by Alison Baird
I know you, he thought. You appeared before, in my mind. Elthina . . . Mother.
Yes, I am she who bore you and gave you mortal life, the being answered. And I can give you life again, if you will heed me. Little time remains to you. Your bond with your corporeal form is fading, and soon your spirit will be gone: out of the world, out of my reach in the realm beyond matter and Ether. But this need not be. There is no return to the life you once had, but you can tarry upon my plane, translating your flesh to an ethereal form. The mortals who are born to Archons can do this. And then you can give aid to your beloved, who lives still on the lesser plane.
Ailia, he thought. He need not perish, then, and pass altogether out of the world: he could still help her, in a new and different form. Yes. Let that be my fate. Let my spirit remain within the Ether, and my body be transformed. And as he thought this he felt no fear or regret, but knew only that this was in truth what he most desired. The place beyond the portal called to him.
As he watched, the light from the opening seemed almost to congeal and solidify, becoming a bridge between this plane and the next: and his lifeless body was bathed in the golden glow. His consciousness was drawn down to it again, engulfed in that radiance; and then in his new, quintessential form he rose up and left the altar, flying through the bright rift as a bird flies to freedom through an open window. It closed behind him, shutting out the world.
Gone were the grim sanctum and its dour occupants, gone the life of pain and doubt and misery that had been his lot, and all mortals’. He had entered the Ether. Twice before he had ventured upon that plane, but only to pass through the dragon-ways that wound through its brilliant expanse, as the tunnels of little burrowing creatures pass through the earth. Now he was suspended within the substance of the Ether itself. His mother was with him, and many other beautiful beings in ethereal form. Queen Eliana was there, drifting before him and looking as he had seen her in his vision of the past: slender and youthful despite her pale, silvery hair.
Majesty, he said, and bowed. She laughed.
There are no titles here, she said. We are all Archons together. Yes, I am of the El too: I was not able to tell you before, but now that you are one of us no secrets shall be kept from you. Then it seemed to him that she grew grave and sad. I know what it is you lost to come here, child of Elthina, she said. I will give you such aid and comfort as I can.
Then she and Elthina showed to him his past, scenes from his life on both planes as they had observed it, some that he had merely forgotten and others of which he had no memory at all. They showed him a man in knightly armor, clean-shaven with brown hair and eyes of clear and piercing blue. Your father, Elthina told him, and her mind-voice was filled with longing. Arthon of Raimar, knight of the Paladin order.
Longing also filled him at the vision. Is he here in the Ether also?
No. Sorrow filled her voice. He has gone where the El cannot go: where mortal spirits dwell forever, far beyond matter and Ether both. I am parted from him for all time.
Then so am I, now. At the knowledge he was overwhelmed with grief.
His mother hastened to console him. Do not regret your choice, my son! It was the best choice, and good will come of it for you and others; and now I shall not lose you as I lost him, lose you forever and ever.
She showed to him many other things: lives of other beings, and far-off worlds, some that were not unlike Mera and Arainia, some as strange as dreams. Now that he had been translated into ethereal form, he was free to go where he would upon that plane, through all the incorporeal worlds and realms that the El had shaped for themselves, like islands in its seas of quintessence. And he could also project himself into the material worlds, so long as he went unseen. As for time, it was no longer his master but his servant, and he moved back and forth in it as he pleased.
At last he came upon a world, without knowing where and when in Talmirennia it might be. It had a golden sky and a vast gold orange sun, and the lands that he saw below him as he soared through the air were dry and desolate: deserts of riverless canyons and wave upon wave of rippled dunes. Weathered pinnacles rose in ordered rows, like the towers of cities, and from steep cliff walls sprang arcs of stone that resembled flying buttresses, but were the work of nature and time. The rocks were tan-colored and many were oddly porous, so that they looked almost like petrified foam.
