"I feel it." Emrillian hurried across the clearing to them, the waterskins leaving a trail of drops behind her. "I think it's happened. The enemy navies have crossed the line and turned their attention to us rather than each other."
"What's that mean?" Grego said, and was relieved to find he could breathe, despite the compressed feeling.
"Papa is using magic to link the communication devices from Kayn's ship to the Threads, to talk to all the ships and navies and governments at the same time. Grandfather was talking about possibly commandeering all the government communication systems in the world. The Threads have spread out more, reweaving their patterns around the whole planet since the dome fell. That makes communicating, using the equipment as linkage points, at least theoretically possible. It would be easier if the Zygradon had been undone, but..." She turned her palms to the sky and shrugged.
To Grego, her shrug expressed all the unknowns, the variables, and the tasks that couldn't be accomplished in time.
Ships and soldiers and governments of Moerta.
Athrar's voice rang in the center of Grego's head and his chest, and his limbs folded without warning. Baedrix and Emrillian caught him and helped him sit.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered, and half-expected to have his voice reverberate across the planet.
Emrillian pressed her gloved fingertips against his lips.
By now, you have gained enough information to realize that a continent has appeared in the place of radiation and chaos and devastation you have so eloquently labeled the Death Zone for the last two millennia. Whether you choose to believe or not, magic is real, and the land you know from legend as Lygroes has been released from a protective dome of magic, brought forward in time, to rejoin your modern world.
I am Athrar Warhawk, High King, defender of all nations and lands against the scourge of blood magic, barbarians, and rebels. Your belief or refusal to believe matters not to me. As the wisest of minds have said: What is, is. There is no changing reality.
Here is reality. What is, and what will not be changed. Lygroes will suffer no attack from your bickering governments. Lygroes will acknowledge no claims, no demands, no interference. You had a taste of our power and our willingness to defend ourselves and our shores when the Fedarstanian battleship approached our shores to attack, and was utterly destroyed.
Here is what Lygroes says to you. We will be enemy to no one and we will be friends to everyone. In three moons' time, we will welcome envoys at the harbor of Quenlaque only. No sooner, and at no other place along our shores. Approach us as friends, as partners in peace, or do not approach us at all. Until that time, leave us to find our place in the modern world and to deal with our enemies.
Try to force our hand. Make demands. Make threats. And when you do, you will brand yourself our enemy for all time and learn the power of the star-metal sword, Braenlicach, the wrath of the Warhawk and the enchanters of Wynystrys, the combined power of the Stronghold, the Queen of Snows, and Mrillis the enchanter.
For a long time after Athrar finished speaking, Grego sat still, feeling the reverberations fade from his body, waiting until he could breathe normally again. He finally opened his eyes. Emrillian and Baedrix sat facing him, the three of them forming a close triangle. It was almost amusing how their horses cropped at the grass and bushes in the small clearing and the brook gurgled over the pebbles in its bed, and the world went on as if nothing had happened.
"You do realize," Emrillian said, sounding tired, "the most vicious and paranoid idiots will take his words as a challenge, and attack."
"They have been warned. Have they learned nothing from history?" Baedrix stood and held out a hand to help Grego get to his feet.
"What you don't understand is that what is history and truth to you, and to us, and to the Archaics...the rest of the world considers fable. Who pays attention to and actually learns from fictions made up to amuse children?" She took his outstretched hand and let him help her to her feet.
* * * *
Grandmother? Baedrix stepped away from their small camp to communicate with Meghianna, even though he knew it wasn't necessary. He was proud of his growing skill and control, so that he could carry on private conversations through the Threads.
Baedrix, what a nice surprise. Eleanora is right here with me. Would you like her to join the conversation? Meghianna sounded a little startled.
Is this a bad time? He had a sudden image of having walked into her private quarters without announcing himself, and seeing her scrambling to finish dressing. That made him slightly queasy.
Not at all. We just didn't expect any communication. Any luck?
