Covenants
Bachas had had his fill.
His fellow Mantacorians were a superstitious lot even before they had dropped anchor in this harbor of damned souls. The sights on the waterfront alone had been enough to unnerve his crew; not one of them could be persuaded to go very far into the city no matter how glowing the promise of riches just around the next corner. To be sure, there were plenty of objects worthy of looting in the shops facing the docks. But these were purchased at a dear price, for some of them were fused with the trapped bodies of these near dead creatures who were, understandably, reluctant to give up the possession to which they had become so literally attached. When Shaeonyn moved inland, up the street of clawing hands, Bachas made no move to follow her and his crew was just as glad to wait on the docks for her return.
The captain of the Brethain was beginning to wonder just how long Shaeonyn’s task was going to take. Rings of bluish flame had swept over the city earlier, and for a time, Bachas thought that Shaeonyn was thus signaling the completion of whatever urgent task had brought them across the oceans to a land of the dead, or the perpetually near death. Yet the blue fire had stopped after a time, and no other signal was coming forth.
Then, quite suddenly, the angry clouds parted and a single ray of light broke through the rainy gloom. It shone down on the city some distance inland, illuminating one particular building with its brilliant ray.
“Faeries!” Bachas planted a fist on each hip with a satisfied snort. Surely this was Shaeonyn’s doing; she would be back directly with her freakish dead guardians and they could get their ship out of these cursed waters. “That’s about it, friends! Load up what we have and make ready to shove off.”
Yet though the light continued to shine, there was no sign of Shaeonyn or her guards.
The sun drew lower on the horizon, its rays breaking red under the overcast, bathing the entire dead city in a salmon light. Bachas licked his sharp teeth nervously; his crew had been restless for some time and was now becoming vocal about the bad luck in being in a haunted city with the advent of darkness. Though Bachas would never admit it, his feelings mirrored those of his crew.
“All right, friends,” he shouted at last. “Let’s feel the wood of our own deck under our feet! Clear the moorings; we’re done here!”
“Aye!” shouted his crew in a rush of relief, the jolly boats pushing away almost before Bachas’s voice stopped echoing off the warped walls of the waterfront. The boatmen quickly set the oars, pulling with a fervor that Bachas could not recall seeing in any crew. The bow of Bachas’s boat cut a white spray through the choppy water, the reddening sunset glinting off the crests of the waves. Two other boats followed Bachas’s own, their crews anxious not to be left behind.
“I never should have listened to that Shaeonyn faery,” Bachas muttered to himself, a habit that he indulged in only when he was upset. He should have known it was a mistake when she insisted they cast those first four faeries adrift—that should have been clue enough—but killing the Kyree? At least he had been able to stop that, insisting that they be imprisoned, rather than murdered outright, arguing that they needed Djukan and, more particularly, Sargo’s cooperation in order to navigate the unknown waters to Tjugun Mai. Subduing the powerful and warrior-trained Kyree had been far more tricky than dealing with the faeries but they had managed it. Now, of course, Bachas had run out of reasons why Shaeonyn should allow the Kyree to live—but he would deal with that problem when it came up.
They were nearing the Brethain now, the furled sails and rigging silhouetted against the lowering sun. He should be able to see the watch on the weather deck, he thought, his eyes relieved to see several figures against the rail. “Ahoy!”
No answering call came back across the waters.
Bachas was puzzled. The storm had abated and the waters in the harbor were relatively calm. “Ahoy the ship!”
Silence was his only response.
“Make ready your weapons, lads,” Bachas whispered. “Something’s not right aboard.”
“Ahoy the boat!” came the cry from the quarterdeck, a woman’s voice.
“Who answers for the Brethain?” Bachas demanded.
“Her master,” came the answer.
“I should have known it,” Bachas muttered under his breath, then shouted again. “Shaeonyn, we had a deal! I’ve stuck to my end of the bargain—”
“Shaeonyn regrets that she is no longer among the living,” the voice responded. “Indeed, circumstances have changed considerably. Are you in a position to listen to—how do you say it—a new deal?”
Bachas thought for a moment before responding. “That would depend on the deal—and who I am dealing with.”
