by Ron Collins
Idolfilane flared green and cinnamon. Wadanti responded with a sense that tasted coarse and spicy, like a tomato fresh off the vine.
“Yes,” Leaxis said, flashing a command. “I agree with both of you. Shutting him into that plane would be easiest.”
On her word, the planewalkers moved to the Adruin gate and flowed great masses of energy through their bodies, warming the plasma trails around it and driving tight beams of its magic—its space-time mass, its radiation—into the gap that connected Adruin to the Thousand Worlds. When they were done, they returned to stand beside Leaxis in the central core of all Existence, leaving the portal smelted shut and pulsing with white-purple heat.
It would stay this way for a very long time. The capped gate would be a marker, a warning to other planewalkers who decided to stray the path. There was no longer any connection between this plane and the Plane of Magic. No energy could get in, and none would get out.
Magic on Adruin was now doomed to the slow death of neglect.
Agar felt a roll of contentment filter through him. Wherever Braxidane was, he would no longer be able to access his powers.
This was good.
It meant Braxidane was out of his concern. Hezarin was gone for good. And—of more value at the moment—it meant Leaxis considered the situation to have been dealt with.
Agar could now wait the time of a reasonable cooling period, then he would use his own mages across the rest of the Thousand Worlds.
The wait would be worth it.
Chapter 7
The blockage came as a rift in Garrick’s consciousness. Where once there had been a pressure, there was now a void.
Braxidane paused in his spell work with a gasp. His magic faded from his fingertips in Arderveer’s dim chasm. He fell against a slab of rock, stunned. The expression on his face let Garrick know his superior felt it, too.
“What is it?” he asked as he set his own magic aside. But he knew the answer before Braxidane responded.
“They can’t do this!” Braxidane said. “They can’t.”
And, yet, they had.
Garrick gazed upon Braxidane, the planewalker’s fate dawning upon him.
“You have been banished, haven’t you?” Garrick said. “Joint Authority has sealed the plane.”
“Yes,” Braxidane managed despite panic that rolled off him like waves. “They have cut me adrift.”
“They will seal the other worlds, too,” Garrick said with bitterness that surprised him. He returned to Takril’s throne-chair. “They will cut off every champion you’ve ever created, won’t they?”
“What is it to you?” Braxidane said, turning away.
“All of them will perish.”
“I am sure Joint Authority will be bitterly disappointed if any live—including you, Garrick. Specifically including you. And yes, Agar, the lying ingrate, the despicable coward, will ensure Leaxis finds them all—while at the same time placing his own mages to fill the voids they leave behind.”
Braxidane screamed then.
He pounded his fists against the wall.
The stone rumbled with new stresses. For a moment, Garrick feared a quake would entomb them both. Eventually, though, the planewalker’s anger subsided and the ground stopped shaking.
“Including me?” Garrick finally said.
Braxidane’s laugh was tinged with mirth.
“You destroyed one of their numbers.”
“They have sealed the plane. Won’t that be enough?”
“Of course not,” Braxidane said, his throat raw and his voice ragged. “Search that power you carry within yourself and you’ll know that Joint Authority will not leave you as a loose end. The sealed portal provides them time. It allows them to give you lower priority, but they come for you in time.”
Garrick contemplated Braxidane’s words.
He felt the power of Braxidane’s statement.
He understood.
Hezarin’s energy would lead them to him.
Hers was an energy that should not be his. The lessons she learned filled him with things she understood and facts of her existence that no man of Adruin should ever have. They would stay with him, mixing with his own understandings to create new ideas. Garrick had turned into a creature stranger than any before, a man who was half human, half planewalker.
That made him dangerous to the Council.
It also made him unique. Different. It was a difference would make him easy to find.
Braxidane gave what could have been a whimper. Garrick had never seen his superior as pitiful before. It was not a becoming framework on him, though it seemed to fit quite naturally.
“We are doomed,” Braxidane said in a low tone. “We are all doomed.”
“The whole plane?” Garrick said, catching Braxidane’s meaning.
“Joint Authority doesn’t do anything half-way.”
“I see.”
And what Garrick saw was how fragile his life could be, how fragile, indeed, all life across all the planes was when it was dependent on the benevolence of a few duplicitous creatures.
He thought about Darien, then. His friend had tried to teach Garrick the history of men throughout the plane’s time, but Garrick had been tone deaf. He had not really listened even when the Shariaen had attacked them on their first trip together, but he still retained some stray pieces of Darien’s stories.
“You’re talking about Starshower,” he said.
Braxidane leaned against the chamber wall and moaned. “What of it?”
“You’re saying the Lords of Existence are going to unleash another Starshower?”
“What else would you expect?”
“Adruin will be left in shambles.”
“We are all doomed.” Braxidane slid down the wall to sit still, his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands.
“I can’t believe Joint Authority will destroy the entire plane merely to get rid of me?”
“And me,” Braxidane said, drawing a fateful sigh. “Don’t forget about me. But don’t waste time swooning for poor Adruin. It will rise again. These planes are like weeds that way. They always come back.”
