CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ahearn wondered if anything ever changed in what he’d come to think of as the council glade. It wasn’t just that both Tharêdæath and Ilshamësa were sitting in the same fur-softened seats. The same guards were there as well, standing in the same place and in the same posture. The only discernible difference was that Ilshamësa looked less frail and drawn than last time. However, she was still markedly thin and any physical exertion brought on a slight pallor.
She was the first to speak once the scant formalities were over. “We trust your stay in Mirroskye has been restful and restoring.”
Ahearn did not have to dissemble when he responded that it certainly had been. “However,” he added, “the need to find our friend Druadaen—and Varcaxtan’s wife—keeps our feet restless, no matter how pleasant the place where we put them up for a spell.”
“So I perceive. We shall dispense with pleasantries.” She turned to Tharêdæath.
Who nodded and said, “We regret the delay, but the information you seek is not collected in one place or as a whole. Rather, it is akin to building a mosaic: finding the needed tiles in many places. But a picture has taken shape.
“The first and simplest part was provided by the Last Hidden Archivist of Tlu’Lanthu. He confirms that it was your wife, Guide Indryllis, who redirected the Nidus’ osmotium and held it fixed so that he could escape. Our current skrying confirmed that she remains alive.”
Varcaxtan’s eyes closed momentarily. When they opened, they were clear and focused. “Where?”
Tharêdæath shook his head. “Farseeing could not show us the place.”
“But it is on this world?”
Tharêdæath paused. “Even that is not clear.”
“But how could that be? I’ve always been told that it is far simpler to determine if a thing still exists—a simple yes or no—than it is to fix its location.”
Ilshamësa glanced at them. “And yet, that is what the patterns of the Great Weave revealed; that she is both on this world and not on this world.” Seeing Ahearn’s worried frustration, she held up a stilling hand. “Do not be alarmed, Master Swordsman. The pattern in which your group moves continues to gather many unfinished event-strands which time has yet to weave together.”
Ahearn leaned forward. “But by which osmotium shall we reach her? Or Druadaen?”
Tharêdæath steepled his fingers. “It is as yet impossible to tell. And more powerful means of skrying would likely attract the attention of the greater powers we mentioned last time. If that occurred, it would be costly to us. And deadly to you.”
“However,” R’aonsun mused, “if that was the limit of useful information you had to share, I suspect you would have already said so.”
Tharêdæath nodded. “You are correct. But be warned: the path to the eventual destination might prove… quite circuitous.”
“When has it ever been otherwise?” Elweyr muttered, obviously loud enough for the Uulamantre to hear. “Although it makes me wonder; if the Relayer—erm, quelsuur—is like a lodestone, pointing toward the best place to recover Druadaen, then why would it lead us to you?”
Tharêdæath seemed to suppress a smile. “It may be that until you have our counsel, the quelsuur would remain uncertain as to the best path. Furthermore, we discovered—”
“The threads of your path needed to twine with ours in order to become more reified within the Great Skein,” Ilshamësa interrupted abruptly, then winced… apparently at her own impatience.
Ahearn shook his head. “Once again, I find m’self not feigning the part of an ignorant bumpkin, but being one. So yer saying the que—quas—Relayer doesn’t know the best path?”
“Yes, but knowing the best path to a thing is not the same as knowing that thing’s location,” Tharêdæath replied. “Sometimes, the best path means seeking those who can help you narrow your search. And so it led you to Mirroskye.” He glanced at the ring on Ahearn’s hand. “Tell me, has it prompted you in any direction since you arrived here?”
Ahearn shrugged. “Hasn’t prompted me at all. Thought it might be having misgivings about choosing a lummox such as meself.”
Ilshamësa’s sudden laugh seemed to surprise even her.
Tharêdæath merely smiled. “The reason it is not prompting you to the final destination, Ahearn, is because it is not yet final.”
“Those words seem to undo each other,” Umkhira muttered with a frown.
The younger of the Uulamantre nodded. “They would seem to, but consider: what makes a path ‘best’?”
“Well, the shortest distance… ” Umkhira stopped, obviously rethinking her first, reflexive answer. “No: the matter of a ‘best’ path is more complex.”
