B.T.V. -- Session 17+: After Words

Flat planes soared through an aerial river. They might be sheaves of brown paper circling like a flock of two-dimensional, drab-feathered birds. The river was a dirty smear across a sky that was flat and without form or depth. There was no sound.




The only relief from the swirling things and monotonous air was a small, vibrant, speckled thing that was either small to the point of being missed or extremely distant. It was noteworthy. It was the only thing that had something different about it in whatever this place was.





It was worth looking at more closely. Further examination brought it into better focus if not any nearer. This focus wasn’t visual. It was aural. The sparkle was timbre. The vibrance was tone. A voice. It meant something more than most. It crashed like an immense wave, swamping the monotone landscape. The voice continued, leaving in its ‘wake’ a new perspective on what had been seen so far. It had been a fevered vision of a place that should not be. The voice had reformed it, settling the strangeness and calming it. The voice was beginning to make sense.



“Don’t fret so, child of Corum. I don’t know Selidor but I know of him. He will come ‘round. You can take my word as a pledge.”



The voice spoke more than words. It spoke of tides of both oceans and men, two movements impossible to prevent though walls might be erected to halt their unrelenting progress. The voice intoned the strength of men long passed and the deeds that have inspired the young to venture down uncharted pathways. It denied peril, even as it sought it. It extolled the virtues of heroism and camaraderie in equal volume. At this moment, the power within the voice was muted by concern and by care for the one it addressed.



“I -- I appreciate you being here. Selidor meant to only be gone a few minutes, I believe. He went to fetch – and then ---.”



“Yes, child, I know. These are the acts that matter most. The regular things we do, they are not filled with risk. When a man steps forward, stakes his being and life, that is when these things can and will happen. He knew that he might run into trouble. Sorcerers like him --.”



The voice halted. This was a thing it rarely was forced to do. As it viewed the upset in the woman’s face, it had no choice but to fall into unusual and awkward silence.


A new voice picked up the stopped theme.


“That is to say, that my cousin was only too happy to make his charge the rescue of fair, mademoiselle Maileviahienne. We don’t know what befell Selidor on his way to her. I know as you do that his method of travel is strange. He must have taken a wrong turn on one of those deuced triangles. Whatever the case, we can but stand vigil and await what comes. I trust the words of this one.”



It was Finndo who said this, Selidor realised. He must have been returned to Adrilankha, as that was where he’d left Finndo. I am Selidor.



“But the physiker --.” Her voice trailed away.



Lyra!



“ -- said Selidor might come through on his own and that his mind was sound.” finished Finndo.



“Sound but devoid.” she said quietly.



The first sonorous voice returned, “A void is a thing Nature cannot do aught but abhor, child. In such a space, something will move in to inhabit it. The likeliest thing is Selidor.”



Finndo added hastily, “And no other spirit, I’m certain of it.”



Whatever other attempts to allay Lyra’s concern might have been forthcoming were prevented by the door opening. Selidor could tell it was a thin door, not one of a castle, more a lesser building made of things other than thick, reinforced stone.


Someone walked in; a quiet footfall, a slightest movement sparked into the air a sound of armoured plates. The breeze also carried the scent of something ancient and terrible. Selidor could be made to think only of dragons.



Finndo said, “Elric, it is good of you to visit. How was the Empress? Your meeting with her was a success?”




“It was a meeting of understandings. She and I do, one to the other. It is well.”



“She will not seek to prevent your ambition.”



“She is actually relieved.”



“Relief is not the first thing I would feel, knowing that you were after my seat at that table.”



“She is a queen. You are not.”



“Not with that moustache, he isn’t.” It was the other man speaking.


He seems familiar. I met with him. Recently.



“No, I should think it an unlikely title for Finndo of Amber. But come now, how is the wounded one?”



Lyra said, “The same as he has been, Mythi – Duke Elric.”