“I’m sure that will be a comfort to everyone here.”
Garrick assessed Braxidane.
The planewalker was gaunt. He looked suddenly tired.
“You’re an empty shell,” Garrick said.
Braxidane looked at him through the dimness. He shrugged.
That shrug gave Garrick to understand a truth he had missed before. Braxidane, as all planewalkers were, was a shell that funneled energy. Now that he was no longer tied to Existence, he was defenseless. Garrick, on the other hand, stored energy within himself. His magic would last until he drained it—and theoretically his hunger would ensure he recharged himself indefinitely, as long as people lived on Adruin. He shuddered at that thought, and pushed it away to focus once more on Braxidane.
Garrick could crush him.
A part of him yearned for that satisfaction. But Braxidane was to be pitied now. He could not do it.
“Go away, Braxidane,” he finally said.
“Where should I go?”
“I don’t care. But go as far away from me as you can. I have things to consider that no longer include you.”
“You still have your magic, then?” Braxidane said.
“I am a different creature than you, Braxidane.”
Garrick turned his lips down.
He wanted to think about Starshower. When would Joint Authority rain their power on the plane? Would it be based on a random decision, or would there be some logic applied? Would they perform the cleansing in such a manner as to give it symbolism? Did they care? Would they see their task as workmanlike, or would they bring an element of art to it?
Whatever the answer to these questions, Garrick knew life on Adruin had changed. With the gate’s capstone blocked, it would be only a matter of time before all standard magic died.
His heart froze.
That was when Starshower
would come.
When all magic had seeped from the plane, the capstone would be lifted and the Lords of Existence would rain their catastrophe down upon the plane, thereby ridding it of all life—specifically including Braxidane and Garrick, the two creatures who could cause the Joint Authority the most damage.
He felt a deep sense of irony to this moment. Here he was, sitting amid the rubble in the depths of the broken city of Arderveer, contemplating the equivalent death and destruction of an entire plane of existence.
“I hope you are satisfied,” Garrick said bitterly to Braxidane.
There was no response.
Braxidane was gone.
He nodded then. Good. He had better things to do than waste time on a deposed planewalker.
He sat for a long time and considered the world as he knew it.
He thought of the demise of the Koradictines and the destruction of Dorfort’s defenses. He saw the opportunity this turn of events had left the Lectodinians. He felt the rising heat of Zutrian Esta’s ambition as it rose from the Vapor Peaks and laid itself over Garrick’s senses. He remembered Darien and his passion.
But mostly, he settled his mind on Sunathri Katella.
Lord of the Freeborn.
She had understood something deep and valuable about people. Garrick had traveled with and befriended Darien J’ravi, and he had grown to respect his friend beyond all doubt. But he realized now that it was Sunathri who had spoken to him. It was Sunathri’s vision that matched his own.
He rose from his contemplations prepared. He rose from them with an idea.
Adruin needed to band together to fight this—the Koradictines, the men of Dorfort and the plane itself, the Torean House of the Freeborn, and, yes, the Lectodinians. The people needed to band together if they were to survive.
Garrick knew where he had to start.
He had to speak to the Lectodinian high superior before Zutrian did something rash that destroyed all hope of a union with Dorfort.
Chapter 8
The Lectodinian sentries were going about their preparations without any great anxiety, which told Garrick they were unaware of his presence on the other side of the rocky ridge. It was morning. There was breakfast to cook and tea to prepare. There were spells to set and traps to check.
Still, they should have noticed him.
It was cold here, made even colder by the altitude of the Vapor Peaks. Energy from the planewalker kept Garrick warm despite the simple shirts and thin cloth breeches he chose as his only adornments. His wardrobe would make a statement in itself here in the cold climes of the north.
His wardrobe, and his blades.
In that second category, he wore a pair of short swords, one at each side. And he enjoyed the feeling of the dagger he had strapped to one leg. The weapons made him feel purposeful. They were normal blades, a reminder of the simple nature of life. They gave him clarity.
Across the chasm, four sentries moved between tent-like structures of wood and skins. He caught the scent of the tea they were brewing over a nearly smokeless fire. The men were bored, their stoicism was like clay sediment at the bottom of his senses. It must be hell to be posted on a barren mountaintop for weeks at a time, waiting for nothing to happen.
He smiled. These sentries would soon have something to report.
He prepared his spell work and steeled himself against life force that rose like a tide. Hezarin’s energy was different from others he had consumed. She was a presence full of prickly edges. She was a constant, a never-yielding thing. And she spoke to him, too. She whispered things he did not want to know about places he did not want to be.
They are coming, she said to him in quiet moments. My brothers and sisters are coming.
And she spoke to him of other things, too. She gave him the inner workings of the planes and the culture of the space between them, the space that was All of Existence. She told him of the pettiness between planewalkers, and showed him that they were not truly brothers and sisters but were best viewed as elements of a whole that fit together to make one single creature.
She was an actual piece of them. Her fellow planewalkers needed her. He understood exactly how far they would be willing to go to retrieve her essence.