Ilshamësa nodded. “Yes, Lightstrider; you see it a-right. No path is fixed. All paths are shaped by our own actions. So, even if you—or we—knew the location of all osmotia, that would not necessarily establish the best path by which to reach it. You would still not know which osmotia are jaqualqu—the ‘breaches’ that connect to other worlds—and which are not. Also, the one that is most direct might require you to fight through an impregnable stronghold held by thousands of foes. Other suitable osmotia might remain active and be closer but, after the Cataclysm, now lie deep under the ground or in the crushing depths of the oceans.”
S’ythreni nodded. “So, decisions we have yet to make are likely to change the osmotium to which the quelsuur would ultimately guide us.”
Tharêdæath smiled and nodded in return. “In this, the behavior of all sai’niin objects aligns with our understanding of the Great Weave: although it embodies the existence and interaction of all things, no outcomes are preordained. It does not simply obey the known laws of the physical world. Rather, the unfolding of the Great Weave is also shaped by the cascading influences of the actors within it.”
“Well,” drawled Ahearn facetiously, “if it’s as simple as all that, why didn’t you say so at the outset? But now that the air is clear of such long and mighty words, it still comes down to this: we’ve no way to make any one choice over t’other.”
“That,” Ilshamësa intoned, “is where the memories and knowledge of the Great Pool have suggested a way forward.”
Ahearn idly wondered if, in this case, the Great Pool referred to the living Council that bore its name, or the mystic puddle itself. “So, it’s shown a way for us to find choices that the Relayer can use?”
“The Council has. It seems your first step is not to find any given osmotium, but many of them.”
“Truly, a modest requirement.” R’aonsun’s sarcasm was offset by his wry tone.
“It might not be so daunting a task as you project, Osrekheseertheeshrathhuu’aigh,” Ilshamësa broke in.
“You may recall,” Tharêdæath continued calmly, “that after you dispatched the guardian of the lost library at Imvish’al, I had my crew commence removing items of particular interest.”
Elweyr nodded, frowning. “Right up until we sailed for Saqqaru.” He leaned forward. “What else did you find?”
“Something we have not encountered in a very, very long time.” He nodded to the closest of the two guards, who handed him a shining metal plaque. “Do you know what this is?”
Elweyr glanced furtively toward Varcaxtan, who was already looking at him… but it was Cerven who spoke first, “Is that a moonfall plaque?”
Tharêdæath’s straight eyebrows became high arches. “Tell us what you know of them, Cerven Ux Reeve.”
“Very little, Tir-Tharêdæath.” Cerven’s voice became faintly monotone and his eyes seemed to lose focus. “They are commonly called moon plates. They cannot be deciphered. They are unusually heavy. They are indestructible. Because they cannot be damaged, they cannot be sampled for assay. They are only mentioned in the oldest records. They are incised with cyphered messages.” Sense came back to his eyes. “That is all I have learned of them.” His speech, too, reverted to its usual cadence and tone.
Ahearn frowned at the Uulamantre. “So, since you say our path is circuitous, I’m guessing that we won’t find the answers on that shiny slab, but that it’s the key to where we can find ’em.”
“Astute, Master Swordsman!” Ilshamësa almost shouted before calming herself. “When the plaque from Imvish’al was first brought to the Great Pool, we could not decipher it. But prompted by your inquiry, and with the return of the Last Hidden Archivist, it was finally accomplished.” Her rigid cheeks fought against the emergence of a brittle smile. “As is often the case with great mysteries, the flaw that frustrated our earlier attempts was in first assumptions. Our loremasters could not initially decipher it because they presumed its contents to be a report, like all other known moon plates. But this one was not; it was a code.”
“And the Hidden Archivist was able to decipher it?” Varcaxtan’s voice was eager.
Tharêdæath leaned toward the group. “You misunderstand. All moonfall plaques’ contents are written in a cypher. But not this one; this is the key to that cypher.”
Ahearn wondered why the Uulamantre seemed enamored of always saying things in the most complicated way possible. “So, you’re sayin’ it’s a code book.”
Tharêdæath nodded. “A very complicated one, since its sigils cannot simply be transposed into letters and numbers.”
