The Light of Life

by Edward W. Robertson

  Blays had spent the last of his stream connecting himself to Dante, but he needed more to tie himself to the Aba Quen. Feeling quite insane to be daydreaming in the midst of a pitched battle, he closed his eyes, returning to the valley in the mountains. This time, he saw that it was spring, and the children were catching frogs by the pond and making them race each other in the patch of bare dirt behind the house.

  Two victories later, one by a bright green frog and the other by a toad named Bumps, a ring of golden chips circled in front of Blays. He opened the front of his jabat and withdrew the Aba Quen. It was slippery with sweat.

  The clash of sorcery slowed to a minor skirmish. Dante smiled bleakly, gaze shifting to the swamp behind them. "Took them long enough."

  There, the heads and shoulders of the Blighted emerged from the surface. The former people ignored the water streaming down their water-wrinkled faces, gnashing their teeth and splashing forward.

  Blays stuffed the statue in his jabat and drew his swords.

  "No!" Gladdic showered the foremost of the Blighted with nether, knocking their corpses back into the water, then spun to deflect Dante's latest attack, which had come so close that the sparks of its negation bounced against Gladdic's face. "You must complete the task!"

  Blays backed away from the banks, Gladdic paralleling him. Despite Gladdic's frantic culling, there were already thirty Blighted taking their first steps on shore, with more arising from the swamp behind them. Dante hurled another wave of shadows at Gladdic. The old priest grimaced, laying into the nether with radiant spears. He pushed back the assault, but had no attention left for the coming Blighted.

  Blays could hold them off. Probably. But it would stall his progress. The stream he'd just brought forth would vanish. There was no right answer—yet he knew that indecision had killed more people than plague.

  He sheathed his swords and withdrew the Aba Quen. Marshaling the stream, he sent a line of it between himself and the ivory statute. The gecko's eyes glowed gold. A pin pricked Blays' core. Dante winced, reaching for his solar plexus. Blays lifted the Aba Quen, waiting for it to do its thing. It rested in his hand like the inert lump of old bone that it was. Blays shook it. Nothing happened. His mouth went dry. Bek had made it sound like—

  Dante spun a column of shadows directly at Blays' head. Still retreating from the Blighted, Gladdic countered with an inelegant but equally-sized column of light. As soon as the ether left his hand, Gladdic whirled back toward the Blighted.

  The first of them had already launched itself at the old man. It crashed into him, knocking him down and biting at his throat, nails gouging into the side of Gladdic's ribs. Gladdic punched a spike of nether through the Blighted's skull, producing a fountain of brains that were as pale as the Blighted's exteriors.

  Gladdic staggered to his feet, de-braining four more of the things before turning to meet Dante's latest attack. The leading edge of the nether pierced Gladdic's chest. He yelled out, clubbing it aside with a truncheon of raw ether.

  The Aba Quen still hadn't done anything. Blays stared at it dumbly, ready to bash his own brains out with it. Had he screwed something up? Had Bek left something out? With no other option, he sent the last of his stream into the Aba Quen. This time, as the pin-prick jabbed his middle, he homed in on the feeling.

  And found that it brought him straight to the pillar of pearl that resided in his core. There, a golden tether extended from the pillar to Dante.

  Blays opened his remnant. Ether poured from him and into Dante.

  18

  Light streamed between them. Dante watched as the ether entered his body just below his ribs. He looked up and smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "This is how you said the Odo Sein cure the Blight, isn't it? I don't feel a thing. What if your little scheme doesn't work on liches?"

  "Then you'll have to excuse us from the remainder of this battle," Blays said, "as we'll need to go register a formal complaint at the Silent Spires for their sorcerous malpractice. What do you say?"

  "I think you're trying to distract me from finishing this." Dante shifted his focus to Gladdic, who had seized on the momentary pause to lay waste to the closest Blighted, opening a wide circle around himself.

  Dante lifted his hand. Nether coalesced around his fingers, undulating like black fire. Blays' heart collided with his stomach. He'd done everything that he was supposed to—more than that; he was only supposed to have provided cover for Bek, not execute the process himself—and he'd still failed.

