“I’ve learned how strong and passionate they are, how curious they are, and how cunning they are,” she ticked off on her fingers, sparing me and Astyral a glance. “I’ve discovered things about them that I’d never dreamed of, ways of looking at the universe implicit to their ephemeral condition. They epitomize the same greatness we ourselves aspired to, in the past.”
“And look where those aspirations took us,” Aronin Ladas said, snidely. “Our great civilization all but destroyed itself, in this realm. Thanks to such devotions.”
“It wasn’t a devotion to curiosity or valor that lead to our fall,” Haruthel countered. “It was our own arrogance. When the Rulathi delegation arrived in force, my lords, did they fault our devotion to tradition? Or did they reprove us for our poor decisions? Nay, they concluded that it was our arrogance and unwillingness to adapt to the rise of the fanatical houses that caused our fall.”
“And, as a consequence, stuck us with the duty of overseeing the humani,” Micrethiel said, shaking her head. “Which leads us to our current crisis . . .”
“Humanity was never meant as a punishment,” Lilastien pointed out. “It was an opportunity to redeem ourselves for our past sins. An opportunity to explore the challenge of a new people, entirely different than the Alon or the Vundel.”
“An excuse to keep us from rebuilding our civilization,” Lord Letharan said, darkly. “I, too, see the humani as retribution for what happened to Castabriel, Noniel, Hemeileva and Ikueniel, and the wars that followed. The gurvani uprising. The Karshak’s release of that horror. The rise of Korbal. Now this . . . humanity is the burden we bear for our past sins,” he insisted.
“You know, we can hear you?” I reminded them. “That was the attitude that pushed you to purposefully lose track of our own culture and civilization, after Perwyn fell,” I reminded him.
“Your own people ensured that, well enough,” he smirked.
“Yet it remains true,” I insisted. “Instead of allowing us to retain what civilization we had, you encouraged its fall,” I accused. “You saved our people at the cost of our heritage. You treat us as half-intelligent creatures – mortals – but you encouraged the institutions that embodied our greatness, such as it was, to fall to ruin. If you were entrusted to overseeing humanity, whether as punishment or boon, you’ve failed in the spirit of the charge, regardless of your execution of the letter.”
“That’s rather arrogant of you, Spellmonger,” Micrethiel sneered. She was an excellent sneerer. “You dare lecture us, who ensured the bulk of your population escaped Perwyn when it sank due to their own foolishness? Your people are still here – goodness, they grow like a fungus!”
“As there are no better representatives of humanity available, I’ll stand for us . . . fungi,” I agreed, evenly. “If you were tasked with our guardianship, then I accuse you, oh immortals, of screwing it up. You accepted the task grudgingly, most of you,” I said, looking around the table. “You let us get small and stupid, shorn from our heritage and forced to re-create what civilization we have from near scratch. You like us that way,” I emphasized.
“That is a gross over-simplification,” Master Haruthel said, anxiously.
“Ephemeral, self-obsessed, and ignorant of our true place on Callidore,” I continued. “That’s how you like us. When magic arose unexpectedly in my people, you pushed us to master it at the expense of our own civilization. When we sank our initial colony, you took the people to the mainland, but not the rest of our civilization. Within three generations we were no better than Tal Alon.”
“That is not at all how things went,” Haruthel insisted. “There were other factors at play. And betrayal,” he said, looking meaningfully toward Lilastien. “The danger of the Vundel being alarmed was great. Had we attempted to recover your tekka, as you call it now, it would have called unwanted attention to . . . to . . .”
“To the problem we, ourselves, started, if you wanted to be objective about it,” Lilastien said, dryly. “After all, had we not exiled the horizon, things would have played out much differently, I imagine.”
“You dismiss one peril for another?” asked Micrethiel. “That was the smartest decision this council ever took.”
“The humani would have solved their own problems, without our interference,” Lilastien countered, hotly. “Instead you forced their hand. And compelled them to sacrifice their greatest asset.”
“They seem to have replaced it with their pesky divinities,” Aronin Ladas replied. “The horizon never produced something like snowstone. We know their divine magic was involved in its creation,” he said, off-handedly. “Yet we do not know how. Because the wizard says he does not know.”
“I would say, rather, that the divinities rose in power in response to the exile,” countered Lilastien. “Of necessity, to keep humanity from becoming a mere client species of the Alon.”
“Oh, that’s mystical nonsense!” dismissed Letharan. “They were a mere by-product of humanity’s unstable psychology. Had we been allowed to intervene more forcefully, we might have kept them from becoming the power they have.”
“Don’t you think humanity’s psychology got a bit unstable when their last connection to their original civilization was removed?” countered Onranion, speaking at counsel for the first time. “My lords, within a century of the horizon being lost, Perwyn sank. And the gods arose in the waves of her inundation. The two are not unconnected.”
“I don’t understand,” Astyral said, clearing his throats. “My lords and ladies, you keep speaking of the exile of the horizon,” he said, confused. “Yet I see it every time I look out the window. Is this some Alkan idiom my poor, ignorant human brain is not comprehending?”