Garrick set his gates, and focused on the Lectodinian sentries across the ridge. His vision tunneled. He tasted a caustic mixture of Lectodinian lemon and Koradictine blood.
Magic rose in his gut.
He spoke a word and twisted two fingers.
Then he was in their midst. The closest Lectodinian, tall and wiry, emerged from a rickety lean-to.
Time expanded. It was a feeling of ultimate power, as if he were encased in a shell—a node—that let him feel the raw edge of exactness everywhere.
The Lectodinian seemed to move slowly. Garrick knew what the mages were doing before they did it. He felt calm and impervious, almost languid as he wrapped life force around the first mage’s spell, then crushed it with barely an effort.
A bolt of life force flared from Garrick’s outstretched fingertips, and the man fell like a sack. Another had been meditating, but was roused by the blast. A twist of Garrick’s hand put the man back to his slumber as the last two mages came out of the nearest tent.
One pulled a dagger from his belt. Garrick dropped him with a single motion, and the blade clattered against the cold, brittle stone.
It was so easy, he thought.
So easy.
The second mage pulled up short.
He was a thin man with matted hair that had likely not seen a cleaning for weeks. He wore heavy woolen pants, layers of tunics, and a poncho of animal leather that was probably boar skin, but was stained and dirtied past recognition. His gaze wavered. His eyes grew wide. His brow rose in dual arches.
“You’re the god-touched?” he said.
“That is what some call me.”
“What do you want with us?”
Garrick smiled. “I want an audience with Zutrian Esta.”
“The High Superior?”
“Yes.”
A gap-toothed grin crawled across the Lectodinian’s face. “Is that all? I mean, might I interest you in Lord Zutrian’s stash of emeralds while I’m at it? I’m sure I have as much chance of nabbing them as I do an audience.”
“No, thank you. An audience will be quite enough.”
Garrick waited while the mage took in the situation.
“I mean it,” he finally said. “Get your gear on. I want to speak with Zutrian in person, and I don’t know where he is. But you do. Or at least you know how to get me to a place where someone will. So you are going to take me to that place.”
“What about these men?” He pointed at his compatriots.
“Those who still live will be fine.”
The situation traveled over the man’s expression. He glanced to his tent.
“Let me get my boots and my breakfast.”
“Get your boots,” Garrick motioned his acceptance. “You can gnaw on breakfast as we walk.”
The man nodded, realizing it was as good as he could hope for. He gathered his worn footwear from the tent.
“I don’t understand,” the mage said as he slid a boot over one foot. “You are Garrick, the god-touched, right?”
Garrick cocked his head in a motion that prodded him to proceed.
“Why not just trace your way to Zutrian? Cast a spell. You could do it, right?”
“Yes,” Garrick said. “I could.”
The man slid on his second boot.
“So, why do it this way?”
Garrick paused. He could certainly have contacted Zutrian directly through the magical constructs Sunathri had taught him. In fact, Hezarin’s energy made that magic even more straightforward to perform. But he didn’t want to waste energy if he could help it, and beyond that, Garrick had learned enough to know better than give a politician time to think. Holding such a conversation remotely would give Zutrian the ability to avoid him, or worse, prepare for their meeting
. He wanted this discussion to be direct and firm, and he wanted a decision on the spot.
“I guess I’m just here to make your life more difficult,” Garrick finally said.
The man grimaced as he tested the fit of his boots.
“Then you’re doing a fine job of it,” he said.
“Are you ready?” Garrick asked.
“Ready as ever.”
“Then, lead on.”
Chapter 9
As he left Garrick behind, Braxidane knew he had to get off this plane. The passage he found had been a stairwell at one point, but was damaged in the fighting. He fought his way up it, wriggling through tiny spaces left by crumbling rock. It was hard, painful work, but without his link, he had no alternative. Sweat poured from him as he pulled himself out of the crevasse to lie gasping upon a rocky ledge that looked out over the Desert of Dust. His clothes were dirty and torn, his fingers scraped and bloodied. He could not remember hurting so badly in all of his consciousness.
Agar was going to pay for this.
He lay baking in the sun on a dais of wind-worn sandstone, and held a hand up weakly to shield his eyes from the sun’s blazing orb. It helped for a moment. Blinking, he saw the desert lie brown and dry to his north and west, and that mountains rose to his south and east.
His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. It was an embarrassment to feel such crude human needs. And, now that he was settling in, he realized his odor was something atrocious.
Why him? Braxidane thought. Why not Agar, instead? Why was he punished like this when his underhanded brother was allowed to retain his power? He could not live like this. He would not live like this.
He wanted his connection back.
There were ways to make it happen, too—seams in the Thousand Worlds that could be accessed. But they each took power, and he had no idea where he might find that kind of leverage on this plane beyond Garrick, and he knew better than to expect his champion would help him now.
He would find a way, though. He had to.
And when he did he would return to Existence and take his revenge on Agar and on the whole of Joint Authority. It would serve them right. No planewalker deserved to be cut from the world like this. Ever.