Not yet. Grego is still buzzing from the Warhawk's announcement earlier, and it's bad enough that it's interfering with Emrillian's sense of the Zygradon through the Threads. I wanted to ask if you could help us with that, if you had any theories, any advice. We're worried it might interfere with finding the Zygradon.
Perhaps it isn't a reaction to that at all.
Grandmother?
Baedrix heard voices, threatening his concentration. He opened his eyes and moved farther into the darkness, a dozen steps away from the campfire. A hunched shape approached the fire. He saw Emrillian reach out, smiling in welcome, and help the figure sit down. They had encountered several tiny villages in their journey already, little more than two or three families living in simplicity and isolation. This was probably yet another representative of yet another peasant village, attracted by their campfire, drawn by curiosity, or asking for help of some kind.
Pyris never recorded where their company was, exactly, when the first Emrillian divided them and took the Zygradon to hide it. The possible territory that could have been covered... Every member of their party was a child of the forgers of the Zygradon and Braenlicach. All born into power. All linked to the Zygradon. The memories of that time were chaotic, because of the attack on the Stronghold from inside its walls, because of the deaths and treachery among Emrillian's company. She could have sent the Zygradon far away from her when she hid it.
So... We could be closer than we think, and that's what Grego's feeling?
Possibly. Baedrix, please, take good care of her. Despite all her training and wisdom and power, Emrillian is still a lonely child in some ways. Her life is in turmoil. She needs a Valor to rescue her, contrary to all appearances.
Rescue her?
Good night, Grandson. Give her my love. You have my love as well, you know.
Thank you, Grandmother, he managed to respond, as the link broke. Baedrix suspected she had ended their conversation because she was about to laugh. He groaned at the thought of Eleanora's reaction if she had been listening in.
Opening his eyes, he leaned back against a tree and gazed at their campsite through the trees, maybe twenty paces away. They had a shallow cave at their back. Not large enough for them to sleep in without being on top of each other, but it gave a nice sense of security, and shelter if the gloomy skies that had gathered above them all afternoon delivered their threat of rain. There was plenty of firewood, ferns for comfortable, spicy-scented beds, grass for their horses, a swift-flowing, shallow stream a dozen steps away, and Grego had surprised them all by catching several birds and a hare for their dinner. As if thinking of their meal had been a signal, Baedrix smelled the roasting meat.
So soon? Grego was just getting up to go to the water's edge to wash the meat after cleaning his catch, when Baedrix had stepped away to contact Meghianna. Prickling apprehension dug into his scalp, and he rested his hand on his sword hilt as he hurried back to the campsite. Why had he walked so far away into the trees?
"What's that smell?" Grego called, coming back into the firelight. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle that dripped water and blood. That had to be their dinner.
So what was that cooked meat smell that came stronger every moment on the breeze? Every breath Baedrix took smelled more sour, turning rotten, so it burned and coated his mouth and throat with slime.
"Smell?" Emrillian stepped up to the fire with a small pot and the metal support hook that suspended it over the fire for boiling. She stuck it into the soft soil next to the fire and hung the pot on the hook. "What are you talking about?"
"Who are you?" Grego jerked backwards, as if he hadn't seen the hunched figure sitting on a fallen log by the fire.
"Emrillian, move away--" Baedrix clutched at the star-metal torque set with emeralds that Meghianna had given him at the seashore. He pulled hard on the Threads, begging the Estall for power and skill he had never needed before.
Edrout erupted from within the small, hunched, ragged figure sitting by the fire. A gush of stench heavy with rotting blood and charred flesh swirled from him on a harsh wind that battered Baedrix, pushing him backward. Grego went flat on his back and slid away until he fetched up against the cliff face with a harsh rattle-thud of his chain mail against rock. He spasmed and went still.
Emrillian stood perfectly still, her hair streaming out behind her, glowing as power flared from her star-metal armor.
"Pretty trick," Edrout growled. His voice was a shredded rasp compared to his rich, viciously amused tones of just a few days before. "But you don't have Braenlicach this time."
