Galen’s Ritual
The winged woman gazes at me with a sad silence.
We have often met here. The names of these places are unknown and perhaps unknowable, but she is always here, gazing at me in her hushed peace and pain. For more than twenty years we have come together in such places as exist only in this unconscious place, through fire and ice, good and ill. We have together striven to understand this power of the Deep Magic that binds us inseparably together and makes us dependent upon each other for the power it represents. Now, on this hilltop covered with bright flowers, I gaze on her with wonder, gratitude, and a sense of loss.
She destroyed my life even as she gave my life meaning—and I do not even know if she is real, this winged woman.
We stand on a hillside in my reveries and feel the wind blowing against us. She looks as she has always looked to me in this dream land; I stand somewhat ashamed as I hide behind the mask I have conjured for myself. I hate that I should have to hide from her. The petals of the flowers covering the hillside around us are tiny flames, burning brightly in the breeze. The winged woman opens her arms as though to release me. I feel her lightness within my body, my feet rising from the ground.
The wind carries me onward and blows against my mask, a masquerade that all mystics must now wear. It feels like soft tooled leather on my face, its surfaces painted white and black with the curled spikes from its forehead shading to flame orange and red. The shape and form of the mask must change each time I enter the dream, but this form is one of my favorites. I can hear the breeze whistling about the sides and flowing around its contours. Only lately in my dreams, I feel this wind grow with each passing day. I know that I must follow it and find meaning in its course.
The winged woman raises her hand in a gesture of farewell. I spread my hands out, surrendering myself to the wind’s blustering flow. It blows me backward through the days and years, drifting on the breeze as a feather through the darkness and light. Each evening down the long years and in many different forms I have made this journey; it takes effort to undo time. But my masked self is weary and wishes now only to drift with the blowing of the wind, to give myself over to its whim and follow it where it may take me.
The years fall from my body until I float across the gentle slopes on the shores of Mirren Bay. I would that the wind had not driven me here, for it is a place of exquisite loss, I float through the chill of morning toward a humble little house on the northern edges of Benyn, drifting more slowly now, the breeze on which I ride taunting me as the cottage nears. The sounds of the Pir trumpets, too, are carried on the currents as I near an ill-fitting glass set in a windowpane. I turn away from the glass, for I cannot look upon the hopeful faces that would look back at me, so young and innocent of the tragedy to come.
The cottage has become a tree and I a leaf clinging to it, fighting against the wind. Yet it is as if I have dried and my season is finished. I cannot hold on to what is past and am torn from its shelter. Another leaf in brilliant orange is caught by the wind, too, and follows me swirling into the sky.
I twist on a new eddy in a sudden gust. The beautiful woman with elegant wings floats with me in the wind. She is ever there for me and never changing. Her presence comforts me for a time as the winds drive me away from my home.
And now there is another that is blown on this wind behind me. I can see her, too, tumbling in the gusts, the orange leaf that has taken human form. Berkita—my Berkita! We tumble down the path of years across the waters of the Hadran Strait and swirling across the plains and mountains of Hrunard. I try to reach out to her, to touch her, but the winds toss us about, conspiring to keep us apart. We swirl about the towers of Vasska’s Temple, never touching in our dance of the winds.
I whirl away from the tower down different paths, skittering across the plains of Hrunard. Ten thousand—twenty thousand dead and more are pulled up by string from the blood-soaked ground of Election Fields, their tortured bodies once more whole. They dance like marionettes and take up arms. All around me the battle is joined and the slaughter rages. Again they die and the Dragonkings feast upon the dead. I try to stop, to help the dying, but the winds carry me insistently onward, south over the hills and into the forests beyond.
Then the winds drive me into chaos. I tumble in the currents, driven through the trunks of the trees, through hard winters of hunger and pain, through endless journeys, births, deaths, unions, and partings. Each place I touch urges me onward with no surcease.
At last the wind slows and deposits the winged woman and me back on the hilltop with the vibrantly flaming blossoms and into the now, if such a thing can be said to exist here. Two creatures, new to me, now rest before us, one a monstrous little demon that looks bewildered at our surroundings and the other a rust and white colored bird that sits on his shoulders. The little demon is new to the realm of dreams and I wish I could offer him some comfort. It happens often these days that someone new finds within themselves their link to this land of power and shadows. Their arrival always comes as a shock to them, and those of us who have walked the landscape of this shared dream do what we can to comfort them.
