. Can’t get back.

  “…having one of your…” Enos’ voice faded in and out. He was barely conscious of her getting to her feet. He clutched at her boots.

  You can’t leave me too. I’ll be completely alone. He could speak, tell her that. Except he couldn’t.

  “…with me…can you? …think…can,” He couldn’t understand, except she was leaving him. Just like everyone else. Sam huddled into himself, fell over. His shoulder slid across the frosty ground.

  “…get answers. …where the Drain went…sky…others.”

  “Don’t,” he croaked out, but he couldn’t tell if he had said the word or not. His eyes closed. He tried to open them. He got one open, enough to see Enos’ boots walking away from him.

  Time passed.

  Sam felt a shiver course through his body. Cold. The Drain. He was on his side, in the alley. How long was I here? Moving his head was a challenge.

  She’s gone. She’s had enough and finally left me. He was curled up on an alien planet, somehow populated with humans—Don’t think about that for now—having survived a disaster defying the laws of the universe. And aliens and magic were real. And he could use magic.

  Why the hell can’t I be normal?

  Sam felt strong enough to look around the alley. His view was sideways, as his face was in the dirt. It was cold, and Enos was still gone.

  Unclench your muscles. His watch had made an impression in his hand. He lifted it to his ear. He was breathing several times for every beat. I’m hyperventilating. One beat, one breath. A little slower. One beat, one breath. Better.

  Sam put one shaky hand to the wall behind him, pushed away. Sitting. I can do that.

  More time passed.

  Sam checked his pulse, his breathing. It wasn’t normal, but he was out of the worst of the attack. He checked the alley. I’ve been here for a while. It’s not so strange to me. We all walked here together. He’d have to walk to the end of side street to find the main road.

  Standing is a good start. He got to his knees, his feet. The watch timed his mov
ements, letting him know time was still passing.

  He took one step, and a gust of wind blew against him. Then he was back against the wall, curled fetal. Try again. You cannot stay here forever. You must move forward. Even his thoughts felt strange to him.

  Sam closed his eyes, blocking out the unfamiliar city. In the darkness, the Symphony came to him, no longer fractured, but beautiful and whole again, if wounded. It was slower, in a minor key.

  The music relaxed him, playing against the notes that made his song. He let the Symphony of Communication unfold in his mind, tracing the trills and cadenzas of weather patterns in the sky. He caught the trail of bird flight above his head, a series of tremolos. However, the ground beneath him was dead and drained of energy. There were no grace notes of insect signals. It would take a long time for this city to recover.

  Gradually, he realized his own notes fitted into the Symphony, outlining his impact in this environment. It was hard to hear, like looking at the back of his head between two mirrors. He felt far back into his mind, where panic always reigned. It affected him and this place too. He was communicating with his surroundings.

  Does my song show what I do? My experiences? Is that in the House of Communication? He traced themes and solos, connecting his actions to the alley, to the fading piano of Enos’ words to him. There was a broken strain, a dissonant percussive piece far louder than it should be in relation to the others around it. His panic, as others saw it. It was in syncopation with his heartbeat, in sixteenth notes.

  He grasped the notes of his song, lowering the pitch and the strength of the music, until it was not a mad race, but a soft beat. I just used my song to adjust—my song? Fatigue bit at him, not quite like when the Drain had taken his notes. Was that a permanent change? He wasn’t sure.

  Sam opened his eyes, and the alley seemed less strange. He unclenched his muscles, took a deep breath of fresh air. He stood up. I can do this. One foot in front of another.