Lilastien sighed. “No, it is not,” she said, guiltily. “The horizon we speak of is not the boundary where the sky meets land or sea,” she explained. “In this context, the horizon means the UNSS New Horizon. The great ship that sailed between the stars to bring your race to Callidore.”
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Oh,” she said, thinking of something else. “And it’s where the Forsaken are,” she admitted.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The Legend Of The Lost Horizon
“I think that’s a good place for a recess,” Lord Letharan said, quickly. “Perhaps long enough for the human delegation to . . . catch up on historical events,” he said, rising.
“And who is to tell them, my lords?” Lilastien asked. “Do you trust me to? I was, after all, involved in the matter, in some small way.”
“I shall assist in the instruction,” Master Haruthel said, to the rest of the council. “I will ensure an accurate retelling of the tale is made.”
“That would be appreciated,” I said, my head whirling at the news. “As soon as you possibly can.”
The meeting broke, and Master Haruthel led us to a smaller chamber, high-ceilinged enough to make us comfortable. Lilastien poured some unfamiliar wine-like beverage for us all – my apprentices, included – and we sat on the cushions provided, while the two Alka Alon told us the story of humanity on Callidore.
Short version.
“Unlike most of the races the Vundel permitted to settle on Callidore, humanity came to them,” Lilastien began. “They appeared out of the sky, having crossed the great void from their homeworld not with magic, but by purely mechanical means. Their mighty ship sailed through the airless void for an age before it found Callidore and . . . woke up.”
“Woke up?” I asked, curious.
“It was a colony ship,” she explained. “With your short lives and the vast distances they covered, the reasonable answer was to suspend the lives of the colonists while in transit. The New Horizon was mighty. It contained an entire civilization in a type of stasis. Just over a quarter of a million humani colonists were frozen within its vastness. Its storehouses and workshops contained everything your people needed to adapt their colony to a new world – even create one from scratch, if need be,” she said, im
pressed. “All without the benefit of magic.”
“It really was quite impressive to us,” Onranion agreed. “To understand the nature of the quantum world without the benefit of its direct experience was unfathomable. To appreciate the nuances of electromagnetism, gravity, and all the other elements of nature through the brute force of mathematics and science? Exhausting! No wonder you lot write everything down!”
“The arrival of the New Horizon around Callidore—”
“Around?” asked Astyral, this time.
“The ship was far too great and, in its way, too delicate to land on the world,” explained Master Haruthel. “Nor was it designed to. It was three miles long,” he said, holding his arms out wide for emphasis. “When it came to this world, it stayed in the sky. But it had smaller ships that ferried the colonists and their equipment to the surface,” he explained. “Even in the Void, your people were adept mariners.”
“When the New Horizon finally arrived, much had already been settled,” Lilastien continued. “The advance scouts of your people made contact with the most advanced civilization they found – on land. The High Kingdoms of the Alka Alon, in the distant realm of Lois Tava.”
“Distant realm? What realm is this?” Mavone asked. “Pentandra will want to know.”
“This is the realm of Kunostis,” Haruthel said, as if that was obvious. “Entirely different.”
“But still subject to the same rules as all Alon, under our agreement with the Vundel. When the humani requested permission to settle, after a few years of hemming and hawing the High Kingdoms deferred the subject to the Vundel, in council, figuring they would reject the request.”
“To everyone’s surprise, the Vundel granted it,” Onranion picked up. “They granted permission, and strongly recommended that the humani be allowed to settle in eastern Kunostis and the isles nearby . . . the region you now know as the Five Duchies. And Perwyn, of course.”
“And Unstara, the Eastern Islands, the Northrealms, the . . .” Lilastien reminded him.
“Essentially a couple of sub-continents and a number of archipelagos in what the Vundel consider one of the most damaged portions of the world,” admitted Haruthel. “Though many among the Alon were loath to grant even that.”
“Their reasoning was that if the Alon had not managed to heal the land in ten thousand years, and kept encountering issues that spread to other regions, it was humanity’s turn to apply their science and civilization to the problem,” Onranion continued. “For some of us – notably most of the Avalanti clans – this was a welcome blessing, particularly in the bounty of new trees from your homeworld to marvel upon,” he admitted. “Some liberal Versaroti houses were, likewise, willing to experiment with the new race. Aspects of your people were fascinating. Others were horrifying.”
“I empathize,” I muttered. “Go on.”
“After about seventy years of exploration and negotiation, the colonial agreement was made. Another fifty years of intensive terraforming of Perwyn, and more long-term terraforming—”
“Terraforming?” I asked. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
Lilastien sighed, frustrated. But she ventured on. “Yes. When your folk came here, eastern Kunostis was a wasteland, by anyone’s standards. What gains the Alon made in restoration of a viable biosphere were wrecked during the warring states period.
“But humanity’s approach was different. Instead of building isolated gardens in a sea of wastelands, they applied their mighty technology – their tekka – to the problem. It took fifty years, but when they were done the isle of Perwyn was as close to their original home as they could make it.