She leaped at him, fists flying. Red light flared from her gauntlets as they connected with Edrout's chin and gut.
He grunted and stumbled backward. Black light coalesced around him like a tornado, and he swung at her.
Red flared, blinding Baedrix for two heartbeats. A thunderclap shook the ground.
Emrillian fell backwards, nearly going to her knees.
The force of the wind died. Baedrix staggered forward, nearly flung off balance when he no longer had to throw all his weight into standing upright. He knew it was useless, but he drew his sword as he raced the score of steps from the darkness of the trees to the campfire.
Emrillian leaped at Edrout again, fists flashing with blinding speed and trailing sparks.
Please, Estall, make the impossible possible, Baedrix prayed as he focused on Edrout's back and raised his sword above his head.
In a flash, he remembered a conversation where Grego and Emrillian and Mrillis had laughed about how the Archaics accomplished so much in their first lessons in using their star-metal, simply because they didn't know what was impossible.
Edrout's joined fists connected with the left side of Emrillian's face, knocking her sideways, snapping her head back.
Baedrix called up all his belief, his desperate fury, and stretched out with his mind to search for the Threads surrounding the clearing. A rainbow-streaked Thread thicker than a hundred-year oak writhed in front of him. It curled around itself like a child's tangle of ribbons. He reached for it with his mind and released his sword with one hand as he passed through it. He wrapped the tangle of threads around the hilt of his sword with physical and mental hands. His vision filled with rainbow streaks and he couldn't feel the ground under his feet.
Emrillian caught herself as her knees hit the ground. She twisted sideways, dodging as Edrout slashed at her neck with a sword that burned with a foul, poisonous red-and-black-and-green-streaked light. She tumbled away, her hair whipping in her face, and drew her own sword.
"Edrout!" Baedrix roared as Edrout leaped after Emrillian and slashed down as she shoved herself upright again.
Their swords clanged. Hers flared red, the metal glowing, visibly heating. He feared it would melt out of her hands in another moment.
Edrout turned, sneering, and let go of his flaming sword with one hand. He used it to whip streamers of the same filthy, blood-tainted light at Baedrix. His sneer shattered and his eyes widened as rainbow light erupted from Baedrix's sword and overpowered his death-light.
Emrillian lunged upwards with her near-molten sword. She rammed it through the shield of magic that shot off black and purple sparks. Through Edrout's breastplate, through the juncture of his ribs.
Baedrix slashed down, putting all his weight and strength and belief into his blow. His sword caught halfway through Edrout's neck and an incredible stink of corruption gushed up from the ground and down from the glowering skies.
Emrillian's armor flared red, then purple, turning to blue, growing brighter and brighter until it was a white that pierced Baedrix's closed eyes and filled his blood and burned the stink of Edrout's corruption from the air. The light became a sound that rang and made his bones sizzle.
He opened his eyes to see a blackness in Edrout's shape turn gray, then to the white of old ashes, and crumble to dust that fell to the ground. Baedrix went to his knees, his muscles as useless as water, and still that ringing sound filled the air.
"Zygradon," Emrillian gasped. She tottered forward a few steps on her knees, to grasp Baedrix. "It's the Zygradon, Baedrix!"
"It's here?" He clutched at her as she pulled him to his feet.
"It's everywhere!" She laughed, breathless, and raked her hair back from her face.
It was raining, he realized. They were both drenched, but the light was sound and wrapped around them with palpable force like the wind tangling their cloaks and their hair. He clung to Emrillian. She dug her gloved hands into his chest and they staggered away from the pile of pitiful ash that used to be Edrout.
"It's a Vale. Emrillian made a Vale, just big enough to hide the Zygradon. That's why her husband could never tell where she went, why all the clues people followed, from the memories of the survivors, couldn't help them find it.
"She didn't go to a physical place--she made a place. Look." She pulled him sideways with her, so he could see what she saw, using their mental eyes.