Umkhira’s voice was relieved. “Still, with this cypher-of-cyphers in hand, all that remains is to find the moon plate that lists the portals.”
“Yes, although in order to read the cyphers at all, one must be able to attain a state of mind that transcends physical perception.”
Umkhira’s frown was swift and annoyed. “That sounds like still more mancery.”
“Not necessarily,” Ilshamësa murmured. “There are other ways to achieve the consciousness required. But it is uncommon in minds that have been shaped by physical existence. A reader can only understand the arrangement and interaction of the cypher’s sigils if they are capable of perceiving principles that undergird our existence, but are not evident in its worldly manifestations.”
While Ahearn and the others were still struggling to parse what they had just heard, the dragon’s avatar asked in a droll tone, “And these principles are… ?”
“Formulae which are means of representing realities that lie beyond our senses, and so, have no referents in common speech.”
R’aonsun frowned. “You are speaking of mathematical relationships.”
“You perceive. Excellent.”
“I perceive the concept; I do not comprehend how it would be used.”
“And again,” sighed Ahearn, “I must ask: what are you lofty beings on about?”
R’aonsun looked only moderately irritated. “I shall use the simplest example. Imagine that you must measure and perfectly recall every square inch of a tower. You walk around it, then ascend ladders along all of its walls, committing every square inch to memory. Then you do the same with its interior, including the battlements, roof, and basement.”
“Aye. And?”
“Did you see all of the tower?”
Ahearn frowned. “Obviously so.”
The dragon smiled. “Now, can you see all of it at once?”
Ahearn frowned. “Well, no. A body only sees a thing from one place at a time.”
“Precisely. But the complete reality of the tower is defined by all those properties existing at the same time. No one glance can show you more than a small part of them.”
“So?”
“So,” Cerven said excitedly, apparently unaware that he was interrupting the dragon, “there are ways to use numbers so that they represent all the tower’s properties, all at once.” He didn’t even notice the dragon’s approving nod. “In fact, there are ways to represent measurements that go beyond mere height, width, and—”
Tharêdæath held up his hand. “You have made your point, Master Cerven—most adequately.” He turned to the others. “The ability to apprehend reality in this fashion—which is called fullsee—is the rarest of perceptive talents. Unfortunately, none of the Council’s current proleptants possess it.”
“Then how do they skry?” wondered Umkhira.
“That is a different ability. We call that farsee, which is a learned skill exercised in the presence of the Great Pool or its lesser equivalents. Fullsee is the ability to perceive a thing in its totality at any given moment.”
Varcaxtan frowned. “Then how did your folk decipher any of the moon plates?”
“Two of our proleptants are accomplished thaumantics. They effected a cognate which grants perception akin to fullsee, but only briefly and at a very great cost.” He smiled at Elweyr. “As your own thaumancer has no doubt surmised.”
Elweyr shrugged. “The only references I have seen to such a thaumate were in the codices from Imvish’al. All I know is that it is complicated, cumbersome, and requires a great deal of manas.”
Varcaxtan looked back to Tharêdæath. “In the space of a minute, I’ve heard that fullsee is mancery, but that some persons possess it innately. But how can that be, since no one is born a mantic?”
Tharêdæath shook his head. “It is the other way around. True and constant fullsee is a rare natural ability. Thaumancers and cosmancers only have ways of approximating it.”
“So, if I understand the sum of all this,” Ahearn said, eyes closed against a mounting headache, “we need someone who can fullsee and understand this, er, double cypher, if we’re to suss out what’s been carved into other moon dishes.”
“Moon plates. Or more properly, moonfall plaques. But otherwise, you are correct.”
Ahearn sighed. “Still, until we find a plate that shows the location of a useful osmotium, we’re no better off than we started. As you said, the Relayer won’t point in a direction until we have some sense of what we’re looking for.” He crossed his arms. “So it seems that all this learned jaw-wagging isn’t worth a tinker’s damn.”
Tharêdæath raised an eyebrow. “Patience and peace, eh’hathsha. Did I not say at the outset that the Council had identified a way forward?”
Then yeh might have started there, eh? But Ahearn only said, “Aye, and I’ll be sorely relieved to hear it.”
