“The Empress sent me,” Jahir said to the Faulfenzair who opened the door to his knock.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”
In a day crowded with marvels, it was disarming to be admitted into an entirely ordinary suite in Ontine furnished in all the expected ways, even to the hidden musician providing a soothing ballad from behind a nearly closed inner door… but the changes made by the Faulfenza to that familiar environment reminded him that they had not yet exited that day, that he was still out of his element, that the futures haloing every person he espied had grown radiances that set his eyes watering.
The male who rose to greet him did not add to those futures, but he certainly did not dim them, either. Jahir weathered the scrutiny awarded him by this mystery and could not return it. He knew only that he felt both comforted and called to striving. The basso profundo of the stranger’s voice was all in keeping with everything about him, and the day. “Yes. You will do.”
“Is that all?” Jahir asked, finding the Eldritch encomium funny on alien lips. “I will seek another for you if you desire better.”
The stranger laughed. “I believe you would. You do what Faulfenza do, but for all the wrong reasons. Fade from the center stage.”
“Say that I learned that habit for the wrong reasons,” Jahir said, smiling. “I hope I know better now.”
“I hope so too. We are all needed.” The Faulfenzair rubbed a finger… or at least, that’s what Jahir assumed he was doing, until the light caught a glint off metal. The ring that eased away at last choked a breath in his throat, not because he recognized it, but because there were memories and powers bored through it, so powerfully that the empty space encompassed by it was as full as a wormhole’s. “Before the Faulfenza embraced the Alliance, we Danced in Tandem with the Eldritch and knew one another for kin. This was a gift made to our third messiah, my sister in the God, as a mark of a relationship that loomed great in her life though it lasted less than a breath for either of our peoples. I return it home, as she swore would be done in her name. I entrust it to you, now, as a descendant of he who aided her in her need.”
He knew what he was receiving with that ring, but even steeled for it, he felt unequal to it… because it did not come like a burst of light and power, the way he expected from the weight of it in the world… but as a whisper of a song that led him through memory, through laughter and purpose and heartache and glory. In it he glimpsed the Alliance in its youth, untried and eager and callow… and the Eldritch, already in their decline, a precipitous and unexpected one so soon after their arrival to their new world. History gathered him in and for a palm of heartbeats, he participated in it, felt himself a citizen of that world, reveling in its excellencies, its newness, and yet knowing the future to come. Nor was that all, because there were visions, clouded, crowding: of evil, and hatred, of long years of solitude, of strife and despair and refusal to despair. Of a prison darksome, and again, the Faulfenza… except this time, they were the helpmeets, rather than the ones in need of aid. A beautiful circuit, almost entirely closed, because their path led toward that barrow and its stony bier.
By then, vision was so much more real than the world that he knew Valthial’s words for truth. He could reach across worlds and see Lisinthir’s dreaming mind, and the Emperor’s. Could see past them toward the edges of empire, and the menace already at work there.
They had time. Not much. It wouldn’t feel like enough. But he had seen unicorns, and knew the triumph of God and Goddess, Lord and Lady, was already enshrined in the pattern of the universe, or it could not hold them in it. He would forget in the throes of the fight. But the knowledge would return one day, and comfort, as he knew it had Seledor Jesa Galare… who had died far from home.
Jahir’s fingers closed around the ring. “Thank you.”
* * *
He knew what he would find when he pushed open the suite’s inner door, and yet he remained unprepared for the poignancy of the sight of Seledor’s lute. Particularly since it was in use. He’d glimpsed the musician once or twice in Ontine, but the man was unknown to him, and yet Jahir could think of no one better suited to the instrument and couldn’t have said why. That certitude was the reason he could meet the man’s eyes without offense when they were raised to his with such hostility. “You can’t have it.”
“I did not come to take it from you.”
In that pause they evaluated one another—re-evaluated, in the case of the musician. Perhaps. Jahir wasn’t sure he’d redeemed whatever class of persons the stranger had issues with, solely with that statement.
“All right,” the musician said. “I admit I didn’t expect that from the prince-consort.”
“Because?” Jahir asked.
“Because I’ve heard nothing but praise of you since last summer. You are a great musician, and a great poet, and a great man.” A flippant wave of hand. “And so on.”
The litany struck Jahir as humorous… particularly its order. To a minstrel, of course, the art came first. Particularly a minstrel of this stripe, who by his face was several centuries Jahir’s senior, and probably quite set in his beliefs. “Interestingly, I would have described myself as none of these things.”
“Yes, your modesty is also one of the traits most touted by your admirers.”
