The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  Abrahann motioned for him to sit. “First, let us get you some clothes and eat a real meal—not that rind of cheese. Then I will answer your questions.”

  “No. You will answer this question now, damn you! Can you take it off?”

  Abrahann sighed. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his left hand to his right, gripped the ring between two fingers . . .

  . . . and gently slipped it off.

  Tyvian was speechless. Watching an iron ring slide off a hand was somehow . . . perverse. Alien. He fiddled with the one on his hand, but it did not budge.

  Abrahann slipped the ring back on. “Dress, eat, rest—then we will talk.”

  Tyvian planted his naked arse in front of the fire. “I’m not hungry and I’m not tired. We talk now.”

  Abrahann chuckled and sat across from him. He pulled a skillet from the wall and pulled down a pair of sausages from the beams. In a few moments, he had them sizzling over the fire. Tyvian’s mouth watered.

  “Let me answer the questions you want to ask: The Oracle is not lightly consulted and, were I you, I would leave it in peace. Yes, I do know of the Yldd. No, I will not tell you of them. As for myself: I am the one you seek. The one you have sought all these years but have not thought to give a name. I have been on this mountain for a long, long time. I have met many pilgrims who have toiled into the mountains, seeking the Vale. I have told them all to turn back. They seldom do.”

  “And those who go down into the Vale? What becomes of them?” Tyvian asked. He was not sure now whether his mouth watered from the scent of roasting meat or the idea that the Oracle was so near at hand.

  Abrahann shook the pan to flip the sausages. “It is a funny thing, knowledge. Men see it as a resource—a font of power and wisdom—but I wonder sometimes. I think perhaps the knowing of a thing can weaken more important concerns.”

  “Like what?”

  “Faith. Courage. Loyalty. Piety.” Abrahann watched the fire. “Only ask questions that need answers. For everything else, is not ignorance, bliss?”

  “But that assumes things like loyalty are undermined by the truth. Can’t they be strengthened by it, too?”

  Abrahann looked at him. His eyes were dark—a color Tyvian could not make out in the dim light of the cabin. They seemed deep as oceans; Tyvian found he could not meet his gaze. “For your almost forty years, have you ever known a perfect person? Has there ever been anyone who, once their secrets were laid bare, had not lessened in your eyes or the eyes of your fellows?”

  Tyvian found himself wanting to argue, but hadn’t he made the same arguments himself for years? Lies, his mother had always said, are every bit as useful as the truth, but have the advantage of being more flexible. Faith, loyalty, courage, piety—all traits Tyvian had exploited to varying degrees through his life. They were illusions that people clung to in order to make their world something they could understand and face.

  But still . . .

  Tyvian held up his ring hand. “Explain this to me, then. If the world is just miserable—if it’s just a lie—why does this device exist? Who would design such a thing? What good does it do?”

  Abrahann smiled. He flipped the sausages into a wooden bowl and offered it to Tyvian. “Why do you think the ring is concerned with the world?”

  Tyvian snatched up one of the sausages, not caring that it burned his fingers, and took a savage bite. He was so hungry, he found himself unable to stop chewing as he spoke. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s trying to make heroes of us, right? What else is a hero but someone who tries to save the world? What else can a hero be but some selfless naive fool with a sword and a white charger, rescuing maidens from towers and so on?”

  “You have it backward, Tyvian. The ring is not trying to make you a hero—the ring is trying to make you a better person. The hero part is all your idea.” Abrahann pointed at him. “Your soul made the ring do what it did; and your will made the decisions that led you here. The ring merely prevented you from doing evil things along the way.”

  “But what is the point of good deeds if they lead to bad ends?”

  Abrahann shrugged. “What good ends did you envision? World peace? An end to injustice? A sack of gold for every pauper and loving parents for every orphan?”

  Tyvian took a sip of warm beer. “You sound like my mother now—‘there is no justice’ and all that. Well, if the world is that terrible, then why bother being the only good man in it, eh? Why not throw the damned thing off my finger and have done? The good man comes to ruin among evil men, yes?”

  Abrahann smiled. “You make that sound as if it’s a bad thing.”