“Once we deciphered the moonfall plaque from Imvish’al, we were finally able to read others that we have had in our possession for—well, for a very long time. Most were primarily of historical interest, but one was a very detailed list. Specifically, it was a master list.” Seeing uncertainty on Ahearn’s and several other faces, Tharêdæath added, “It is the list of all other lists, each of which are identified both by title and a unique number.”
Elweyr frowned. “Like the index of a library’s various sections?”
Tharêdæath nodded. “Yes, except it also indicates the places where the lists were kept.”
Elweyr sat straight. “So, it gives the names and locations of all the moon-plate repositories?”
Tharêdæath smiled. “Yes. And among the many lists it refers to is the one that you require: an index of all—”
“All known osmotia!” finished Cerven excitedly. “And logically, there would be a copy of that index in each of the moonfall plaque repositories!”
“But how many of these repositories still exist?” Elweyr muttered suspiciously.
Tharêdæath shook his fine-boned head. “We cannot be sure. Even the one we do know about—the Hidden Archive beneath Tlu’Lanthu—may not be complete, and the Last Hidden Archivist remains oath-bound not to disclose its contents.
“Most of the other listed repositories are not known to us. Some are not even identified by names, only a string of sigils, so there is no way to be certain which of those—if any—still exist. Furthermore, regardless of the identifier used, many will have had different names than the ones by which they are known today. Many of the names we recognize only because they appear in ancient histories which mention their destruction: by the Cataclysm, wars, or centuries of pilfering.
“However, besides Tlu’Lanthu and Imvish’al, three of the names are still familiar and still exist. One is Shadowmere, although it is called by an ancient name that has come down to us: Averroës. However, if that repository still exists, it is assuredly buried deep in the many layers of the city’s preceding incarnations. Whether it is intact is beyond speculation.”
“The status of the second repository cannot even be conjectured due to the absolute secrecy and stiff defenses surrounding it. I believe it is pointless to include it in your deliberations.”
“Still, where is it?” Cerven asked.
“In Shulthektes, the capital of S’Dyxia.”
Merely hearing that name gave Ahearn a sensation like a shadow passing overhead. “And the third?” the swordsman prompted.
“It is on Mihal’j. In a city known as Zatsakkaz.”
For the first time in Ahearn’s knowledge of him, Varcaxtan sounded impatient. “I’ve never heard of that place, and I’ve traveled to most every realm on Mihal’j.”
“That is because Zatsakkaz is not part of any modern nation,” Tharêdæath explained. “It is said to have disappeared during or shortly after the Cataclysm, presumably destroyed by invaders. However, in the First Consentium, rumors of its existence began surfacing. Every few decades, its name rises anew: a whisper among grave robbers and treasure seekers. Recently, it has done so again.”
“Perhaps you have already heard of it,” Ilshamësa speculated, “given your group’s original livelihood.” Her voice was frank, rather than disapproving.
Ahearn muttered an abashed correction: “Our intended livelihood.”
“Ah, for the good old days,” Elweyr drawled sardonically.
Ahearn ignored him, remained focused upon Tharêdæath. “And you heard this from, er, fortune seekers?”
“No, but it is attributed to them.”
“Ah. But it was reported by people you trust?”
Tharêdæath nodded. “Word came from one of the bands of aeosti who still dwell on Mihal’j.”
“And they heard the name muttered among fortune-seekers, eh?”
“Not exactly. A lone fortune-seeker whispered it as his final, dying word.”
“My,” breathed the dragon, “doesn’t that sound auspicious?”
Elweyr was frowning. “So, if we find our way to Zatsakkaz, we might find the repository. Once inside, we could find the moon plate with the list, if it’s still there. But even if it is, and even if I can read it, how will we know which osmotium to choose?”
Ahearn smiled, held up his hand; the sai’niin ring shone upon it. “I suspect that’s when this doodad might start showing our way again, eh?”
Elweyr only frowned more deeply. “Will it, even if I can’t read the list? I don’t have the fullsee thaumate. And even if I did, I’d have to master it. If not, I suspect the Relayer would just point us back here.”
Tharêdæath shook his head. “I do not think it would. We have exhausted all sources and skills that might help you find your way along this path. Besides, your company already has a resource that will allow you to understand the moonfall plaque.”