At least, most of us do. I think about my mask and hate it even as I know it must be strictly worn by all of our clan. Many years now have gone by since any of us could walk the dream as ourselves. Generally, I abhor disguises in all their forms, which makes my life doubly unfortunate.
This little demon before me is green and sports a scrawny beard. As I watch, ghosts wearing ancient armor stride up to him and drag him away from me. Poor little fellow; he probably has no idea that his life has just changed forever and that he has started down his own road without end and from which there is no turning back. I wonder once more if these visions of such creatures truly exist in some other place or if they are other metaphors for me to ponder.
The bird, however, remains behind. It flits through the air and lands on my shoulder. Its feathers are a brilliant white everywhere except for a ragged shock of black which runs down the cord of its right wing. It is odd to see a bird with coloring only on one side. With quick, jerking movements, it examines me with curiosity, staring at me with blinking, bright red eyes. I have not seen its like in the dream before, but the dream is full of the curious, wondrous, and all too often dangerous. Perhaps it wonders at who I am here behind my mask.
A gentle cry rends the air behind me, causing the clouds above to pause and fills me with bone-crushing despair. I turn to see my winged companion fall to the ground clutching at her chest. Her tears well up and I am moved beyond grief. I look about and quickly begin to gather up the flowers of the hilltop, their petals like flames burning cold against my hand. As she lifts her face toward me, I offer her the luminous bouquet. She accepts it with a glad smile. The flowers erupt into a pillar of flame, blinding me and forcing me back with its sudden heat. It vanishes as quickly as it came—the winged woman vanishing with it.
I sigh and turn to face northward, the great range of the Forsaken Mountains at my back. The winged woman is but a dream—bought too dearly at the cost of another who is all too real. I gaze across the tops of the Rhesai Forest trees. In my mind’s eye, I look beyond the forest, beyond the foothills, and beyond all the intervening lands of Hrunard, I still look and know that she is there.
Each night I look to the north and remember my lost Berkita.
THE BOOK OF GALEN BRONZE CANTICLES, TOME IV, FOLIO 6, LEAVES 32-36
“Father.”
At the sound of his name, Galen Arvad withdrew from the realm of dreams to find himself on a ridge, gazing to the north over the crests of the God’s Rim hills. Each evening for over twenty years, he had stood on an endless succession of hilltops in the waning light of uncounted afternoon suns. Some of those places had names, most of them did not, but in each of them, no matter where the clan had encamped, Galen closed each day by putting the setting sun on his left and looking northward beyond the horizon. In such times and places, he entered the Dream for his own purposes. It was the single touchstone of his day, that rare moment which he claimed entirely as his own.
Galen sat down slowly on a large stone at the crest of the hill, the pain in his effort finding voice in a prolonged groan. Twenty-six years, he thought, have exacted a terrible price on him. It was a long time to wander without a home. The long brown hair of his youth was now streaked with iron gray and his forehead seemed to have gotten much higher of late. His face had lost some of its fullness over too many hard winters with too few provisions and the lines had increased considerably in his weathered skin. He hoped idly that he did not look too different than he did when he was younger, and knew in the same moment that he did.
“Caelith! Welcome back, son.”
“I am sorry to disturb you, father,” the voice spoke quietly behind him. “I wouldn’t have done so if . . .”
“That is quite all right, Caelith,” Galen answered warmly. “I was finished.”
“Oh, of course.”
Galen laughed, turning slightly toward his son. “I don’t suppose you know what I was doing, do you?”
“No, father,” Caelith answered. “But everyone knows you come out each day wherever we are encamped—and that you are most strictly not to be disturbed.”
Galen raised his peppered eyebrows with amusement. “They do, do they? And just what do they think I’m doing out here?”