  Tyvian shook his head. “It seems as though everywhere I go there is some mystical crank dragging me out of a perfectly good demise only to lecture me about morality.” He got up and cast about for some clothing. “I’m going to the Vale now.”

  “Best wait for the storm to clear. Perhaps in the morning.”

  “Hang that—I’m going now.” Tyvian found a pair of leather breeches and snatched them up. They were a poor fit, but they would have to do.

  “The Oracle will not give you what you want, Tyvian.”

  Tyvian found a fur hat and stuffed it on his head. It smelled terrible. “Oh really? And what the hell do you know about what I want, mountain man?”

  “I think the bigger question is, what the hell do you know about it?” Abrahann countered.

  “You know what I want?” Tyvian said, dragging on a loose-fitting shirt and fur vest. “I want Artus to be alive. I want Sahand defeated and forgotten. I want to stop caring so much about what happens in the world and go back to merely exploiting it for profit. I want to be left the hell alone. Finally, the next time I’m about to freeze to death or drown or bleed out, I would like it very much if I was left to die in peace instead of waking up in another Kroth-spawned barn!”

  Abrahann shook his head. “No. You’re wrong.”

  “Kiss my arse.” Tyvian dragged Abrahann’s heavy fur cloak from the rafters and threw it over his shoulders.

  “Do not trust the Oracle, Tyvian. It is not what it seems.”

  “Neither are you, old man.” Tyvian pulled open the door and the snow swirled in. He paused. “Incidentally, which way is the Vale?”

  Abrahann pointed at the floor. “Down. Just go down.”

  Chapter 32

  The Oracle

  Whether by sorcery or the efforts of Abrahann, the path down from the cabin remained clear of the deepest snow—it was easy to find among the shifting drifts. The path itself was well-worn, the footsteps of a thousand pilgrims having cut it from the rock over the eons. It was an easy trip, such a contrast to the pain and blood and toil it had taken to get this far. Tyvian got a flash of Eddereon’s bushy smile, Artus’s earnest grin . . .

  . . . Voth’s deep, throaty laugh.

  He shuddered, almost lost his balance. He leaned on an outcropping of rock for a moment before going on. The snow had thinned away by now, the clouds had cleared, and the sun was rising over the mountains. A bright orange line cut across the valley beneath him, illuminating the green treetops and a flat, still lake that glowed like fire.

  The Vale.

  The stories of the Oracle were a cliché—something to give a children’s story that special gravitas, or to make one’s moral fable seem more profound. When Tyvian had first learned it was a real place, he had been incredulous—the idea of actual figures from history traipsing up into the northern reaches of the Dragonspine just to chat with some lady in a lake when they had perfectly good magi back at home seemed ludicrous. And yet here he was, doing the same. Hell, he was even a king. Life’s full of its little jokes, isn’t it?

  In time, the worn path turned from stone to dirt and moss. Tyvian was among the trees—the fabled glade where sprites traditionally stood guard and knights set camp, where lovers were cursed with confusion and brothers fought to the death, all before the Oracle set it all to rights. Now that he was here, seeing it with his own eyes, he again took stock
of the old stories and wondered at the truth of them. He thought, too, of the old man’s warnings—that the Oracle would not give him what he wanted. That it wasn’t to be trusted.

  In truth, he didn’t know what he wanted, but he didn’t trust anybody, not even the Oracle. He figured the two facts cancelled each other out.

  The Vale was silent. No birds singing in the branches of the trees, no small animals scurrying in the underbrush. Not even a breeze. Tyvian felt completely, totally alone, as though he’d stepped out of the world entirely.

  At the edge of the water, he peered into its depths. A haggard face looked back at him, an uneven beard stained with blood and two eyes sunken in their sockets. He opened his mouth to speak, but the haggard man did, too. It was his reflection. He reached up and ran a hand along his beard, noting the flecks of gray among the rust-red curls. “Gods,” he muttered. “I look like hell.”

  No image in the lake came to speak with him about it, however. Perhaps she was put off by his poor hygiene, though Tyvian couldn’t imagine too many people making it here while looking their best. He stood back from the water and swung his arms idly at his sides. “What now?”

