CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Before Tharêdæath could intercede, Ilshamësa’s long hand rose, fingers erect. “That is not entirely accurate, eh’hathsha Ahearn. But what information we do have, and what aid we may render, do not require the time and wakefulness of the Great Pool. So—”
—“Wakefulness?”—
“—to answer your most obvious and important question first: no, we have no shimmer within the borders of Mirroskye.”
“And no osmotium either,” Elweyr added with grim certainty.
“Of course not!” Ilshamësa said, surprised and aghast. Her eyes flashed toward S’ythreni. “Did you not teach these eh’hathshu our beliefs, our ways?”
“Til-Ilshamësa,” S’ythreni said, lowering her chin, bowing, and keeping her voice low and soft. “I am but an aeosti exile. It is my regret and shame that I know so little of our ways that I could not better educate my eh’hathsha companions in them.”
Tharêdæath leaned close to Ilshamësa before she could reply. The ancient Uulamantre’s face softened, became sad as the other, younger one whispered to her urgently. “Dear child,” Ilshamësa resumed, eyes bright, “forgive me. I… I am so filled with memories that, when newly reborn, my mind seems to have little room for anything but what I have seen and heard before. You have done admirably teaching them enough of our courtesies that they give no offense. Well”—she paused to glance at Ahearn—“most of them. Now, magister,” she said in a firmer voice as she turned toward Elweyr, “you are correct: there are no osmotia here. They disrupt the flow of the Great Weave and we will not tolerate such phenomena within our borders. But what you require”—she paused to look at each of their faces—“goes beyond that. To reclaim your friend you would need access to the rarest kind of osmotium; a jaqualq osmotium.”
“Jaqualq?” Cerven echoed; the eagerness in his voice told Ahearn that this was a new word for him.
“It means ‘breach,’ in Uulamantre,” S’ythreni said with a slight shiver.
“So you know the term, child?” Ilshamësa said encouragingly.
Again, S’ythreni’s eyes lowered. “Only that it signifies more than a mere break or puncture. It is more akin to… to… ”
“An aberration or anathema or atrocity,” Elweyr said carefully. He shrugged in response to their surprised looks. “The term appears in a few fragments of very old and complex thaumantic sources and codices, usually in relation to apocalyptic events or forces.”
Ilshamësa was nodding, eyes more focused. “The magister speaks with understanding of the word. And an osmotium that connects not merely different places on Arrdanc, but is a gateway to a different world, is labeled thusly.”
“But… what does it mean, that it is, er, jaqualq?”
The Uulamantre looked appraisingly at Ahearn. “Your curiosity is your most redeeming feature, eh’hathsha. I wish I could answer that question adequately. But even after millennia of consideration, the nature of jaqualq osmotia remains a matter of debate among the Tiri of the Council.”
Varcaxtan’s eyes opened slightly wider at her explanation, but other than that, his expression was unchanged.
“Suffice it to say that jaqualq osmotia are, to use the magister’s word, anathema to us.”
“Yes, but why them more than others? Because they lead to dangerous places?”
“No, because they wholly violate the natural order.”
Ahearn looked at his companions. “‘Violate the natural order’! Well, wouldn’t Druadaen like to be here to learn that! Start him off on another quest, it would.”
“I suspect you are correct, from what I have heard of his investigations. But I grow weary, and we have yet to address the matter which surely brought you here: recommendations for your path going forward. Which means, practically speaking, how to find just such an aberration.”
“Well, yes, certainly… but I’m sure it wouldn’t go amiss if one or two persons with interest in such, er, aberrations, were to join us in our travels. Once we found such a portal, we’d be very much obliged to have the benefit of their knowledge and advice.” Not to mention their skill at arms and mancery—which they’ve honed longer than I’ve lived.
Ilshamësa stiffened. “Mirroskye offers counsel, but we have foresworn interference.”
“Interference? In what?”
“In affairs that transpire in the world beyond our borders.”
Umkhira spoke even before Ahearn could. “How can you claim this? You have been an active ally of Dunarra for as many years as are recorded in histories.”
Tharêdæath’s quick reply was clearly to keep Ilshamësa from doing so rashly. “We were indeed ‘involved’ with Dunarra. But now, its temples have indicated that we are no longer welcome and its Propretoriate chose not to dispute their will in the matter. We have since withdrawn from all activities that may require action beyond our own border.”
“Also,” Ilshamësa added testily, “your present concerns and will to act is driven by individual desires, not a greater duty.”
Elweyr frowned. “I would welcome your wisdom, Til-Ilshamësa; what do you mean by ‘a greater duty’?”