  Then again, there was something comforting in that, wasn't there? He would die knowing that he had done everything. And when he emerged from the haze of the Pastlands and into the Mists, there would be nothing left that he'd have to make peace with.

  Best of all, he'd be away from the reach of the White Lich, wouldn't he? He could find Minn then. He doubted you could have children in the Mists, but they could still find their mountain valley. Build their cabin in it. And live together until it was time to move on.

  The nether sputtered from Dante's fingers. Rather than searing toward Gladdic, it flapped away in confusion. Blays felt Dante calling to the shadows, but the nether stopped a few feet from his outstretched hands, circling him as though it was wary.

  "What," Dante said. "Have you done?"

  His face writhed as if worms crawled beneath his skin. His head snapped backward. His fingers twisted into claws, bending at impossible angles. The cord of ether running between them brightened steadily. Drool leaked from the corner of Dante's mouth. He staggered to his right, clutching at his heart. Patches of green appeared on his salt-white skin, creeping across his face and arms like living things.

  He straightened and faced Blays, jaw hanging slackly, blood and spit spilling from his mouth. "You…"

  He convulsed, fell to his knees, and vomited. At first it was red, but the next heaves were green, and the ones after that were as black as nether.

  Dante fell to his side. His eyes were open and the pale blue brightness had left them, but his glassy gray eyes didn't seem to see anything at all.

  ~

  The vision had always been the same.

  The city lay beneath him like a map, its silver towers and golden domes gleaming redly as the sun broke from behind the mountain and spilled across all of creation. Snow still rested on the gardens and trees, but there was a note of warmth in the air that suggested it would soon retreat to the heights of the mountain. The people below seemed to sense this, moving about the streets with impatient readiness, smoke chuffing from bakeries and inns, the citizens yearning to return to work on the most beautiful city Dante had ever seen.

  Wind gushed over him, rippling his robes. He was flying. This wasn't unusual. In the clean paved streets, those who saw him dropped to their knees and lowered their heads. He banked to his right, gaining elevation, the ether shining upon him just as the sun did while the nether flowed through him like the wind of his flight.

  The tower stood against the sky like an upthrust fist. If he'd wanted, the lich could have made it as tall as the mountain, but he'd decided to restrict it to two thousand feet, largely so that human servants and dignitaries could walk about on its terraces and roofs without freezing to death or being flung off by raging winds.

  Dante cleared the rooftop, pulled upward, and stalled, lowering gently until his soles touched the silver-veined marble. The Eiden Rane waited impassively, watching the city react to the gift of dawn. In an earlier time, the lich also would have been hurrying off to the day's labor, but he hadn't had to do any serious work in many years. Instead, he passed much of his time there on the roof, watching the people engage in his creation. Dante had never known if he was observing it for flaws, or enjoying the clockwork precision of his work. Knowing the lich, it was probably both.

  The lich didn't turn his head. "Sorcerer. Are you ready?"

  Dante moved to his side. "It is my honor, my master."

  "Walk with me. And receive your destiny."

  The portal stood twenty fee
t high, iron double doors inscribed with blackened runes. There was nothing on the other side. The Eiden Rane lifted his heavy hand. It glowed. Then the runes did, too. With a groan like music, the doors opened. Light of all colors poured forth. For a moment, Dante remembered what it had felt like to be afraid.

  The Eiden Rane strode into the light and Dante followed. The light faded. The tower was gone. They stood on a staircase into the stars. They ascended. Everything was perfectly silent except for the rasp of their feet on the treads and a low hum that came from everywhere and nowhere.

  With each step Dante took, a memory flashed through his mind. The taking of Tanar Atain. The Battle of the Dundens, when the sorcerers of the northern kingdoms made their great stand, and died to the last. The union of the world that followed as the last human fell and rose again as Blighted. The Long Reward, when the Blighted were given the run of the world for their service. Finally, the death of the last Blighted and the Ceremony of the Second Age, when the lich brought forth the first of his new humans.