“They used Perwyn as a staging ground for a mighty effort on the mainland,” Onranion continued. “They sent their machines into the interior and showered the land with corrective measures to make it more compatible with their original biome. Soil chemistries were altered, a succession of importasta plants were seeded, and, over time, the importasta animals you are familiar with were added to the biome.”
“It was remarkably efficient, from an engineering standpoint,” Lilastien nodded. “The importasta biome, once it adapted to Callidore, ended up replacing three natavia nodes in four. That was considered acceptable for further human colonization, but it took decades to achieve.
“For seven decades, the civilization on Perwyn thrived as the ships from the Horizon arrived, filled with new settlers and new machines. The Horizon watched over the nascent colony, ensuring its security from above, though there was little to threaten it at first.
“But then the inevitable occurred: political strife. In an attempt to control the flow of colonists from the ship, the first wave of colonists and their descendants started trying to control the colonization effort. Another party wanted to increase the rate. As newcomers tended to support the latter, a struggle emerged over who, and when, new colonists would be added to the colony.”
“That seems . . . petty,” Astyral observed.
“Some thought it was,” Onranion agreed. “But for years the pro-colonial party prevailed, and colonists flowed into the new settlements on the mainland, into what is now the central Merwyn valley and the coastlines.
“Then the magi emerged,” Lilastien, continued. “Slowly, at first, but when they started to master their new abilities – with our help – things got political. There were . . . clashes. And it was often difficult to determine who was on whose side.
“Then a plot came to light – a faction among your people had developed a weapon on the Horizon that could be used against all Callidore.
“It was foiled, and those responsible were punished, but the very real danger of humanity’s non-magical abilities was exposed. It was an excuse to banish the Horizon, and the great advantages the ship gave your folk, from our skies. With the backing of the Alka Alon council – this council,” she reminded me, “the rebels did what was necessary to send the ship deep into space, away from Callidore . . . with nearly forty thousand colonists still asleep aboard. Forever. Forsaken.”
“Who were these rebels?” Mavone asked, his eyes narrowed.
“The first Archmagi,” Onranion answered. “They seized political control over Perwyn, and while the lack of support from the skies was problematic, they quickly substituted magic for much of what they once relied upon the Horizon for, or they learned to do without.”
“Things were going well, even with the Horizon gone, until Kephan the Damned sank Perwyn, with most of the remaining technological elements on it,” Haruthel sighed. “I have to admit to some . . . Alka Alon involvement in that,” he confessed. “Your people were purposefully misled by some of ours who resented your place in our world. Friends of the Enshadowed,” he added. “If it hadn’t been for the intercession of some of your early gods and . . .”
“And the help of some friendly ‘rebels’,” Lilastien finished, snidely. “We’re the ones responsible for getting most of the people evacuated from Perwyn. The Council could have assisted with the infrastructure that would have kept your civilization truly intact, if they wished, but they declined. It wasn’t our business, they said . . . though it was the Alka Alon renegades who guided the effort.”
“And for the temerity of defying the council and rescuing the humani, some were punished,” Onranion finished. “Lilastien most of all, for her loyalty to humanity. Others were merely censured, removed from their responsibilities, and sent into the hinterlands to contemplate their misplaced loyalties.”
“Order had to be maintained!” Haruthel insisted. “The council made a determination, and Lilastien and her friends ignored it! She had to be punished!”
“I saved three hundred thousand people by doing it,” Lilastien said, casually. “But as they were mere mortals, the council did not count that in my favor. They were embarrassed,” she accused. “Embarrassed to have let the humani do something that reckless in the first place, and then embarrassed to have endorsed such a dramatically bad idea in contribution to the catastrophe.
/> “They needed a scapegoat. They reported to the High Kingdoms that it was the work of a few rebel miscreants who had over-identified with the aliens. We were held to account. The damage was being repaired. No need for further investigation,” she said, disgustedly.
“That is all in the past—” Haruthel objected.
“A past that was hidden from us,” I countered. “How many of our scholars are aware of this?” I demanded.
“If your ancestors hadn’t rushed in and ruined the Later Magocracy,” Haruthel accused, “a few of them might be!”
“So much for ‘all in the past’,” Dara smirked, her arms folded.
“We did what we felt was the wise course of action at the time,” Haruthel insisted. “There was more happening than just Perwyn. And during the Invasion things happened so quickly that we weren’t able to intercede!”
“The Invasion took more than a decade!” Astyral countered. “You couldn’t figure out anything to do in that time?”
“Who says we didn’t?” Haruthel asked, defensively. “We sealed off the Valley People from the rest of you, rescued our scholarly allies from Wenshar, secured what dangers we could from the barbarian horde, and . . . by the time we could have effectively intervened, the last Archmage surrendered.”
“There were mistakes aplenty on both sides,” Onranion observed. “All sides. We all have interests and identities to protect. Yes, we let you abandon forty thousand innocent souls to a timeless death in the void . . . but we saved the bulk of your people and ensured that they would persist as your biome matured,” he said, as if that made up for it.
“There are forty thousand people in the sky?” Ruderal blurted out.
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 84