As he drifted onward, following he knew not what guiding sense, he came upon a structure that was not natural in origin: an ethereal portal. Two gigantic stone cherubim lay facing each other, and between their opposed forepaws the ethereal rift—which he could see, though no mortal eye would have spied it—was still open, as though it had recently been used. From the cherub gate a road led to the ruin of a real city where he saw, rising majestic into the morning, high turrets and monumental arches and pyramids larger than any ever raised by human hands, their foundations half-swallowed by sand. All were built of the same sand-colored stone. The largest structure of all was a roofless hall with a doorway framed by six stone columns, three to each side—a doorway through which an army might have passed. Lining on either hand the road that led to the door were statues on broad plinths, some partly crumbled away, but most still looking as though they had just been sculpted. In his birth-world of Mera these would have been figures from mythology, but here they were representations of real beasts and beings: winged lions and bulls, and cherubim, and lamassus and shedus, and lion-bodied sphinxes with the heads of men or women, or falcons, or rams. He descended to move between them, up the long aisle they formed, toward the hall. In the heat shimmer the colossal pillars at its entrance seemed to dance, swaying and quivering. Perhaps the whole edifice was but a mirage, and would fade away on approach . . . But as he moved toward the pillars they remained in place, and ceased to quiver, and grew firm.
But before he reached the door he heard a sound behind him, and turned to see a distant figure speeding through the trembling air. It was like one of the stone images come to life: ram-headed and lion-bodied, tawny-colored like the sand on which it ran. The creature snorted from time to time and tossed its curling horns, while its padded paws raised yellow dust clouds from the desert floor. On its back there perched a rider, his face veiled with cloth against the flying sand. He was spurring his strange steed toward the portal, but suddenly he turned and made in Damion’s direction, as if he could see the Archon’s invisible projection. Damion remained where he was, watching curiously as beast and man approached to within only a few paces of where he stood, and halted. The rider dismounted, and unwound the scarf from his head.
“Old One,” he said. “I feel your presence in this place: I know you are here. Will you speak with me?”
It was a man whose grizzled hair and beard still showed a little of their original red-gold hue, perhaps three score years or more in age. But despite his gray hairs, he could not be any common mortal, or he would not have sensed that Damion was there. A Nemerei magus, he must be. His features were stern and proud, with a high-bridged nose and pronounced cheekbones, though the lines about his eyes and mouth gave him a sad and pensive look. His eyes were a grayish blue, clear and unclouded, and they looked directly into Damion’s own immaterial ones.
“I am the one called Andarion in the world of Mera,” the man continued. “I am mortal, but I carry the blood of Archons. We are of one kind, you and I.”
Damion’s astonishment grew. It was Brannar Andarion himself, the king of Maurainia in the Golden Age. But how could that be? “I am called Damion, Majesty,” he replied, assuming a visible image as he spoke. “I had thought you were long dead. Or do I walk now in elder days, when you reigned still in that world? I have wandered far in time, but never before has a being in the past been able to see me.”
“Even the Archons may not truly enter the past, but can only observe it,” the king answered. “You are in the present age—the wave of time still in motion.”
He seemed weary, and as Damion stared at him he went to lean against th
e plinth of one of the statues and brush the sand from his garments. His steed settled down onto the ground with a grunt, its horned head raised and its forepaws stretched out before it, looking exactly like one of its stone kin.
“What is that beast?” Damion asked.
“Do you not know?” the other asked, surprised. “You are one of the Elaia.”
“I am half-mortal, like you,” Damion explained. “Or rather I was. My former life was taken from me, and now I am of the El. But I still have much to learn.”