“Is it not obvious? I refer to actions that arise from the vigilance and deliberations of your councils—or, as you call them, er… tribes?”
“I believe you may mean nations or realms?” Cerven offered quietly.
“Yes, those too.” Ilshamësa waved an annoyed hand. “I find the distinctions between your agglomerations difficult to recall, possibly because I find the differences too… too… ”
“Complex?” offered Elweyr.
“No; dubious. However, to my point: a ‘realm’ with great and unusual powers may not safely exert them simply to satisfy a few individuals. To do so is intemperate and irresponsible. Great power becomes both diluted and untrustworthy when its use becomes too frequent or favors some individuals over others. So, while we share regret over the loss of a friend and a spouse, and have sympathy for many of your goals, we may offer only the most mundane forms of assistance. It is what we would do for any well-meaning travelers fallen into trying circumstances.”
Ahearn put out a hand in appeal. “But at least you can tell us where we might find one of these juqwa—jakal—er, violating portals so that we might try to retrieve our friend?”
It was Tharêdæath who answered, shaking his head. “Sadly, that is not so easy as you might think. Time has blurred or wholly erased much of what our distant forebears knew readily. The laws and locations of portals that linked distant places on this world and others has faded from memory.”
Cerven’s surprise was evident in his tone and face. “And you did not endeavor to restore that knowledge?”
Ilshamësa started violently. “To what end? Understand, young one: great powers never sleep. We always have one eye open when it comes to the unusual abilities of other powers, just as they do concerning ours. A power that does any less does not long remain a great power.”
Ahearn was surprised by a torrent of loud, angry words—emerging from his own mouth. But he felt no regret as they poured out. “Then what of us knuckle-dragging mortals who hope to help in our own, small ways? How do you count us as you’re movin’ beads of power around on your political abacus? As an ‘agglomeration’ of hapless sheep? As serviceable villeins by which you ‘great powers’ push and pull at each other without feeling any pain yourselves?”
The Uulamantre were visibly stunned: whether at the volume of Ahearn’s speech or its content, he could not tell and did not care. He leaned further forward. “How is it any different from nobles wagering on the ragged curs that they bring to dog-pits? And why do they set those poor beasts to tearing at each other? Why, so those ‘great men’ can claim a maimed dog’s victory as their own, that they’re the stronger… while pocketing a few extra billons at a rival’s expense.” He crossed his heavy arms. “I’m waiting fer yeh to point out the distinctions between that bloody business and the heartless ways of your ‘great powers.’”
Tharêdæath nodded, but waited for five full seconds before offering his slow, calm answer. “The differences are these. Firstly, not all great powers use hapless communities and persons as their proxies. Secondly, among those who must do so, some freely share the full truth of what they are doing and why. But beyond those differences, I cannot dispute the parallels you draw.”
Umkhira’s spine straightened sharply. “‘Among those who must do so?’ How is it that any great power ‘must’ use those with less power—or none at all—as their catspaws in petty battles?”
Tharêdæath took a moment, considering his reply—but Ilshamësa spoke sharply into that silence. “And let us say you were the chieftain of your tribe, Lightstrider. And let us say that a distantly related and much weaker clan was suffering at the hands of rapacious red urzh from the Under. And let us finally say that those same raiders were certain to come to your own hearth next. Would you fail to help your distant clan-cousins?”
“Of course not! We would attack the raiders!”
“So, in order to spare your weaker kin, you would sally forth alone?”
Umkhira frowned. “Well, not alone.”
“Or maybe not at all.” Seeing Umkhira’s eyes widening, Ilshamësa rephrased. “Perhaps you would not fail to bring your full strength to the aid of your cousins. But tell me: are there not ur zhog chieftains who would give only limited support to the weaker clan, in the hope that the danger from the red urzh could be averted at a smaller cost in your own hearth’s blood? Indeed, would not such chieftains be deemed prudent, wise, even cunning?”
“Perhaps,” she fumed, “but never ‘heroes’!”
Ilshamësa nodded. “Rightly said, Lightstrider. They are not heroes. And nor are we. To hold a totem or scepter of command means to hold the fate and future of many lives in that same hand. Such a person does not have the luxury to be a hero. Their first duty is not to themselves—not even their nobility or honor—but to those whose lives depend upon their prudence, wisdom, and yes, cunning.”
“I would reject the fur-robe of such authority! I have no wish to be a chief!”
Ilshamësa smiled. “To be truthful, I never did, either. But if you become renowned among your people—and I foresee that such a thing might happen—it may be that the fur-robe of authority seeks you, even if you wish to avoid wearing it.”