“I am Aislynn, Princess of Qestardis and Oraclyn to Sharajentei. You tried to kill us several days ago and imprisoned your Kyree guests; you also obviously failed on both accounts, as we are, as you can hear, alive and have managed to free the Kyree who now hold your vessel. Master Djukan is of the opinion that we should sail the ship back across the Tjugun Sea on our own, leaving you and your fine crew here to deal with the restless dead on their terms. But the burden would be lighter should your experienced crew sail here instead.”
“What’s in it for us?” Bachas shouted.
“Your ship back once you deliver us safely to our own lands.”
“And what if we just take our own ship back?” Bachas snarled.
“Difficult and uncertain proposition,” responded Ailsynn, “as we have not only released but have also armed the Kyree aboard, who are most anxious to exact their vengeance on you and your fine crew. That—or you simply return to the docks and find yourselves a home in this city.”
Bachas looked back at his crew. Their faces made his decision for him.
“Both I and my crew would be delighted to sail under your flag, Aislynn of Qestardis.”
Djukan leaned against the aft rail on the quarterdeck, flexing his arms to rid them of their stiffness. “I apologize, Aislynn; I misjudged you—and was taken in by Shaeonyn.”
“We were all deceived by her—including Dwynwyn,” Aislynn replied. “But how much greater is our own guilt, Djukan, for the loss of your nation and people. If one of our own had not assembled the device improperly—”
“Or if the Kyree had not brought back the device from one of our wars of conquest—these arguments could circle around forever, Aislynn,” Djukan countered, straightening himself. “There is blame enough for all to share and far more than we can bear. You have done as you said you would; you have discovered the fate of our nation, tragic as it is. For this, I am grateful.”
Aislynn nodded, turning to the rail and looking out over the water of the harbor. “And I, too, am grateful; the dead now have a means of leaving the mortal realms and attaining their enlightenment. Sharajentei need no longer be a place of pain, a prison for the souls of those whose lives ended before their perfection. Now Sharajentei can be a place of instruction, a place of healing, and a place where the restless dead can find their passage to peace.”
“This will change the politics between the faery kingdoms once again, will it not?” Djukan chuckled.
“Yes, but for the better, I should think.” Aislynn smiled, seeing the stars that rose above Tjugun Mai for the first time in more than twenty years. “We have accomplished much—you and I—however, there is one thing we must yet do.”
Djukan sighed, his face falling. “I cannot see how it is possible.”
“We came to honor your father,” Aislynn said.
“The Halls of Isthalos are many hundreds of miles to the east of here,” Djukan said, shaking his head sadly. “From what you tell me about our land, there is little hope that we could survive the journey. My father’s bones shall have to rest in exile.”
“I think not,” Aislynn said and turned to the main deck. “Deython?”
The hulking warrior of the undead Fae rose to the quarterdeck and faced the young Kyree prince. “Lord Djukan of the Kyree, I am a warrior and my faults are many. It was I who wrongly followed Shaeonyn and led my brothers to do likewise. I unjustly killed a brave warrior of House Argentei. I have much for which I must atone before my soul will be ready for the enlightenment.”
The undead warrior knelt before Djukan, holding out his hands. “May I and my brothers take the bones of your father to your sacred place?”
Djukan blinked and a tear ran down his cheek. “You honor me—and my entire house. I accept.”
Aislynn stepped forward and lay her hand on Deython’s frigid head. “Do this and I release you, Deython.”
“I have always protected you, Your Highness,” Deython replied.
“Yes, you have.” She smiled up at him. “But I think I can stand on my own now.”
Lithbet and Istoe stood uncomfortably before the throne in the center of the Hall of Defense. On the specific instructions of the Wizard of Jilik and Hero of Og, the ogres had allowed these two and these two only to enter the Trove and come to stand before him for the surrender.
“Look,” Lithbet said testily, “all I want to know is: what do I get out of this?”
“You get to keep your army,” Thux said pleasantly. “All your remaining titans get to walk away from the battle and go beat up on someone else.”
“Yes, yes, yes; I understand that,” Lithbet said quickly. “But I’ve already got my wedding scheduled, and now that you’ve won the war, it’s upset the entire plan. I mean, unless you’re willing to—”
“No,” Thux said flatly. “Having my wife delivered to me here very much alive and very much unharmed is part of the surrender terms and you’re just going to have to live with it.”