“Ah, I see. The beast is a criosphinx,” Brannar Andarion said. “Some of the Old Ones’ creations live on here, where their ancestors were first formed through sorcery. This world is Meldrian, Lord of Thrones: one of the oldest of our Archon forebears’ settlements. Here the Star Stone was made, and many other things of wonder. It was the seat of Athariel’s power—that sun that burns above us is his star—and it became capital of the Archonic empire after Modrian’s fall. As for me, I never died, but passed into the Ether five centuries ago to live among my Archon kin. I had grown weary of the human world, of wars and suffering and grief.” A grimace crossed his lined face, as if at some twinge of reawakened pain. “On that plane time could not touch me, but ere long I began to visit other worlds of the mortal realm. I am a man, and never desired to be anything else. At last I decided to leave the Ether altogether, and live out the rest of my mortal life upon this plane. I have taken a wife from among the Elei people of a distant world, and there my home shall be until I die at last and pass on to the High Heaven. But I still choose to wander from time to time.” His keen eyes dwelled on Damion for a moment. “It is curious that we should both come here, at the same time. This is no chance meeting. We were sent here to encounter each other, I think.”
“To what purpose?” Damion asked.
“Perhaps that will become plain in time. Let us go and see the Meldraum, where Athariel sat in majesty—the model of all earthly kings.” Andarion began to walk toward the giant pillared entrance.
“Meldra um: the throne hall,” Damion translated, and he went with the king, walking soundless and shadowless behind him. He was curious to see the old kingdom of Athariel—the Archon for whom he had been named.
The Meldraum was nearly a mile in length. Its roof had not fallen in, for it had never possessed one, but was designed to be open to the sky. Here and there a giant carved arch bridged the walls to either side. On those walls were huge stone images that looked down on the small figures passing beneath.
“The work of the Elaia,” said the king. “They took no corporeal form in this world at first, merely making images for their enjoyment.”
“But how then could they make images, without bodies, and hands to wield the tools?” Damion asked.
Andarion smiled. “By a method most ingenious. The living things of this planet were not all made by the Old Ones. Some were here long before they came: that creature carved on the walls there, the scaled beast with neck and tail like a serpent’s and long clawed legs: the sirrush, it was called. It lived here when this world was green and wet, full of growing things. There is also another even older creature in this world, called the shamir: a little worm that lives in solid stone. You saw the curious appearance of the rocks here? The worm eats its way through them, boring many small holes and tunnels. The insubstantial Archons bent their thoughts upon these minute creatures, and wielded them as the sculptor wields his chisels. They caused the worms to eat stone on command, and so carve out forms and shapes in it. These mighty halls were designed by the Archons, but made by the shamir-worms.”
Damion gazed in amazement at the fine detail of the figures that neither hand nor tool had made. There were many seraphim, and cherubim in various postures of vigilance, standing or lying or sitting upright on their haunches. Two, carved in relief upon a wall, were depicted guarding a stylized tree laden with pointed leaves and round fruits. “The Tree of Life,” Andarion said, seeing him look at it. “So the Old Ones called it, for they created a fruit that would refresh their material flesh and ichor when they ate of it, and also recall their spirits to the Ether from whence they came. It does the same service for their half-mortal offspring: we are attuned to the Ethereal Plane when we eat of it, freed from the bonds of space and time so that we may see things that were and things that may yet be. The Archons guarded these trees so that the mortals would not eat of the fruit, for it could cause those who were not of Archon blood to fall into endless sleep. When the Old Ones departed this plane, they gave that task to the cherubim. But in these days the food-of-the-gods has lost much of its potency, and any can eat it without harm.” He traced the old carvings with his hand. “Lion-bodied and eagle-winged: these truly were living symbols, the creatures of Earth and Heaven. The form of the seraph is symbolic too: it signifies a life lived between two worlds. The Elaia expressed their yearning for both matter and Ether by crafting such images, though when they took flesh they generally assumed a mere human shape. But their lofty kin, the Elyra, preferred the seraphic form, as it gave them human hands to use, yet also granted them the freedom of the air.”
