by T. O. Munro
“At the time of Justinian, the leader of the council was the great wizard Dayaraf. He had risen from poverty to the highest rank in the land. They say he taught himself to read by standing outside a book binder’s shop and deciphering the sample work that was left on display. The shop keeper took pity on him and even turned the pages so the young lad could try a different text each day.”
“All very admirable,” Gregor said. “But what has this to do with blue gates or Chirard or the Helm and its secrets?”
“Patience, Gregor,” Eadran waved him silent. “Dayaraf probed and stretched the understanding of gates. He discovered planes beyond our own, that the gates could reach. He even discovered places where time was out of step with ours, where it ran faster or slower than here.”
“Like Grithsank.”
Niarmit’s knowledge brought Eadran up sharp in his tale. “You know of Grithsank? You have been there?”
“I have seen it through a gate,” she admitted. “Though it is not a place I would wish to visit in person.”
Eadran gave a slow thoughtful nod. “So Maelgrum is still recruiting dragons to serve him.”
“The gate to Grithsank was not blue, not like the picture on the book.” Niarmit dragged him back to the question in hand.
“No,” Eadran admitted. “It would not have been. Time’s arrow ran in the same direction in both places, albeit at different speeds.” He drew a deep breath. Niarmit leant forward in her throne, sensing that the crux of the story was upon them.
“Dayaraf’s great discovery, his cursed discovery, was finding a way to induce a link between two places, that were the same place, but at different times.”
“What?” Gregor voiced their collective stupefaction.
Eadran sighed. “He found that he could induce a connection between two times that his body had occupied. The portal that was opened between them was a window on the past, his past. He could look through it at the past.”
Niarmit frowned. That time and space should be so warped as to bend back upon themselves seemed scarcely credible. But if indeed these gates were a means to look at the past, then one question sprung immediately to her mind. “The gate, the oval drawing on the book was opaque. There was no scene to be seen barring a swirl of blue. How then could it be a window on the past?”
“It is only opaque to those viewing it from the past,” Eadran explained. “The magic could not give them a glimpse of the future, but to the caster looking back there was a clear vision of the past, of what had happened.”
“Looking at what has already happened?” Gregor grunted. “That doesn’t sound very useful to me.”
Eadran shrugged. “Indeed it wasn’t. At first Dayaraf’s great invention was just a curiosity for historians who wanted to uncover the truths of deeds already done.
“One mage from the council used it to check whether his wife was being unfaithful and with whom. Most used it to write detailed reports on matters of interest to no one but themselves.
“Some claimed it would be useful to open windows on past crime scenes and so see who had perpetrated them. But the great mages would rather use this gift to pursue their historical curiosity or check up on the honesty of their servants than identify some vagrant’s murderer.
“So the blue gate would have been ever just a curiosity, except that Jocasta came and made her prophecy and Justinian burned her and things started to go wrong for the monar empire.”
“Wrong?” Thren said.
“At first it seemed a mere coincidence, a governor of one city failed to preserve his grain stores, some say he sold them at a profit. Then came the drought and famine had people starving in their thousands. They blamed the governor, in the riots that followed the city was burnt, the governor killed and tens of thousands died. Some saw it as a sign, the beginning of the end and the whispers started, so Justinian turned to Dayaraf.”
Eadran sighed. “The great mage had already used the blue gate to uncover exactly what had happened. He knew who was at fault. Now, Justinian said ‘why not travel through the gate’ why not go back and alert the governor to his danger. Make him handle his affairs properly.”
The Vanquisher’s little audience exchanged looks of horror at the slow dawning understanding. It was left to Niarmit to articulate their disbelief. “You mean he commanded Dayaraf to step into the past and change the future?”
“Exactly that, and that is what Dayaraf did and that is why there is no record of those riots in the history books.”
“He changed history?”
“He thought he had.” Eadran ran his fingers across his thinning scalp. “Justinian thought he had succeeded. But the governor, once saved from his fate, grew strong and powerful. He made wiser decisions, cultivated a broad church of friends and in time…”
“Yes,” Gregor snapped irritably as the Vanquisher shook his head disbelievingly at his own tale.
“… in time, he rose so powerful as to lead a rebellion against Justinian. It took several armies and hundreds of thousands of lives before he was defeated and destroyed, and in the provinces ravaged by the war, the whispers about Jocasta’s prophecy spread stronger than before.
“But still Justinian demanded Dayaraf used the blue gate to right the ills, to cleanse the corruption in the past stream of time, so that the present waters would run clear. And Dayaraf did as he was bid because in his hubris he believed he could unmake the ills he was unleashing.
“A half-dozen times the great mage punched a hole through time, and a half-dozen times the damage done to the empire grew worse. But, like addicts to a noxious weed, neither mage nor emperor could stop themselves from meddling.”
“So that was how the empire fell so swiftly, all in the course of a single generation?” Thren tilted his head as he absorbed this new perspective on a more mutable aspect to history than he could have imagined.