Ahearn waited patiently through the somber silence that followed—until he deemed it had gone on entirely too long. “Well, let’s leave of worrying over hypothetical futures that may or may not come.” Almost everyone stared at him as the word “hypothetical” left his lips. “We came here to determine how to find our friend and bring him home. Whatever help or counsel you can offer, we shall gratefully accept.”
Ilshamësa smiled softly. “You love your friend very much, to speak courteous words that cut your throat like glass even as they rise toward your lips.” Before Ahearn could find a reply or rub away the sudden heat in his face, she continued. “So frank and heartfelt a request would open the most closed ears—or hearts. We shall confer further. I cannot promise anything to you except this: what we may do, we shall.
“Now, before you take leave of us, I have questions of my own—which may also serve as a form of counsel.” She turned toward Varcaxtan. “Other than the quelsuur—Relayer—choosing someone besides yourself, why are you not the leader of this group?”
Ahearn started. “Well, now, don’t mind that I’m standing here, right in front of yeh! Please: talk of me as if I’m half the world away!”
Ilshamësa’s bored sideways glance told Ahearn that, at the moment, that was precisely how she thought of him. “I do not understand how or why you would endure his… inexperience. He cannot be a fifth your age.”
Varcaxtan’s smile proved infectious for Tharêdæath, but not the older Uulamantre as he asked, “Alas, my years show so clearly, then?”
“Only to those who know what to look for,” she replied flatly. “Also, you are known to us.”
Varcaxtan glanced at Tharêdæath. “Been telling tales on me, have you?”
Til-Ilshamësa found no humor in the situation. “I needed no report from him. We have known of you for decades. You have had increasing responsibilities in the service of the current propretor princeps, and now his grandson. We would be remiss not to be aware of you and your capabilities. I ask again; why are you not this group’s leader?”
Varcaxtan shrugged. “It had been together for more than a year when I joined. And some have been friends far longer than that. Over that time, it grew its own set of rules and relationships, which is no small feat, given the unusual mix of persons.” He shrugged. “Since it works as it is, it hardly seems wise to change it. I have no authority among them, and besides, as you pointed out, the Relayer did not choose me, but Ahearn. No, Til-Ilshamësa, this is best.” He allowed himself a small grin and his eyes almost twinkled. “You see, Ti-Alva, choosing not to be leader is not only wise, but a great personal relief!”
Ilshamësa tried not to show the thawing effect of Varcaxtan’s charm. “Very well. But you might do well to instruct this… noble swordsman in the delicate nature of the events in which he now finds himself involved.”
“Oh, he understands far better than he lets on.” Varcaxtan smiled sideways at Ahearn. “He effects a bumpkin demeanor so that others will underestimate him, and so, come to reveal more of their own thoughts and knowledge.”
Ahearn nodded his gratitude, but thought, Well, thanks for giving away the usefulness of playing the fool, “Uncle Varcaxtan.”
Ilshamësa’s response was to let her skeptical gaze drift from one to the other and back again. “Interesting. Let us hope you are right. And you—” she continued, glancing at the dragon.
R’aonsun straightened, bent his thick human neck very slightly. “I attend, Til-Ilshamësa.”
“Why do they call you ‘R’aonsun’? Do they not know your real name”—she uttered an ear-rending growl-screech—“Osrekheseertheeshrathhuu’aigh?”
“I have not shared it with them.”
“Why?”
“Because their tongues would mangle it as surely and as utterly as a wolf mangles a rabbit.”
Even Ilshamësa’s small smile seemed on the brink of becoming a grin. “I have missed dragon-wit.” She pronounced the last word as if it were well established, not an impulsive cognate of its two parts.
His neck bent. “I am gratified.”
“And again,” Ilshamësa followed quickly, “I must ask: why are you not leading this company?”
“Besides having no wish to do so, Til-Ilshamësa?” The big barbarian body shrugged. “For much the same reasons given by this revoltingly cheerful Dunarran I have been cursed to know for—oh, decades now.”
“Decades?” Cerven said, leaning over to look at R’aonsun from the other end of the group. “How many?”
“Too many,” came the tart reply, before he turned his attention back upon the senior Uulamantre. “I would say it is a pleasure to see you once again, Til-Ilshamësa.”
“And why do you not?”
“With respect, you have not always been pleased to see me.”
The Uulamantre’s answer had a hint of drollery. “I have yet to hear of any relationship with a dragon that was anything less than… uniquely complicated.” Ilshamësa’s face and tone grew serious. “I must imagine that your fellow travelers would agree. It is indeed interesting to see you in company with these beings. It is not something I foresaw.”