“And by my detractors?”
“They say you’re only pretending to be meek, and that you are in fact as intractable as the empress. More so, perhaps, and with less reason.”
“I hardly recognize this portrait of myself,” Jahir said.
The stranger was still strumming, and the chords now were suggestive of sarcasm. “You seem to be enjoying yourself. Which I also didn’t expect.”
“Let us say rather what we both know, that figures of note to the public may not be known well by them.”
“No. But art doesn’t lie.” A decisive arpeggio, running up the bridge, in such a casual display of virtuosity that it could not have been staged. The man simply was that good. “You composed that epic saga.”
“I lived through it,” Jahir said. “But in composing it, I had aid. I needed it because it had to be greater than my ability.”
“Modesty,” the musician scoffed.
“No,” Jahir said. “No, in this I can be truthful, and glad of it. I am no composer, and if I am a poet, it is only occasionally. I am a musician, and I believe, a good one. But I prefer to perform the works of others, not create them. My talents lie elsewhere.”
“Almost, I believe you.”
“Then perhaps your reservations will dissolve when I tell you that I have not changed my mind. You should keep Seledor Jesa Galare’s lute. In fact, you may be the rightful owner of it.”
That reached the man, who bowed his head. He began picking the opening of a ballad that had been old when Jahir’s mother was young; the only reason he knew it was that she had a passionate love for the most tragic stories and songs, and had sung them with gusto even to her young sons.
After playing through the first verse, the musician said, grudgingly, “It belongs in a museum.”
“It does no such thing,” Jahir answered. “We are Eldritch, with lifespans far beyond most species’s expectations. That instrument would have been in the hands of Seledor’s successor, and would be in it yet if he had lived to bestow it.”
“But you are his successor.” The musician nodded toward the fist Jahir had made around the ring. “Paudii-ai told me their prophet would deliver the ring to that man.”
“I am merely holding this until I can return it to its proper place.”
Both the musician’s brows shot up. “Oh? And that would be?”
“Revealed at the right time,” Jahir said. “It is not yet that time.”
How effortlessly the man modulated the chorus into something sour, and so briefly. “That’s the other thing they say of you.”
“That I’m stuffy?”
He’d almost gotten the man to laugh with that one. “That you’re needlessly cryptic.”
“Ah… I’m never needlessly cryptic,” Jahir said. “And often, my ambiguity is as much a puzzlement to myself as to others.”
The musician finished that ballad and segued into another, equally antique. “I will say this: you’re not what I expected.”
“I’m glad,” Jahir said, and rose. “Keep the lute.”
“And what if I decide you should have it?”
“Then give it to me,” Jahir said, and couldn’t help adding, “But you won’t.”
The musician kept playing. “Probably not.” Looking up. “I’m Amaldir, and no one owns me. Not gods nor aliens nor royalty. Not even interesting princes.”
“Then it is as it should be,” Jahir said. “No artist should have a master.”
* * *
By then nightfall had well and truly fallen and he was glad to go home to his family. Vasiht’h and Sediryl were already in their suite, talking while she brushed out her hair. His arrival earned him embraces from them both into which he sank gratefully. “Such a day, my beloveds.”
“We were just discussing it,” Sediryl said. “The Queen Ransomed was originally going to stay a week, but now she’s leaving tomorrow morning. We met with the Twelveworld Lord earlier and there’s just no getting around it. This news needs to go back immediately. She’s hoping Lisinthir and the Emperor will be home from whatever latest crisis has called them away so they can discuss how they want to take advantage of Liolesa’s ability.”
“Speaking of which, can we mention the thing we’re not talking about?” Vasiht’h asked.
“Which of the things?” Sediryl said. “So much happened today I can’t keep track of the things we’ve let drop.”
Vasiht’h looked at him. “Your mom not wanting that new ability used on her?”
Jahir settled onto a chair and began the task of disrobing. “Are you surprised? The talents are not without drawbacks.”
“I know. And ordinarily I wouldn’t push it. But what isn’t being said is ‘Eldritch without developed mind talents might have a harder time defending themselves against…’ whatever it is we’re about to be fighting. What is it? Wormhole-creating demons? That’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Yes,” Jahir said. When Vasiht’h prodded him through the mindline, he finished, “That is all I have. Your summation is as good as any, and better than most.”
“We’re not angels,” Vasiht’h said.
“Then it is fortunate that mere people were always called upon to fight demons,” Jahir said.