“There was one of the council, newly elected. He had come from beyond the empire, not young even then, but he had studied long and grown wise in apprenticeship to the archmage revealing a great talent such that Dayaraf took him under his personal tutelage. His name was Zeln, and he studied Dayaraf’s work in great detail and made a small but hugely significant discovery of his own,” Eadran glanced around at his small audience. Even Gregor was perched in anticipation on the edge of his seat.
“Zeln discovered that time is more like a living thing than anyone had realised. He already knew that it was a river that could run at different speeds in different places, it could divide and merge again, but always be the same river. But more than this Zeln discovered that time heals itself, that it cuts a new path to return to its original course, a channel that can be deep and brutal. Zeln summed this up most simply by saying that any attempt to change what has happened in the past will have an effect which opposes the motivations and intentions of those who tried to induce the change.
“The multiplicity of disasters that accompanied Dayaraf’s excursions in the past were not mere coincidence, they were the inevitable consequence of a self-healing timeline.
“When Zeln made his declaration to the council, Dayaraf realised immediately that he was right. The scales fell from his eyes and some say he even wept.”
“What did he do?”
“He went to Justinian to confess and explain how the empire was doomed, for by this stage revolt and open rebellion was widespread. Seven of the twelve cities had been destroyed and the foes the empire had once so readily repulsed were gathered on its borders like jackals waiting to strip its dead carcass of wealth and land.”
“What punishment did Justinian mete out to him?” Gregor demanded.
Eadran frowned and shook his head. “None, Justinian made one plea for one last blue gate. He said, give me a chance to go back, to unmake everything. And Dayaraf did so, opening a gate into the emperor’s childhood. And Justinian stepped through it, and neither he nor Dayaraf were ever seen again. Not that it mattered then, for the empire was in tatters and every man, woman and child ha
d more on their minds than the disappearance of two old fools.”
“What happened to them?”
Eadran shrugged. “I don’t know. But he who told me this tale had an idea. He believed that Justinian went back to his childhood intending to secure the death of Dayaraf before he could make his discovery of the blue gate. That seventh gate apparently opened near to a book binder’s shop, some years in the past.”
“He can’t have succeeded,” Gregor huffed. “Not if the knowledge of blue gates and of Dayaraf still exists in the world.”
“Indeed,” Eadran agreed. “But Zeln took charge of the council and forbade the use of the blue gates on pain of death and he and the other mages tried to preserve some shred of the Monar Empire, but it was too late and all that great civilisation’s knowledge and culture was lost when their cities were sacked by the barbarians. The mages disappeared and with them should have gone all knowledge of their craft. But it seems that the evil of the blue gate and how it could be cast must have been uncovered by the Kinslayer”
“How would a blue gate have enabled Chirard to write this book,” Niarmit asked. “Having worn the Helm, even if he went back he could not talk to anyone else of it.”
“He could talk to no other,” Thren’s face lit up with an epiphany of understanding. “But he could talk to himself.”
Eadran nodded slowly. “His old self could tell his younger self all about the Helm and the history they would share, and the younger self unencumbered by having worn the Helm would be free to write it down in this damnable book.”
The Vanquisher shook his head in dismay. “I should have seen it. I should have laid plans against what a madman might do.”
“What difference does it make if people know?” Gregor growled. “The infernal secrecy about this thing this place you have consigned us to, that is its greatest curse. Let Maelgrum shout it from the rooftops, he still can’t get at us, but maybe Niarmit’s friends might support her better if they understood more.”
Eadran glared at him for a long moment then shook his head. “The curse of Chirard’s blue gate may be unravelling still. It brought about his own ruin, I am sure of that.”
Thren nodded. “Yalents told me of what he said the night she tricked him and lured him to his doom on my sword. He said then, how he had anticipated our every move, even her own embasy to see him. But it must have been that night he cast this spell to speak to his younger self. He told himself to expect Yalents, to trust her, but he did not know and could say how she would betray him. Indeed his misplaced trust in her made the betrayal all the easier.”
Eadran nodded. “Time defeats the tampering of fools. It layers the wounds their blue gates make, covering them with a weight of scar tissue that obliterates the caster. Chirard’s ruin is not yet complete, he exists still, and his existence is tied to this place. The doom that he brought upon himself when he stepped through that azure portal may yet engulf us here too. That the knowledge of the Helm should leak into the world may be the first pebble in an avalanche that will bury us all.”
“You think Chirard’s folly could drag us all into oblivion?” Niarmit asked.
Eadran nodded heavily. “That is why you must never use the blue gate spell as Chirard did. The consequences are far reaching, unforseeable and never what the caster intended or desired.”
“You seem most knowledgeable about a form of spell craft that surely died with the Monar Empire almost five hundred years before you were born.” Thren alone was bold enough to challenge the Vanquisher’s expertise.
Eadran sighed. “I heard this tale from one who would know the truth of it more than most. I heard it from the great mage Zeln himself.”
“Zeln? He would still have to be centuries old to have met you.”
The Vanquisher nodded heavily. “He was indeed, and calling himself by different names by then. Sometimes Magister, but more often he was known as Maelgrum.”
“Maelgrum was a mage of the Monar Empire?” Thren gasped.