“I thought that if you might be willing to compromise a little—”
“That is not negotiable.”
“Fine!” Lithbet shouted. “Then what about my wedding?”
“Well . . .” Thux thought. “How about Istoe here?”
“Istoe?” Lithbet sneered. “He’s an imp!”
“Yes, and a very fine Technomancer in his own right,” Thux said, more interested by the moment in the possibilities. “He’s already a hero of the realm, the greatest living explorer in all goblin history, so he’s a natural for the post of your husband. Between your wars and his wanderings you’ll probably never see each other—a perfect solution for a political marriage!”
Istoe looked at Lithbet in surprise. “He’s right, you know!”
“Meanwhile, I will remain here after your surrender and set up a research group. We’ll call ourselves the House of Books Goblins, an autonomous protectorate of the kingdom of Mimic.”
“House of Books Goblins?”
“Well, we’ll shorten the first part—H.O.B. Goblins,” Thux said. “Hob-goblins.”
“Wait.” Lithbet’s eyes narrowed. “If we surrender to you, then how is it you become part of our kingdom?”
“I understand that’s how it always works.” Thux shrugged.
“I’ll have to go and talk this over with my mother,” Lithbet said grumpily.
“You do that,” Thux said happily. “Just remember one thing on the way out.”
“What’s that?” Lithbet asked.
“Don’t touch anything!”
Satinka quivered on her perch, an anger and resentment nearly as old as herself burning in her eyes.
“By the gods,” Caelith said quietly, “this is what the dragons feared most.”
“It is what we all fear,” Jorgan replied, “and the so-called gods had nothing to do with it.”
Caelith looked at his brother with a puzzled expression. “How can you say that? You were here! You saw!”
“I saw?” Jorgan sneered. “What I saw—what you saw, for that matter—was nothing more than an aberration of the dream.” The Inquisitas sighed heavily as he looked away. “There are—there are no gods save those we make ourselves, crafted out of our own inner fears and desires. There are no purposes or destinies save those we carve out for ourselves.”
Caelith shook his head. “You are wrong, brother.”
Jorgan smiled thinly. “Well, one of us has always been wrong—brother.” He wheeled suddenly, his hands filled with the blazing light of the sun.
Caelith stood with one hand pressed against the bronze sphere. “Think, Jorgan! Attack me and I’ll topple the device. The dragonstaffs will lose their authority—and what will Satinka do then?”
Jorgan glanced up at the huge head of the dragon hovering nearby. Her eyes were fixed on him.
The Inquisitas relaxed his pose, the fireballs burning in his cupped hands suddenly fading. “The Pir will not understand what has happened.”
“Then you explain it to them any way you like,” Caelith said. “You always have. You have the opportunity to reshape the Five Domains—right here and now, Jorgan. Controlling the dragons puts great power into your hands, and I suspect it is a power which man will not use with great wisdom. However, let’s be clear: one place you will never use that power is against the mystics. Should you break that pact, then we would be obliged to take your controlling power away from you, and I suspect that the memory of dragons is long indeed.”
“As you say, the memory of dragons is long,” Jorgan observed. “To take away our control would result in your own destruction as well.”
“It would,” Caelith responded, “but let us hope that it never comes to that.”
“It seems we each hold a dagger at the other’s throat.”
“Yes, but we seem to be talking all the more civilly for it.”
Jorgan smiled and nodded. “Very well, brother. A kingdom for a kingdom, eh? It’s a bargain I accept.”
Jorgan turned, and began walking toward Satinka’s perch.
“What are you going to do, Jorgan?” Caelith asked.
“I’ll leave you here. Satinka’s domain has been without a Dragon-Talker for some time. I suspect I shall take that vacant place on the Pentach Conclave and make my home in Ost Batar. And what of you?”
“We’ll stay here,” Eryn answered.
“Eryn!” Caelith said with relief. “I saw you fall—”
“I’m a bit bruised, but I’ll survive,” she replied. “There’s much to be done. We have our own people coming to join us.”
“Which reminds me,” Caelith said to Jorgan. “There is one more part of our bargain I expect you to honor.”