“It may be as simple as her not wanting an audience,” Sediryl said. “Give it a few days, ariihir. Goddess! I feel like I was just thinking ‘it’ll be nice to have a normal state visit from a friend about the fate of a handful of children,’ and it’s turned into…” She exhaled, staring at herself in the mirror. “It’s turned into what comes next.”
Jahir said nothing, but he stood so he could walk to her, slide his arms around her shoulders and rest his cheek on the crown of her head. Vasiht’h sidled over until he could lean against them both, and that was good.
/I see it in your mind,/ Vasiht’h murmured, and the words were cold like the metal of a church bell in winter, brought to mind the same bells ringing. Not for the new year, but of perils, calling them in to fight. /It’s the storm. The one you saw with Lisinthir after the wedding./
/Yes./
A long pause. In the past, his partner might have withdrawn to grapple with his anxieties and insecurities. Tonight, Vasiht’h rolled his shoulders. /Good. The sooner it gets here, the sooner we can finish with it and get on with living. I have kits to raise, and so do you./
He laughed softly. “How fortunate I am in my loved ones.”
* * *
In the morning, he showed them the ring. Vasiht’h was unwilling to touch it, but he peered closely at it. “It just breathes age. How old is it?”
“At least 800 years old. Much older, perhaps, if it was commissioned prior to the departure from Terra. It might have been if it was made for Alari to award to her descendants.”
“It’s less ornate than I expected….”
“Our earlier generations hewed to a different, more direct aesthetic,” Jahir said. “You can observe it in people like Lord Hirianthial.”
“The broadsword generation,” Sediryl said. When they both glanced at her, she said, “That’s what people are starting to call it.”
“Dare he ask what your generation is called,” Vasiht’h said, laughing. “Let me guess. ‘A slightly different kind of sword.’”
Sediryl grinned at him. “Close. The dueling generation. I guess because the other name for my aunt’s age group is ‘the jousting generation.’”
“Won’t take long for that to become ‘the broadswords and the duelists,’” Vasiht’h said. “Especially since everyone from both generations will be alive long enough to debate it.” He straightened the silk handkerchief Jahir had set the ring on. “Are you going to keep it?”
“It’s not mine to keep,” Jahir said. “I’ll take care of that this morning and join you… where will you be?”
“The Queen Ransomed is touring Imthereli after breakfast,” Sediryl said. “I’ll go with her to that. Then back to Laisrathera for lunch, and then she’ll be on her way.”
“Then I will join you at Laisrathera.”
“That’s right, you have a shift at the hospital, don’t you? Later?”
“Yes,” Jahir said, regretful. “I do.”
/Should I ask?/
/You will know soon enough, I think. When I am ready to speak to it./
Vasiht’h set a hand over his and sent through it a surge of chiffon-soft affection.
* * *
After a light breakfast, Jahir crossed the Pad from Seni to Ontine, into a spring morning lit by a pale, clear light. The stone of the palace glowed beneath that beneficent sun, and every edge of the building was crisp with it, and with the distant scent of salt. He borrowed a horse from the palace stables and rode to the Cathedral with his guards as silent company, and he was glad of them, for this errand deserved ceremony. He was also grateful when they took up position at the gates to the Cathedral doors, leaving him to advance alone.
As members of a royal (and now imperial) dynasty, many of the Galare could be found buried in the cemetery attached to the capital’s main park. But the queens of the Eldritch and their immediate relations merited interment in the Cathedral itself, in a crypt on the north side of the crossing. There was an auxiliary altar there, but Jahir did not tarry at it in prayer after bowing. He sought instead a name on one of the walls, and after finding it drew in a breath and opened his pocket for the handkerchief. Pulling the small Galare ring from his finger, the one his mother had given him when he’d surrendered the heir’s signet, he slid Seledor’s in its place. It was larger than the rings he wore, but it clung to his finger as he pressed his palm against Elesir’s name, beneath the niche.
“He wished you to know that he loved you,” Jahir whispered.
How long he remained there, he didn’t know. But when it felt right to step away, he restored the ring to the silk, donned his smaller signet, and left.
The vaults of Ontine were administered by the Chancellor’s office, and it was to one of Delerenenard’s officials that Jahir brought the ring. He signed his name to the deposit document, attesting to the ring’s provenance as described by him and recorded by the official. Then Seledor’s ring was borne into the imperial treasury, there to bide until its final disposition. There would be one, he knew. Had known, the moment he’d felt the smooth metal beneath his fingertips.
He was in the palace chapel when Valthial slid into the pew beside him. He’d been waiting for the priest, and Val knew it; there was no need to say so.