They walked on, until at long last they came to the end of the hall. Here there was a mighty dais, with a throne of carved stone upon a high plinth with steps leading up to it. The sides of the throne were lion-headed cherubim, and their wings framed its high back. The king pointed to the great statue that was seated upon it. It was crowned, and its sculpted wings spread from its shoulders to overshadow the throne. “There is the seat of Athariel, long abandoned: now only his image sits enthroned there.” The wall behind was carved with many more images in bas relief, and there were words engraved upon it too. “The letters are alien,” Damion said, perusing them. “I cannot read them.”
“I can,” Andarion said. “For I learned these old runes from the Archons themselves, their written language that was lost long ago. These words speak of the old war that was fought among the worlds, and also of the battle that is yet to come. The leader of the Archons knew well he had not won the final victory, and that Modrian’s evil lived on and would wreak more woe in the mortal realm. He left behind this account, and for those who could not read it there are the images.” He pointed to the carvings, and Damion recognized two figures right away: a woman crowned with stars, and a dragon menacing her.
Ailia and Morlyn, Damion thought.
It was as if someone had struck him a blow. The tranquillity of the Ether left him all at once, leaving him filled with dismay. “Ailia! I have forgotten so much while I was in the Ether! My friends, my world . . . This is the present, you say—the moving crest of time. That means the last war is coming soon.”
“It has already begun,” Andarion said. “No world is safe, not even my haven-home far away from here. I came here hoping to find some help or counsel in the former world of the star-lords.”
“And Ailia is fighting now—and in danger still. And I cannot help her.” He was filled with remorse at the thought of her, and of Jomar and Lorelyn, all of them believing him to be dead.
“You can. When we die we are called to be one or the other, we who are of human and Archonic descent. You chose not to pass away, but your only other choice was to be an Archon, and that means you are subject to the Pact that forbids you entry to the mortal plane. But if your human friends need you, then they can call upon you, so long as they are in full knowledge of what you have become. It may be that they have already done so and you have not heard their pleas, being outside of time. But if they have not, then I summon you, Archon, and any of your kind who hear. It is one of your own that we fight, Valdur, who was Modrian. Will you help us?”
“I will. With the powers now at my command, I can give you the help you need. That is why I died—to become more powerful than I was before. I did not fully understand then, but I do now.” He turned from the carvings to look on Andarion’s face. “I must go back to Ailia.”
“SO,” SAID LORELYN, “YOU CAME back here through the Ether, to Arainia. But you
couldn’t become human again until one of us called you.”
They were sitting together on a stone near the shore, the two mortals staring at Damion in wonderment. He answered softly, taking the girl’s hand in his: “Lorelyn—I really have returned, but this is not my home. I will do all I can to help you, now that I am here. But I am an Archon, and my place is the Ether. You must know, for you lived there once too. We knew each other before our life in Mera.”
Lorelyn stared at him. Then she gave a gasp, put her hands to her head, and struggled to her feet.
“What is it?” cried Jomar. “What’s happening?” He sprang to her side and supported her, as he had done on the island of the exiles.
“The Ether,” she whispered. “I remember. Yes, I remember it all.” Her head swam with visions of light and fleeting forms, faces and voices. She straightened, and turned to look at Damion. “We were together there: you and I. And Ailia too. And before that I remember . . . arms that held me, a gentle voice singing. My mother. And I remember my father taking me away, telling me how she died, telling me I would be safe now. But I didn’t want to stay there, I wanted to go back . . . Damion! I know it at last! What I am, and what my purpose is. I knew it all along—I just forgot!” Joy filled her; the last words rang out in triumph.
But Jomar stepped back, and stood looking from one of them to the other. His emotions were a stormy welter, like waves colliding with one another. There was hope that he still did not quite dare to feel, that Damion had in truth returned alive—renewed anxiety for Ailia—and now this. When he spoke his tone was not so much demanding as imploring. “What are you saying, Lori? I don’t understand. Is that really Damion? How can he have come back to life?”
“Yes, it’s really he—not another illusion.” Lorelyn laughed for sheer delight. “I so wanted to believe that Ailia was right, Damion, that you’d return to us!”