  He decided to follow the edge of the lake, peering in occasionally to see if the Oracle was handy. Maybe she was restricted to certain parts of the lake. Maybe she liked to sleep in. He considered calling for her or lobbing rocks into the pond, but decided to err on the side of good manners and do what all the knights and heroes in the stories did: just stumble upon her. He even found himself considering how he might feign his surprise at encountering her. For all he knew, the pageantry was part of the whole deal.

  The lake cut into the side of the mountains, forming a small grotto with roots and stalactites overhead. Here, the calm surface of the water was disrupted by a little waterfall at one end—the source of the lake, Tyvian supposed. It made the seeing of reflections impossible, so he was about to turn around when he caught sight of something else: right beside the waterfall was a narrow flight of stairs leading to a fissure in the wall. Intriguing.

  He climbed the steps, taking care not to slip on the slick rock, wishing he had a torch or some kind of illumination. His eyes, though, quickly adjusted—he was not walking into pitch darkness, it seemed. There was a hole somewhere in the ceiling that admitted a single shaft of sunlight, angled steeply across a wide, flat chamber.

  At the center of this chamber stood another pool, this one dark as midnight and still as ice. Around its edge was laid a series of rectangular stones, each inscribed with a crude rune. Tyvian’s magecraft was not good enough to decode what they meant, but he’d seen similar before in ruins from the age of the Warlock Kings. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Given the sheer quantity of hair he had back there at the moment, this was saying something indeed.

  “Hello?” he called. There was no echo, but there should have been.

  Tyvian found his mouth had gone dry. With careful, shuffling steps, he approached the edge of the pool. He looked in.

  Instead of his reflection, he was looking at a tall woman clad in white, her face smooth and perfect, her hair the color of freshly fallen snow. Her eyes were black pools. When she spoke, her lips moved just slightly before her words could be heard, as though she were calling from a far, far distance. “Welcome, Tyvian Reldamar. I am the Oracle of the Vale.”

  Tyvian doffed his fur cap and delivered a graceful bow. “I am pleased to learn you are not, in fact, fictional.”

  The joke didn’t land. The woman’s expression changed not at all. “Ask what you wish to see, what you wish to know, and I will tell you.”

  Tyvian nodded. “I understand, yes. I have a few procedural matters to attend to first, if that’s all right.”

  The Oracle’s face did not move. “I do not understand.”

  Tyvian licked his lips. “First off, are you able to lie?”

  “Have I ever lied? In all the legends, in all the stories, is not the Oracle always found correct?” Tyvian couldn’t tell by her tone that she was offended or not, but she was definitely dodging the question. He put her down for a big “yes” in the “can you lie” category.

  “Second point of order: is there some kind of fee I need to pay, either up front or afterward, in exchange for this consultation?”

  “The knowledge comes freely to me. Why should it not flow freely to you, who have toiled so long to stand here? What would I wish of you if it was not? You have nothing I want, Tyvian Reldamar.”

  Tyvian looked down at his borrowed rags. She had a point. Either that or she was dodging the question again. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help but notice that you have a remarkable tendency to answer questions with additional questions. Is this going to be a theme?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “If so, I can always find augurs who are rather more direct back home.”

  “Ask your questions, Tyvian Reldamar.”

  “Any questions at all? As many questions as I want?”

  “Ask.”

  “All right.” Tyvian took a deep breath. “Tell me of the Yldd.”

  The Oracle’s expression darkened. Indeed, the whole chamber seemed to dim, as though the word itself sucked the light from the room. “Ask something else.”

  “No. You are the Oracle, I am the pilgrim—you have to answer my questions. So, out with it.”

  A long silence followed in which the Oracle hung there, a reflection in the water, but did not move or speak. Tyvian imagined she was wrestling with herself—her duty versus her desire not to speak of the Yldd.

  Finally, the Oracle closed her eyes and opened them again—a decision reached, perhaps. Then, she vanished. In her place in the pool was an image—a palace of some kind, or perhaps a city forum. In it sat thirteen robed and bearded men, people gathered at their feet, raising up their hands in supplication. “In the age of mighty Syrin, in the ancient city of Burza, there were thirteen learned men. They were the wisest and the mightiest of sorcerers, descendants of the chieftains of men who had learned at the foot of Hann, their god.”