  The founding of the City of Heavens. The raising of the Thirty-One Towers. The spread of the people across their new home, until every land was filled. The Perfect Peace that knew no struggle nor war. The Final Quest, when the Eiden Rane and each of his under-lords worked to unlock the last secret, and Dante delivered it from the beyond. The crafting of the Starward Gate—and, at last, its opening.

  The staircase seemed to go on forever, but Dante now understood that time was an illusion. A platform took shape ahead. The Eiden Rane didn't increase his pace. He didn't need to. Together, they ascended the platform. There, the gods awaited.

  Dante lifted his eyes to them. Everything went white.

  That was where the vision had always ended.

  This time, the whiteness cleared. The platform was empty. The gods were gone. Dante turned to the Eiden Rane. The lich was already half transparent. As he disappeared, he shook his head and turned away.

  Nausea spread through Dante's belly. It had been so long since he had felt any pain that the sensation paralyzed him. He retched. The convulsion sent hair-fine cracks racing across his skin. He fell to his knees. Glowing blue-white liquid dripped from the cracks in his body, spattering the platform. As the droplets landed, the light within them dimmed away to nothing.

  He whirled and ran toward the stairs to the portal, but as he planted his foot, his ankle snapped. He pitched forward, landing on his elbows and knees, which crunched like chalk. His once-smooth skin dangled from his body in mummified strips. He reached out to the nether. It flickered, drifting toward him, then returned to its crevices, watching in judgment as the gift was stolen from him and his body succumbed to the thousands of years that he'd defied nature's law.

  His ears roared. His sight blurred. He thought that was from the intolerable pain, but it was in fact the result of his eyes sinking into their sockets and dehydrating into black lumps. He reached out in agony, leaving a trail of fingers across the platform. His arm shook and fell. He needed to breathe, but he didn't have the strength to expand his chest.

  He knew what it was to die—and to be born.

  ~

  "Dante!"

  Blays tried to run toward the prone figure, but his legs wobbled beneath him. He half sat and half fell, laughing dumbly for reasons he couldn't have explained. His head buzzed, the sound vacillating in and out but growing steadily louder. Something white and glowy was extending from his belly, looking like some sort of celestial worm.

  Ah. Yes. The channel between them was still open. And it was busy draining ether from himself and feeding it to Dante. He thought that he should shut it off—it seemed to him that if he lost all his remnant, he'd either turn Blighted himself, or maybe just die—but he didn't seem to have any idea in hell how to do that.

  He decided to sit there and see if any answers appeared. Ten seconds later, with the cord starting to dim, Blays couldn't remember why he was frowning. Or why he was sitting down. Other than the fact that it was very comfortable. That was probably why, wasn't it? That it was so comfy?

  A figure swayed in front of him, pale and long-limbed. Its face and chest were slathered in blood. Blays squinted, mouth hanging open. Was he about to get eaten by a Blighted? That didn't seem like the most fun experience in the world. On the other hand, avoiding that fate would require standing up, which he didn't think he'd want to do even if he knew how.

  "Blays!" the figure yelled. "The connection remains open! You must close it!"

  "But what?"

  The figure, who Blays was starting to believe might not be a Blighted after all, drew back its hand and slapped him across the face.

  He touched his cheek. "What's that for, you son of a bastard?"

  "Close the connection before you lose yourself! Sever the stream!"

  The connection? The stream? Blays scowled down at the statue with the lizard and bones that he clutched in his hands. He reached toward the golden thread connecting him to the Aba Quen. This felt like trying to run through chest-deep water. He swore at it, thinking that might help. Either it did or he'd been right about to get to it anyway, because his mind grasped the thread. He yanked as hard as he could. The tie snapped with only the faintest resistance; if he'd been breaking a strand in the physical world rather than within the loony sorcerous one, he would have gone stumbling backwards.

  The buzzing faded. Blays glanced about himself, pulse racing, soggy with fresh sweat. Bodies of the Blighted were strewn all over the place. Most had been killed with precision strikes, but others had been knocked into gory pieces, as if they'd gotten too close, requiring Gladdic to hit them with awkward sledgehammers of nether. Which explained why Gladdic was such a great big bloody mess.