Ahearn frowned. “And what resource is that?”
Ilshamësa pointed at Cerven. “Him. Unless I am much mistaken, he has true fullsee. That is typical among those chosen to be trained as what the Old Amitryeans called a scriverant. He is one such.”
Ahearn and the others turned questioning eyes upon Cerven. His response was a nervous and very audible gulp.
“Do not fault him for being secretive,” Ilshamësa told them sharply. “He will have been enjoined by oath to conceal it, in order to protect his people.”
“His people—?” Ahearn began, confused yet again.
But Elweyr’s spine had become straight as a ruler. “Of course. His speech, when you asked him about the moon plate: he was using a recall-trance.”
Tharêdæath nodded. “So you know of scriverants?”
“Only through some brief passages in old books. Very, very old books.”
Umkhira was shaking her head. “But what are they?”
Elweyr waved a vague hand. “They are… It’s hard to explain.”
The voice that took up the definition was the dragon’s. “You may think of scriverants this way; as alchemists are to different substances, scriverants are to letters and words. And numbers and calculations.”
“You mean,” asked Ahearn uncertainly, “a scriverant is some kind of… of ill-savant?” He looked at Cerven who did not strike him at all like the one or two ill-savants he’d encountered.
Tharêdæath shook his head. “An ill-savant’s mind is not reliable. It is both a gift and a curse. It has a natural mastery of perceiving and manipulating quantities, but it is mostly—often wholly—unable to grasp anything else. Scriverants are very capable persons who can attain a similar level of perception, but only by acquiring the mental discipline that allows it to work alongside the ordinary part of their mind.”
Ahearn stared at Cerven; poor lad, sounds a sad way to grow up. “So the training—endless hours of schooling, eh?”
“Much more than that,” Ilshamësa broke in. “It is a discipline that borders on the spiritual. You heard the way he recounted what he knew of the moonfall plaques. As the magister perceived, he entered a recall-trance to summon knowledge he imprinted upon a dormant part of his mind. By entering a similar trance, he is able to order his thought and blend greater memory, induction, deduction, and perception—and so, achieve fullsee.” She looked at Cerven. “Am I correct?”
The young man nodded.
Tharêdæath leaned forward. “Scriverants also excel at remaining calm in extremely trying and chaotic situations. Without the training and temperament to do so, they would not be able to exercise their skills when under duress.”
Umkhira crossed her arms. “Yes. I have observed that he is extremely calm.”
“When he’s not drinking,” Ahearn whispered sideways toward Elweyr.
“My hearing is quite good”—Ilshamësa’s ears trembled slightly as she said it—“but I could not understand your words.”
Ahearn spoke more forcefully, as if the louder words might overtake and bury his muttered quip. “I was merely observing that the lad is full of interesting surprises. Now, on the matter of the aid you show to travelers fallen on hard times. As you can see, we’ve naught but what we saved from the wreck off Kœsdri’yrm. That, and the odds and ends we’ve picked up since then… ”
Tharêdæath waved a reassuring palm at the problem. “On returning to Eslêntecrë, you shall be guided to a storehouse filled with equipment that is… no longer required by its original owners.” If his words were vague, his eyes and tone were not.
Ahearn’s eyebrows raised. “A whole storehouse, you say?” Visions of fast dockside sales on the long voyage to Mihal’j danced in his head—just as S’ythreni jammed an elbow into his right ribs. Elweyr did the same to his left. “Must be quite a nuisance,” Ahearn finished morosely.
Ilshamësa shrugged. “It is merely space in a building we would not otherwise use. Take what you need. But only that.”
“Of course… but why keep it at all, if you’ve no use for it?”
“Because there may be heirlooms among the common items.”
“That’s”—Ahearn struggled to find words—“very considerate of you.”
The ancient Uulamantre’s eyes seemed to focus on something very far in the distance. “We understand the value of heirlooms. And keepsakes.”
“I wonder if you understand them as well as we do,” Umkhira asserted boldly, “whose entire lives are but an afternoon in your own.”