Caelith stepped forward to stand next to his father. There was a lot of Galen in his visage, the same soft eyes and the slight purse to his lips. He had his mother’s build, however, slighter and taller than his father. His mother attributed his sandy hair color to his maternal grandmother and his volatile temperament to some forgotten ancestor no one would claim. Caelith had been forged on the anvil of war and the fires of persecution. Both had beaten childhood out of him and tempered his metal in the cold waters of survival and necessity. The boy had never known a time without war or a time of rest. The demands of their times had aged him far too quickly. For all that, Galen decided, his son had tempered into a fine young man, though perhaps too soon. Looking at him now, Galen knew he was a grandson of which both Maddoc and Rhea would have been proud. He only hoped, wherever their spirits rested, that he had raised the boy to their honor and credit.
“Well, some believe that you gaze into realms of magic that you alone can see, searching for a new and more powerful Deep Magic,” Caelith said, his own gaze looking northward past the horizon. “Others say that you look both into the past and the future, seeking the destiny of our clan and an end to our pain.”
“And what do you believe, Caelith?” Galen asked.
Caelith thought for a moment before he spoke; then his lips curled into a half-smile toward his father. “I think you’re just tired of everyone jabbering at you all the time and want to enjoy two quiet moments in a row.”
Galen tossed back his head and laughed.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Caelith smirked.
“Ah, Caelith, you’re a good son!” Galen said, slapping his thighs. “Do us both a favor, however, and don’t tell that to anyone. I suspect it was your mother who put about such nonsense in the first place. She always understood the importance of such things more than I. Better that they believe such comforting twaddle. The gods alone know how much they need comforting.”
“Speaking of twaddle,” Caelith said, clearing his throat, “we returned with the requested entertainment.”
Galen raised an eyebrow. “You found him, then?”
Caelith nodded. “As mother foretold; yes, in P’tai—or what was left of it. Satinka’s armies had overrun it, as you predicted, and it now lies in ashes. Her armies had moved westward onto the Urlund Expanse, but I suspect only so far as to run Thane Baerthag to ground. We don’t know for certain—our instructions were to return undetected.”
“Baerthag was an idiot,” Galen rumbled, shaking his head, “moving his troops into the Vestron Marches. What did he think, that Satinka wouldn’t notice them near her own lair? The Thanes of Urlund will be on their heels now but Satinka won’t press her advantage. She’ll be satisfied once she’s made a meal of Baerthag and pull back. She’s too occupied by Hrunard and Palathia to deal with Urlund just yet. The bad news in this is that the thane may finally unite with Panas against Satinka. That could drive Urlund to ally with Enlund—which is something I’d rather not contemplate.”
“There are those who prefer open war to slowly being bled to death,” Caelith said quietly.
Galen looked at his son in surprise. “You side with Uruh Nikau on this?”
“No, father,” Caelith returned quickly. “I would never disagree with you publicly . . . but I do see her point; we cannot stay on our backs forever.”
“Perhaps,” Galen said, drawing the word out. “Still, survival has its merits—and we have more immediate concerns. Baerthag’s outland farms were supporting us. Now, with P’tai lost, those farms will be abandoned. We’ll have to find another source of food.”
“The third and fifth parties will be returning,” Caelith responded. “Perhaps they have found some closer villages that can assist us. The townsfolk here in the Naraganth have had two different armies march through their towns in the last few weeks. They are always a bit skittish after deadly combat in their beet fields but it could work to our advantage.”
“Let’s hope the rangers’ news is good then,” Galen agreed. “We’ve just gotten through a tough winter here—I’d hate to ask these people to pick up and move again, even if the weather is clearing. So, tell me: what do you think of this fellow you’ve brought back to us?”
Caelith considered his response before speaking. “He’s a peacock-plated buffoon who spends more effort on his hair than on any real work. Still, his control of the Deep Magic may be remarkably subtle and he appears to know a mind-numbing amount of history, geography . . .”
“And the ancient gods?” Galen asked casually.
“‘The gods,’ father?” Caelith raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Met any gods lately?”
“Well, certainly not the Dragonkings, if that’s who you mean,” Galen sniffed in reply. “You’ve seen just how mortal they are and there is no bottom to their selfishness, I can tell you that. I certainly have trouble believing in any god that was out only for himself—or a man who was, for that matter.”
“So you’re saying there are no gods?” Caelith persisted.
Galen looked up at his son in surprise. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Caelith stuck his chin out uncomfortably, looking away with some embarrassment. “Well—yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, that’s a change!” Galen chuckled in surprise. “Where did this come from, may I ask?”