“Indeed?” Jorgan replied. “What is that?”
“You will allow the mystics to pass down the old Imperial Road east of Mount Saethalan and into the Westwall Basin. From there they’ll take the Dwarven Road south and out of your lands. We’ll manage getting them home from there.”
“The dragons will be disappointed,” Jorgan replied. “They were no doubt looking forward to another slaughter in Nharuthenia.”
“Then they shall be disappointed,” Caelith said firmly. “What choice do they have?”
“What choice do any of us have?” Jorgan said. He raised his staff and turned it, the motions natural. As he did so, Satinka lowered her head, allowing Jorgan to enter the ancient, worn pouch still around her neck. “Farewell—brother.”
“Farewell,” Caelith called back. “Brother.”
Satinka opened her wings wide and lifted into the air. Caelith watched for a time as the enormous beast wheeled around the City of the Gods twice before turning to the north. It was some time before her form vanished over the peaks of the Forsaken Mountains.
“Master!”
Caelith turned toward the voice. “Kenth! I was beginning to wonder what happened to you. What of the others?”
“Scattered about and a bit worse for wear,” the craggy old warrior answered as he knelt behind a pile of stones from the fallen wall. “Lucian here may have broken both his legs, but he appears to be breathing. Tarin’s arm’s hanging at an odd angle, but I’ll see to that. Warthin’s a bit confused from a rock bouncing off his head, but he’ll straighten out, I’m thinking.”
Caelith shook his head. “Amazing. I’m almost afraid to ask about—”
“Marvelous! Simply marvelous!” Margrave chimed as he emerged from behind the Statue of Suthal. “What a tale this shall make—oh, perhaps a little ragged in parts but not to worry, I’ll fix up the details in the end!”
Caelith shook his head again, smiling. “I’ve no doubt, Margrave, that by the time you finish it, the story will be not only entertaining but completely devoid of true facts.”
“Well, Caelith.” Eryn stepped up on the dais to stand next to him and looked around. “What do we do now?”
Caelith turned to her. “Come with me.”
They ran down the steps of the Pillar of the Gods. Caelith glanced around until he found what he was looking for: a set of stairs that led to the top of the wall surrounding the pillar. He took her hand and led her to the top.
“There,” he said, “that is what we do now.”
Eryn followed his gaze. From the top of the wall they could see the river and the top of the falls. A valley lay before them to the southwest in the evening light. Behrun Lake glistened in the distance, the lost city of Calsandria nestled against its shore. Green and verdant lands surrounded it, inviting them to a new and permanent home.
“I will contact my father in the dream,” he replied.
“Unmasked?”
“I see no other choice,” he replied. “Then we’ll have to find a way to get everyone past the broken aqueduct in the Starless Sea, but in time, our people will start to flow into the valley and we’ll build a place for ourselves and our children.”
“Our children?” Eryn said, her brows raised.
“Well, I meant ‘our children’ in general,” Caelith said casually. “But it isn’t a bad idea.”
Eryn glanced at him sardonically, then looked toward the valley. “What happened to them, Caelith? Where did they go wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Caelith said, “but the past is done. The future is where our destiny lies.”
Eryn nodded. “You should tell that to Margrave.”
“Why?”
“He’ll write it down,” Eryn said with a smile. “For the future.”
“With a few improvements?”
“Of course!”
“Eryn.”
“Yes?”
“There is so much I have to apologize for,” Caelith said haltingly. “So much I want to explain.”
“Slowly, Caelith.” She gently squeezed his hand. She looked down on the lush valley below. “I don’t want it rushed. I want to hear it all, every word, and I feel like you have a very, very long time to say it.”
Thrice upon a time . . .
there was one device
that existed in three places
all at the same time.
A gift of gods whose names were lost,
its power could doom or save.
But to be broken in one
was to be broken in all.
And so it lay waiting beyond the memory of mortal-kind.
Thrice upon a time . . .
An heir to a kingdom was sought.
A war threatened all of history.
And the veil between worlds was breached.
But that is a different tale.
Song of the Worlds
Bronze Canticles, Tome I, Folio 1, Leaf 17
THE END OF BOOK II