The tangled knot of enormous Threads pulsed and writhed around itself, just a few steps from them. Even as they watched, it shrank a little with every heartbeat.
"All the magic battling, the reaction to Papa's announcement, all this star-metal." She let go of him with one hand to slap at her armor. "It's brought the Vale to us. It made the Zygradon react and sing to us. Maybe, because we are both linked to it through our ancestors..."
She laughed and shook her head. "Help me open it. I don't know how, but we have to open it."
"Believe." His voice cracked on the single word. Just like he had believed he could kill Edrout, despite his filthy magic and magical strength, believing was the key to open the door.
For good measure, he took off the torque Meghianna had given him and held it out to Emrillian. She grasped it, still wearing her star-metal gauntlet. The two objects flared bright, the white light changing to match the rainbow streaks of the knot in front of them.
The knot writhed, churning, folding in on itself while they watched, willing it to open. Baedrix kept his eyes open, when his natural reaction was to close them against the brilliance.
"It's working," Emrillian whispered.
"How?" All he could see was churning rainbows.
"It's changing." She stepped away from him, still grasping her side of the torque, and reached for the knot.
He swallowed a shout of fear when she stretched out her other hand, covered in rainbow-shimmering star-metal, and slid it into the churning mass that kept folding in on itself, over and over. His shout turned into a gulp of amazement when the rainbow softened and turned silver. A hollow spot formed in the center of the churning. The silver turned transparent, and the multiple chords that had rung in the center of his head and his chest all this time diminished, merging into a single chord, as if a single harp the size of the forest rang with the final strum from a master harper.
Emrillian let go of his torque and reached with both hands to catch the flower-shaped bowl that hovered in the air for just a few moments, then slowly drifted down to the ground. Gasping and shaking and sweating, she clutched it to her chest and wrapped herself around it. Baedrix went to his knees beside her and folded himself around her. He felt as if he had run from one shore of Lygroes to the other without stopping.
Grandmother, can you hear me? He listened, but there was silence in the Threads. He suspected either he was deaf, or the massive expenditure of energy had drained them for the time being. It didn't matter. Edrout was dead. They were safe.
Grandmother, we have it. We won.
* * * *
Grego couldn't see the Zygradon. Emrillian found his disgruntlement so amusing, she suspected she was exhausted to the point of idiocy. Her friend could touch it, and he could hear it sing when he touched it, and that had to be enough for him.
She and Baedrix were exhausted, drained by Edrout's surprise attack and the appearance of the Zygradon. They were deaf to all communication through the Threads into the bargain. Grego got them on their horses and kept them together, headed away from their battleground, just in case any Encindi were in the area and bent on revenge. She lost count of the times one of them fell asleep and slid off their horses. Each time they both burst out laughing.
By necessity and to avoid injuries to them, Grego kept their journey to a crawl. He had called for help from Meghianna and Mrillis both. Shalara used the tracking function in Grego's datapad and Eleanora used the Threads. A hunting party of the Queen's Ladies found them and brought them to the Stronghold. Brysta tore herself away from her domain in the archives, visibly worried for Grego, their disagreements cast aside.
When she had recovered enough to hear the story of their journey, Emrillian was delighted for Grego, and this sign of his sweetheart's forgiveness. He and Brysta would have their forever after.
Emrillian recovered enough to be on her feet and coherent when Mrillis, the male scholars of Wynystrys, and Athrar, Ynfara, and Kayn arrived at the Stronghold. She was only a little peeved when Meghianna undid the guardian spells to let men not of the Stronghold's bloodlines to enter. She supposed it was worth the price of allowing Kayn inside to let Grego come in. Now her father could go beyond the healing hall in the Stronghold and that pleased her even more.
She and Baedrix and Ynfara retreated to the library when Meghianna and Mrillis, Athrar and the scholars took the Zygradon and Braenlicach up onto the highest bluff of the Stronghold to perform the ceremony to separate Mrillis from the bowl of power. Ynfara held her hand, and they both were silent, not even pretending to be distracted by scrolls, as the Zygradon and Braenlicach sang. The very bedrock of the Stronghold vibrated with the energy flowing through the Threads.