Eadran cast him a baleful look. “It should not surprise you. He had to have been alive once, a living man before he could be a dead one. Where else would wizardry of his skill have had its origins save in that glittering empire.”
Niarmit flung a hand to her mouth. “I saw a circle of blue when Udecht healed me, when he gave me that slim chance to escape the dragon. That was Maelgrum, spying into the past, striving to find out how I defeated his plans.”
Eadran nodded heavily. “It was the only use that his own dictum, the dictum of Zeln allowed for the blue gates, a chance to observe but not change what was past and in so doing inform those as yet unmade actions which shape the future. To use the gates thus, as Dayaraf initially chose to, does not distort or corrupt the flow of time.”
“And that is why he punished Udecht so cruelly, once he saw for himself what the bishop had done.”
“That reason perhaps, but also for his own pleasure. When you have lived the millennia that Maelgrum has, mastering a dozen different worlds at different times, all sense of conscience is eroded. Nothing matters but your own desires, ambitions and entertainment.”
“How does a mere man become such a monster?” Gregor growled.
“The real mystery is why it doesn’t happen more often,” Eadran replied in the midst of a distracted scrutiny of his own hand, turning it back and forth infront of his eyes.
***
The horse was winded and doubtful for more than another half mile at most, so it was as well that Kimblot clattered into the broad courtyard of Lavisevre when he did. The seneschal slid from his saddle, handing the reins to a stable hand and hurrying for the palace entrance. He was brought up short by an excited squeak of recognition.
“Kimbolt!”
She emerged from the summer garden, resplendent in a dress of simple elegance, well suited to the dignity of a crown princess.
He waited for her to draw closer, her pace quick, sometimes skipping a few steps beneath her skirts as she sought to close the distance between them. “Your Highness.” He accompanied the formal greeting with a stiff bow, unsure of his standing with any of the queen’s circle after his banishment to Oostport.
“Please,” she begged as she looped her arm through his. “Call me Hepdida. So few people in Rugan’s palace know how to use my name.”
“Is the queen here too?”
Hepdida gave a wide eyed shrug. “She was, but she’s gone, it was all most sudden and mysterious.”
“How so?” Kimbolt demanded, his alarm raised as much as his interest was piqued
“We came charging here at speed because she was worried at what Quintala might be up in Listcairn. Then we stalled here for a few days because I showed her a bit of a book I had found and she thought there might be something significant to it. Then suddenly she decided she was needed back at Karlbad, so she darted through the gate all by herself and, apparently, it dissolved after she’d gone.”
They were in the main hallway of Lavisevre. Kimbolt stopped and turned the princess to face him. “So the queen is in Karlbad?”
“Yes, or at least that’s where she was.”
“And there is no way of reaching her, or knowing if she is still there.”
“Well only by a messenger on horseback.”
“And something that you showed her, some fragment of a book, has alarmed her enough to disrupt her plans?”
Hepdida shrugged. “I don’t know if that was exactly that. She was certainly very interested in it at first, but then she claimed it was all about supporting Isobel that meant she had to go to Nordsalve immediately.” The princess sniffed. “I don’t think that can have been it. There was something else on her mind and she left the blasted bit of book behind.”
“Are you sure? Where is this book?” He had gripped her arm more tightly than he intended and she looked at his offending hand, trying to hide the alarm of the once abused beneath the mere annoyance of a child. He hurriedly let go. “Please, Hepdida, show me. It may be important. I fear the
queen has been acting outside herself lately.”
She looked at him curiously. “How could you know, you’ve been in Oostport for weeks?”
“I had a feeling, that is all and I care about her.”
She pursed her lips. “What was it you two argued about? I thought she really liked you.”
He felt his colour rising as the fifteen year old girl poked at feelings he himself had not entirely reconciled and certainly had no desire to discuss. “I don’t know, Hepdida. There was no argument. She just sent me away.”
Hepdida looked away. “Not letting you know what you’ve done wrong, yes that sounds like our impenetrable Niarmit.”
“You shouldn’t speak of your cousin like that,” he snapped.
The princess glared back at him. “She treated you like dirt, you worse than anyone, and still you defend her. That’s a powerful sickness you’re afflicted with Kimbolt.”
“Where is this scrap of a book?” Kimbolt drove on, eager to escape any talk of his relationship with the queen. “Let me see it, now.”
“It’s in my room,” Hepdida said with a pout before turning to lead the way. “I found it after she had gone, like I said, it can’t have been that important.”
“But seeing it made her change her plans. It may hold a clue as to where and why she went so hastily.”
“I think you’ll find it a very short clue,” Hepdida said sourly.
“I would still like to see it before I go on my way to Karlbad.”
The pair of them walked in a silence born more of tolerance than companionship, each feeling disappointment in their reunion with the other.
Thom was seated at a desk in the lounge of their royal suite of rooms. He rose from the tome he was studying with a surprised but courteous “hello” when Hepdida and Kimbolt swept into the chamber. The two men exchanged stiff smiles while the princess darted into her own room.
“How go the queen’s affairs in Oostport?” Thom asked.
“They go very well, we shall soon have a force of some consequence to aid her Majesty’s summer campaign.”