  The scene changed, showing these same men linking hands around an elaborate sorcerous ritual, the veta shining with light. “Not satisfied with the knowledge they possessed, they searched for more—and more still. In time, all the secrets of the universe were revealed to them, so great was their power.”

  Tyvian grunted. “And now comes the fall, yes?”

  The scene changed to show those wise men again, but this time all of them haggard and ancient and skeletal, their eyes gleaming with cold green light. “They learned too much. They lost themselves in the knowledge. The world held no more wonder for them, no more joy. They became nothing but guardians of their hoard of secrets, forever cursed.”

  The scene changed a final time—thirteen men, fleeing a city aflame, climbing high into the mountains, their bodies unnaturally thin.

  The Oracle returned. “Now you know.”

  Tyvian cocked his head. “Ah, but I don’t. The story ended early—the thirteen men who, I presume, became the Yldd . . . what became of them? Where are they to be found?”

  The Oracle stood silent, as before.

  Tyvian grinned. “But I think I know. It’s obvious, really—thirteen men who learned everything there was to know, they would have learned the secret of Rahdnost’s Elixir, yes? Eternal life. An eternity of sitting in the mountains knowing everything.”

  “You know not of what you speak.”

  “And now I’ve caught you in a lie. Because I know I’m right. As a know-it-all myself, there is one thing I know for certain about know-it-alls.” Tyvian pointed at the Oracle and winked. “They’re just dying to tell people everything they know.”

  The Oracle said nothing, her white hair and white gown flowing in some invisible current beneath the surface of the pool. Tyvian pulled his eyes away from her. Instead, he squinted into the darkness of the chamber. “There you are!”

  Standing in the shadows, forming a ring around the pool and around Tyvian himself, stood
thirteen gaunt figures in black robes, every part of their bodies wrapped and hidden from view with the exception of a deep, dark shadow beneath a thick black hood. They stood perfectly still—still in a way only the dead could manage—but they were not dead. Tyvian was sure of it. “I assume I am speaking now with the Yldd, yes?”

  One of the thirteen stepped forward—or, rather, glided forward, as Tyvian saw no indication of legs moving or anything. It did not come into the light, but rather floated just beyond it. “Very clever, Tyvian Reldamar. You do the line of Perwyn justice.”

  Tyvian scanned the figures surrounding him. He could feel their collective gaze upon him—it was an alien thing, cold and distant. He felt a profound discomfort to realize they had been there the whole time as he spoke with the Oracle.

  As though they were reading his mind, the leader of the Yldd spoke. “A simple trick of misdirection. Even the stoutest of hearts quail at the sight of us now. The Oracle has served as an excellent medium for many millennia.”

  Tyvian licked his lips. “You can hear my—”

  “Your thoughts are known to us. Your desires. We know why you have come.”

  “Well, then.” Tyvian held up his ring hand. “I’m waiting.”

  “First you will ask us questions. Then we will discuss the iron ring.”

  “Says who?” Tyvian looked around at them. “Who’s in charge here, anyway?”

  A whispering rustled around the circle—a laugh? “No one,” it said.

  Tyvian kept holding up his ring hand. The Yldd simply floated there, waiting. It occurred to him that if they’d been hanging out in this dank little cave for thousands of years, the odds of him waiting them out were effectively nil. “Fine. How goes the war? The world? Catch me up.”

  The lead Yldd moved its black-wrapped arm to point into the pool. “Look. We will tell you.”

  Tyvian looked.

  And he learned the entire world had gone to hell in his absence—or further in that direction, anyway.

  He saw the armies of Saldor in tatters, limping across the Wild Territory or lying in heaps on the battlefield. He saw civil war in Eretheria, the remnants of Myreon’s rebellion crushed among the juggernauts of the Great Houses of Hadda, Camis, and Vora as they fought over the spoils of headless Ayventry and Davram—cities burning, farmland ravaged, famine not far behind.