Emrillian felt it, like an infinitely sharp knife slid through her chest with the ease of light through water. She saw through Athrar's eyes when he used Braenlicach to sever the Threads that bound Mrillis to the Zygradon, and the Zygradon to all the Threads of the world.
"Is it over?" Baedrix whispered.
His voice was loud in the sudden silence.
A bubble of startled laughter escaped Emrillian. Ynfara clutched at her with one hand and wiped tears from her smiling face with the other.
"I thought..." Her voice cracked. "Everything was so quiet suddenly, I thought we had gone deaf, or we were all dead or..." A sob of sudden fear choked her. Grandfather?
Have faith, my dear, Mrillis responded. His voice sounded tired, but cheerful in her mind.
Emrillian and Ynfara were still holding each other, smiling through their tears, when Athrar came down to the library to fetch them. They were to have a feast of celebration, the first feast in the Stronghold in centuries.
* * * *
Three moons later, ships from every nation of Moerta slid into the harbor of Quenlaque. Nearly every delegation was met by a team of Archaics from that country, wearing star-metal jewelry, trained in their imbrose, and sworn to defend the peace and sovereignty of Lygroes at all costs.
Peace throughout the entire world was an impossible dream, Emrillian knew. She fully expected at least three of the most paranoid, reclusive, isolationist nations to leave the convocation early and in a ruckus. They would either be spewing threats and seething in self-righteous indignation when they were denied what they believed were their "rights." Or they would be ejected for making demands and threats and refusing to cooperate.
Three moons had barely been enough time to prepare for this convocation of nations. She had been busy testing and training her Archaic friends, and educating the Valors and scholars of Lygroes in the history and ways and general principles of technology in Moerta.
Lygroes had undergone more cataclysms as it adjusted to the world of the future and the last filaments of the dome melted away. Weather patterns were chaotic for the first two moons, and more sections of Lygroes' coastline fell into the sea. The Encindi who remained were sufficiently cowed by the wholesale destruction of their race to promise loyalty to Athrar and the Warhawk throne. If they would keep those vows remained to be seen, but Emrillian had strong hopes that the elimination of Edrout and whatever magical influence he had held over them would contribute to a more durable peace.
Arrangements had already been made with Sevron Kayn to act as mediator with the government of Goarlotte-Welcairn. Her home in Moerta would become Quenlaque's embassy. Emrillian and Baedrix would go to Moerta to serve as ambassadors for the Warhawk, while Grego and Kayn would stay in Quenlaque, to advise Athrar. The years ahead would be rocky. There would always be some who would insist on trying to dominate the others. Arguments over who, if anyone, had the right to hold the world's supply of star-metal would occur again and again. For now, though, she felt confident in the future, and satisfied that she had served her kingdom well and lived up to her heritage.
Two things made her especially happy, as she stood in the highest tower of Quenlaque Castle and watched the teams of Archaics ferry the delegates from their massive ships to the docks. She suspected Ynfara might be pregnant already. A sibling meant she could someday renounce her position as Warhawk's Heir.
And second, Baedrix had grown more comfortable in using her name instead of her title. They had become partners, learning from each other, acting as bridges between her modern world and his time and culture. They decided that their unity started the day when, on the journey from the Stronghold to Quenlaque, Mrillis announced Meghianna had agreed to marry him. Emrillian and Baedrix had been the only ones who hadn't been surprised. She had every reason to believe that Baedrix would finally see the light in his relationship with her, just as Mrillis had awakened to his feelings for Meghianna.
Emrillian had long ago resolved that she wouldn't hope for a love match, and she would marry the best man to ensure the peace of Quenlaque and the security of the Warhawk's throne. However, as she had learned in the battles now behind her, for those who took risks and sacrificed themselves for the greater good, even the impossible was possible.
END