  Blays scrabbled to his feet, gawking wild-eyed at the old priest. "I was about to lose the last of it. It had me so addle-pated that I didn't even understand what was happening. I think you just saved my life."

  Gladdic nodded and tried to say something, but coughed instead, spitting blood down the front of his jabat. Blays rocked back a step, then ran forward just in time to catch him as he fainted.

  Gladdic was covered in bites and gashes and awash in blood that Blays had mistaken for the Blighted's. "Gladdic! Wake up, you idiot! Wake up and heal yourself!"

  The old man lolled limply. Across from them, Dante lay next to his pools of multi-hued vomit. His eyes were still open. Blays couldn't tell if he was dead, but Gladdic was certainly about to be.

  Blays lowered the priest to the ground and ran to Dante. He shook his shoulder, gently at first, then savagely. Just as Blays was about to scream, Dante's eyes popped open.

  "Can you hear me?" Blays said. "Are you in there?"

  Dante's eyes roved from side to side. "I don't know."

  "Do you know who I am? Do you know who you are?"

  "I don't know."

  Blays covered his face with his hands. "You can remember who you are later. Gladdic's about to die unless you get up and heal him!"

  Dante looked at him blankly, then at Gladdic and the blood weeping from his wounds into the grass. Dante planted a palm on the ground and shoved himself to his feet. He tottered over to Gladdic, shadows wrapping around his hands. As soon as they touched him, he stopped, taking a deep breath. He rolled his shoulders.

  He turned and smiled at Blays. "There I am."

  Dante crouched next to Gladdic, steadying himself with one hand. Nether surged to the unconscious priest, eddying over his countless wounds. The bleeding slowed. The worst bite, a chunk taken from the side of Gladdic's neck, filled in layer by layer, until it was replaced with smooth skin much pinker than the tanned parts surrounding it.

  One by one, the other wounds followed suit. The nether grew shakier and shakier in Dante's hands. Eventually, he flopped on his rear, back hunched.

  Blays stood over Gladdic. "Is he alive?"

  "Yeah." Dante gazed down at himself. His jabat was smeared with vomit and blood. "Am I?"

  "Yes. Sorry about that."

&n
bsp; "There are more Blighted coming. They'll be here any minute and I'm nearly out of nether. We have to get out of here."

  Blays sighed. "And I thought I'd finally be able to rest for a while."

  He went to the canoe and beached it directly across from Gladdic, stashing the Aba Quen inside. Dante tried to help Blays carry the old man to the boat, but immediately dropped Gladdic's feet and ran off to vomit in the grass. Blays leveraged Gladdic over the gunwale and settled him inside. This done, he gave Dante a hand getting in, then picked up the paddle and headed east-northeast, away from both the Hell-Painted Hills and the direction Dante said the Blighted were coming from.

  "If you're going to barf again," Blays said, "please do it over the side, would you? If you add 'scrub the upchuck from the bottom of a canoe' to the list of things I've had to do today, I swear to the gods I'll deliver us straight to the White Lich."

  Dante nodded weakly. He was ashen and shaky and Blays wasn't sure if he looked better or worse than when he'd woken up ten minutes earlier.

  But he was human again. That was what Blays chose to focus on as he conveyed them away from the Hell-Painted Hills and into the overgrown clamor of the swamp. Dante kept glancing behind them. Either he had so little nether left at hand that he didn't want to waste it on his insect scouts, or he was too rattled to think of it.

  "So the last couple of weeks were terrible," Blays said once he was reasonably sure they weren't about to be set upon by hidden foes. "Rather than allowing you to simply take my word for it, I'm now going to inflict the experience on you as well."

  He launched into a lengthy recap of everything he, Naran, Gladdic, and the late Bek had done since Dante had been taken by the White Lich, deliberately including more detail than was strictly necessary, in part to fill the time, and in part to help remind Dante that he was back among them.

  He spent a particularly long time on the heist of the Bastion, which had almost been fun, in its way. Despite that, Dante didn't ask a single question or so much as laugh, gazing instead out into the swamp.