“Frankly, neither did I.”
“Since your… ‘needs’ are well known to us, I cannot help but reflect upon the personal cost you risk in embracing this uncertain path unto its conclusion.”
“I am flattered.”
“You should not be. I—we—are uncertain about the wisdom of your choice.”
“As am I, but I cannot afford uncertainty. Not now.”
“If enemies still watch your lair, every further step on this journey is a further temptation to them, or the cruelties of Fate.”
The dragon seemed genuinely surprised. “I appreciate and understand your concerns—”
“Well, I don’t!” Ahearn exclaimed. “Right now, I’m naught but the bumpkin Varcaxtan says I play, because I haven’t the faintest idea what this grave palaver is all about.”
Tharêdæath looked quizzically at the dragon. “It was my understanding that you explained to them that your eggs are the means of your own rebirth?”
“I did. But I did not explain what quickens them.”
Elweyr frowned. “You told us that you are… er, that your species does not mate.”
“I’m disappointed in you, ‘magister.’ Clearly, those two statements are not ineluctably contradictory.”
S’ythreni raised an eyebrow of her own. “Then how do you quicken your eggs?”
“It is… well, a matter of my diet.”
Ahearn crossed his arms. “Every time you start answerin’ in circles, wyrm, I start getting very, very nervous. Like right now. So be plain: what is it you must eat to quicken an egg?”
The dragon shrugged. “Another being like myself: one that will not die merely from the passage of time.”
Umkhira frowned. “So, other cryptigants?”
R’aonsun shook its now close-cropped human head. “Dragons are not cryptigants, but yes, many of those beasts do not die natural deaths any more than we do. But they are not the only creatures with that property and certainly not the easiest to eat.”
Elweyr rubbed his hairless chin. “So: other dragons, then?”
“Again, possible but not advisable; a battle between dragons usually ends with one dead and the other dying.”
Ahearn’s already thin patience ran out. “Then what, wyrm?”
“The Fallen.” Ilshamësa murmured, leaning back in her chair of stone. “Of our kind.”
“You mean, the Yylm?” S’ythreni asked in a gasp that turned into a whisper.
“Yes.”
She turned to the dragon. “You hunted them?”
“On the contrary, they hunted me.” He glanced sideways at the Uulamantre. “But I was unable to establish that to the satisfaction of the Council of Tiri.”
Ilshamësa shook her head slowly. “Venerable Dragon, time has revealed what you could not then prove. And which we were loath to believe of our own kin, no matter how distant the relation.”
The dragon’s barbarian face raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
Tharêdæath explained. “We have since fought many wars against the Yylm.” A rare expression of surprise passed over the dragon’s face and was gone. “We discovered that, if anything, your descriptions of their treachery and cruelty were not merely measured, but understated.”
“They had to be,” the dragon explained, “for the very reasons that nestle in your own words: the Yylm are your blood, your kin. What being is willing, let alone eager, to believe the very worst of their own species? So, as you say, I could not be as frank and as brutally honest in my depictions of the Yylm as I would have wished to be.”
“Which is why,” Ilshamësa said slowly, “we are grateful that you came here, that we might ask your forgiveness, even understanding, for what transpired those many centuries ago.”
R’aonsun stared at the Uulamantre. “So you forgive the many deaths I caused among them?”
“As it turns out,” Tharêdæath said slowly, “those were not acts that required forgiveness; they warranted thanks. For every two you slew, at least one of us was thereby saved from dying in battle against them.”
“At least one,” Ilshamësa said in a suddenly shaky voice. She stood. She had become deathly pale in the space of a single moment. “I tire. Rebirth becomes more trying.” She turned toward S’ythreni. “My child, you seem comfortable with these companions.”
S’ythreni looked like she was swallowing nails as she gathered herself to admit aloud, “I am, Til-Ilshamësa.”
“Then you mean to travel onward with them. And if you survive, I suspect you shall not be absent from the glade for so long. To which end: they must know us.”
S’ythreni looked as puzzled as she sounded. “Til-Ilshamësa, I do not understand.”
“If you return, I feel sure they shall as well. Before they do, and before we may bring them further into any confidences, you must show them our heart and soul.”
“How?”
“You mean to travel to that which sustains you, do you not?”
She swallowed. “I can do no less.”
“Then you must take them with you to behold what they do not yet understand.” She stepped down from the bottom tier. “We shall seek the knowledge you require for your quest. I am weary. Tharêdæath will see you on your way.”