“It’s started again in the camps—these stories about the ‘old gods,’ Calsandria, the Promised Valley—it could become a problem. You remember last time?”
“The Sedrich Expedition?” Galen snorted.
“He claimed to have seen it—all in the dream,” Caelith said, stooping down to pull at the blades of grass about his feet. “Almost forty people followed him across the Vestron Marches and down the Old Imperial Road—right under Satinka’s lair. If they found their gods, it was in the Pir’s so-called Surn’gara after Satinka discarded their bones for trespassing on her lands. It could happen again—and perhaps worse—if this talk of the ancient gods gets out of hand again, and I’m hearing it more and more among the clanfolk . . .”
“And from your mother, no doubt,” Galen coaxed.
“Well—yes, always from mother”—Caelith nodded, still looking away—“every time I return home. So—could there have been other gods before the Dragonkings?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, son,” Galen answered. “The Dragonkings are the only gods anyone has known for over four hundred years.”
“Of course,” Caelith agreed, “but mother says the Rhamasians worshipped other deities before the Dragonkings came. It’s just—it’s hard to know what to think.”
“Your mother is unusually educated, son,” Galen said softly. “She is well read and has visionary talents as well. We have spoken about this subject often, she and I. And it may surprise you to hear that this fool you have brought among us may serve us greatly in regards to this question.”
“Indeed? So, have you made up your mind, father?”
Galen pressed his hands against his knees, stretching in his thoughts. “The gods of the Mad Emperors? I don’t know. Your mother had read a number of ancient texts—collections that somehow managed to escape the fires of the Pir Inquisitas—that talk about the Lost City of the Gods, the Pillar of the Sky, and the heart of the Rhamas Empire from which all magic sprang as a gift from the gods.”
“Then she shall find Margrave intriguing.” Caelith chuckled darkly. “He talks about Calsandria as though he’s been there, but it’s all a child’s tale to me.”
“So you don’t believe in these ancient gods, then?”
Caelith shrugged. “I believe in a sharp edge to my steel and the Deep Magic, father—that and finding tomorrow’s meal and shelter. I believe what I’ve seen—and I’ve seen nothing of the gods or their city.”
“Well, perhaps there are still a few things left that you haven’t seen.” Galen sighed. “But whether there is such a place—or the gods to go with it—Caelith, I honestly don’t know—and that is something else you shouldn’t let get around the camp either!”
“Yes, father, I’ll be careful about that.” Caelith stood easily and turned. “Still, that’s not why I came out here to disturb your little ritual.”
“If it’s about protection of the glade tonight—”
“No, I’m already taking care of that, and yes, I’ll make sure it is clear again right after I leave you . . . but that’s not it either.”
“I see.” Galen sighed. “You’ve already seen your mother, haven’t you?”
Caelith nodded with a wry grin. “She asked that I remind you to come home right away and have something to eat. She says she doesn’t want your stomach growling in the middle of the Clan Council and having everyone think she isn’t taking good enough care of you.”
Galen nodded wistfully. “My dear Dhalia—that your mother wants me home, I have no doubt; but her reasons have little to do with feeding me. She is worried about tonight and is hiding behind the mask of my supper.”
Caelith looked at Galen with a slight squint, not quite comprehending.
“You know why we wear the masks in the dream, son?” Galen said carefully. “We wear masks in life for the same reasons. Go to her, tell her I’ll be back directly but I have a few things to take care of first. Will you be staying with us?”
“My company are now settled and I’ve dismissed some to stay with their own families,” Caelith answered. “I suppose I can spend a few days away from them to eat your food and enjoy resting in your tent.”
“Then I look forward to hearing all about your journey after the council,” Galen said to his son with warm pride.
Caelith nodded and turned to go.
“Oh—and Caelith?”
“Yes, father?”
“Tell your mother . . .” Galen paused for a moment, unsure how much to say. “Tell your mother that I love her and that she has nothing to worry about.”
Caelith nodded uncertainly and then walked quickly back down the hill. Galen watched his son until the youth disappeared among the shadows of the forest beyond.
“We have nothing to worry about,” Galen repeated, rubbing his right thumb nervously against his left palm as he turned to face the horizon once more.
The wind was blowing from the north, and his wife feared what it would bring. He feared it himself.