“You ready for the work?”
“Though it was not the work I planned?” Jahir asked.
“You know better.”
“Do I?”
Val chuckled. “Really, Jahir. Did you go to your offworld school so you could be the only healer on the planet? No. You went in hopes of bringing home something you could share.”
“My intention was medicine—”
“Your intention was to save the Eldritch,” Val said. “If you’d wanted to save them with surgery, you should have been more specific.”
Put that way, it was hard to argue the point… and even somewhat humorous. Jahir could look back on his youthful desire and see it as a child’s longing to solve the symptom of a problem, not its root. “And so, the onus of teaching a planet of mind-mages….”
“Must of course fall to you,” Val said. “Who else? Why did you think you were given the talent? You of all people? Who wanted it least?”
“Hirianthial—”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll press him into service, too. We’re all going to be busy. But you and that Glaseah are going to be the center of it, and well you know it, or why did you yoke yourself to a mind-mage-loving species in the first place?”
Jahir laughed, quiet. “And if I say to you ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ you will remind me that God and Lady move through our lives to the purpose we eventually realize was our home all along.”
“See? I’d say you hardly need me, but you apparently do.”
“I will need you for a long time yet, Valthial. So will the Eldritch.”
“It’s fortunate I’m so young, then.” The priest’s mirth fell from him in one of his mercurial changes of temper. “You know this is the task designed for you at this point in time. You fight, but you are not in love with fighting—”
“I am in love with healing.” Smiling wryly, he clarified: “With the practice of medicine.”
“And you’ll come back to it.”
“My reward,” Jahir said, thinking of his shift at the hospital, and KindlesFlame’s lovéd face. The satisfaction of a surgery well completed. The peace that came of seeing a patient made whole. And then he laughed. “I am feeling sorrow for myself, and for no good reason.”
“I dare to suggest that you’ll find teaching rewarding. You might even ask those two professors of yours about it. Funny how you ended up such great friends with them, to the point of inviting them here. And then they came! Almost as if it was ordained!”
Jahir eyed him. “Coming it a touch too strong, high priest.”
“Message received, then?”
“Entirely.” Jahir chuckled. “The pity has even passed.”
“Good. Then I’ll expect you for lessons tomorrow. Plan to stay longer. We’ll have people to teach by then.”
“You think the Empress will move so quickly?”
“If the Empress isn’t already bestowing the gift to everyone she meets today, then I’ll be shocked. So very shocked!”
“A nation of mind-mages,” Jahir murmured.
“A nation of mind-mages and mind-gifted,” Val said as he stood. “Not everyone will be a power.”
“But enough will.”
“God and Goddess willing. The more, the better.”
For some time after that, Jahir tarried, staring at the altar and contemplating a future that required as many mind-mages as the Eldritch could field. He remained torn between dread, faith in the divine… and what Lisinthir would have called enthusiasm, and told him not to use as a spur for guilt. He could almost hear his cousin’s voice: don’t ride that horse, my Delight. It bucks.
Which led him from the chapel and to his next errand, which he discharged at home, at his desk. Fortunately the letter he needed to pen was short. He could have called, but the words would land differently when consumed on paper, and linger for it. That these words should linger was of paramount importance.
After he’d sealed the billet, he tucked it into his coat and went at last to pleasure, to Laisrathera, where the luncheon was being set out. The guests were already present. Jahir embraced the Queen Ransomed and gave her the letter. “For your beloved.”
“I will give it to him,” she said. “As I wish I could give him this sight.”
Jahir watched the new fosterlings as they tried their wings in the air of a foreign world. The young females had already learned to glide, and were now coaxing another Chatcaavan female into trying it herself. That was the nursery attendant who’d been caring for the Chatcaavan orphan in the Laisrathera nursery, born a four-armed, wingless female and wingless no longer.
“If I had known all that would happen when I aided an alien and a stranger in my tower!” the Queen said.
“One act of courage,” Jahir said. “It is the same every day and everywhere, lady.” When she looked up at him, he said, “It is a single act of courage, repeated, that moves the worlds. They are the beats of hope’s heart.”
“Then let us have strong hearts for the path before us,” the Queen said. “And win the sky for ourselves and our children.”
“We can give them no greater gift,” Jahir agreed, and then Sediryl was climbing the stairs to them, flushed with exhilaration and followed by Maazi and Vu.
“Look, look!” Vu said. “Watch me from here, princess!”
“I’m watching,” Sediryl promised, and the girl leaped from the stairs and floated away.