Ilshamësa’s smile was wan. “Those words are half-wise, Lightstrider. They do remind me of what I often forget: how many pass so quickly in your lands. By comparison, death is infrequent among Iavarain. But for the living, those losses accrue not just year to year but century to century, each a new hole in our heart. Eventually, it is a single void, as wide and as deep as the full measure of time we spent with them.” Ilshamësa stopped, the trembling glitter in her eyes marking unshed tears. “That is why we cherish keepsakes, Lightstrider. They sustain our memories of the hundreds we have loved and lost: memories by which we hope to find, and join, with them after the passing of all things.”
Tharêdæath’s eyes had shifted to S’ythreni as the older Uulamantre finished. “I have a related matter to discuss with you, Alva S’ythreni. Your guides informed me that you requested they bear away the sheath armor you discovered in the Library of Imvish’al.”
She bent her neck. “Veth, Tir-Tharêdæath. I asked them not to disturb you with that matter.”
“They are sworn to make full report, so they acted as their oaths demanded. But they were unable to tell me why you so ardently pressed them to take the armor from you.”
S’ythreni kept her chin and eyes down. “I hoped it might be restored to the family of the fallen. Her armor should have been conveyed to them along with her remains. I have no claim on it, I have done nothing to deserve it, and I dishonor it every time I wear it. Since they lacked the authority to respond to my request, I plead with you, Tir-Tharêdæath, to take the armor from my hands: to give it to those that deserve it, by dint of blood and deed.”
“I cannot do so.”
She glanced up. “You cannot do so? Who may challenge your will in this matter?”
“The very family to which you wish the armor returned. I informed them of your petition. They, in response, asked that you do one of two things with the sheath-suit: wear it or destroy it.”
S’ythreni rarely looked surprised, but this was one of those times. “Destroy it?”
Tharêdæath shrugged. “Only a few remain alive who remember the loss of the armor and its wearer. You brought home the remains of their fallen kin; they rightly say their remembrance is thus made whole. So, they mean you to have the armor, both out of gratitude and for the honor you would bring to it.”
“But… did you not tell them of my dishonor?”
“They have long known of the events which you assert soiled your honor. Like me, they ardently disagree with that assertion. Rather, they hope that you will not be so selfish—or stubborn—as to reject your obvious duty: to honor the wearer’s sacrifice and the crafter’s labor by restoring the armor to its purpose.” He paused for a long moment. “To carry it forward into worthy deeds befitting the Iavarain.”
S’ythreni bowed very low. As she did, Ahearn saw a shining droplet run off her cheek and vanish into the grass. “Instruct me, Tir-Tharêdæath, who knows my regrets and misgivings better than any alive: how may I demur without further injuring them… and dishonoring myself?”
Tharêdæath seemed to be preparing an answer when Ilshamësa snapped, “It is unseemly to even ask such a thing.” Her voice softened. “I understand your grief; I have felt no less. I also understand your guilt, but it is pride and self-indulgence to nurse it so fiercely, so jealously.” Her voice faded to a whisper. “Give it to the wind, child. That is where it belongs, now.”
“I shall strive to do as you counsel. But I have a final amend to make when next I return.”
Tharêdæath nodded. “I understand. The matter of the armor is settled. Wear it in remembrance and resolve.” Ahearn saw that S’ythreni’s back was quivering. “You have our leave to seek solace in solitude.”
She nodded and turned sharply, keeping her face averted as she strode away.
Ahearn let out a long sigh. “Ever since you refused to take the armor after we sailed from Imvish’al, she’s dwelt on it. Didn’t say why she felt unworthy, but it was as clear as if she’d shouted it from the foretop.”
Tharêdæath shook his head sadly as he watched S’ythreni exit the amphitheater. “In time, I hope she shall take you and the others into her confidence and share the events that haunt her so. Even among the few—the very few—who felt she bore any fault, no judgment was ever so harsh and unyielding as her own.” He stood. “I contacted Captain Firinne at Eslêntecrë. She awaits you there.”
“But she was going on to Porsyolti,” Varcaxtan protested.
“And so she did, and has now returned. It is best that you gather your belongings without delay; your guides are waiting. They bear gifts for you all, and shall escort you to the edge of the forest where it overlooks the bay. We wish you fair weather and swift travels to Mihal’j.”