“The same and yet changed, I see.” Elric’s voice was nearer, “He is sallow always that I have seen him. There is, however, a tinge to his cheek that I avoided seeing the last time I was here. Did the healer note this?”



“No, he didn’t. He’s very talented though. The empress uses him.” Lyra said.



“High praise... Still there is no denying my senses. This man is somewhat restored.”



The oddly familiar voice said, “Good. I had feared my efforts were too meagre to have helped.”



“The son rescues the father. The father rescues the son. What a joyous thing is the bond of blood.” Elric said.



Lyra stared at this Dragonlord. He was like no other draegeran alive. She had read of draegerans in histories that had this detached way of speaking. Something of an otherness that the draegerans of the past had stood out for. Elric spoke as if he was looking at people who were phantoms. Lyra felt far less than her nine hundred years in his presence and far from whole. As if he was hearing her thoughts, Elric turned his eyes on her. She looked away from his gaze but forced herself to look at him still. All she could manage was to look at his scabbard. It was empty. Odd. Any Dragonlord could ask another Dragon for their sword and it would be given. Major Iterari had even told this to Elric some days ago. He still was unarmed. Lyra didn’t know what that meant but it made her uneasy. The Dragonlord always made her uneasy. She was grateful to be Dzur and not a Dragon. She chanced another peek at his face. His shadowed eyes were fixed on hers. She could not look away this time.



He said, “The Dzur honour risk. You take the challenge and face the dragon in its mighty hall beneath the stone mount and find yourself whole.” Elric seemed to be toying with her. Lyra was sure of this. She had no answer to this elder draegeran manner of speech. It was high speech. A form she had only heard about. It was said the Emperors spoke high speech with their counsellors. Those spies that heard it could listen but never understand what they were overhearing. She had to answer him. Her Dzur nature required she respond.



“Like my ancestors, I stalk the forest. I leap and take down the enemies of my friends. I will not fear the raging river or the dark cave?” Damn it! Why did you have to end with that tone?


“Su, Lady Dzur, the quarry will not hear you ‘til its time is over. In the aftermath, when the blood has rusted into dust and the wind cannot longer stir the corpse, then the cat shall hunt again. I see this in you. A purposeful stride of padded paws that lead ever onward to the crux of a road. There it is that the dzuress will make merry carnage with all that come upon her without sensing her.”



Lyra stared. It was all she could manage as she felt her spirit move within her breast.



Finndo said, “You know, I think the elf is right? Selidor looks pinker.”



Elric said, “I am wrong only occasionally.”



“Half your luck.”


“Half my... Careful prince as this might imply half a curse, as well.”














Well within the imperial palace, Zerika the Fourth rested on her divan. The conversation with the Dragonlord had been tiring. Even with the Orb assisting her clarity, the man placed demands on her vision. The Sightfold across her eyes allowed her to see within the Orb. She was almost sure that he didn’t mean to require such close attention. The words he spoke moved her and in doing this, also made her aware that they could easily be misinterpreted. She might easily be moved in the wrong way. Zerika had felt the same way on other days, in other meetings, but these were odd moments, rarely felt in the course of a discussion. With Elric – as he said he should now be called – the entirety of the time he was speaking she saw the Orb’s depths drawn with images of possibilities. Ways to move forward that were varied and so different, each from the next, that her head spun. If she hadn’t had the Orb to aid her...



With its help, Zerika thought she saw a way forward. She didn’t feel the impending end of her reign. There were portents. Signs were plentiful but signals had to be interpreted. What they showed wasn’t clear. Elric had said, “Storms create havoc. The wreckage wreaked will give succor to those best built to withstand its force. Does the Phoenix find its flame bolstered by the storm? Perhaps the storm is dry. Winds and furious dry lightnings that fill the crackled sky? Does this comfort the eternal avian or extinguish its beating heart of fire?”



Zerika felt the words come from within her and that the Orb was pleased to hear them emerge, “The Phoenix is aloft, borne on wing of flame. It seeks to take talon-hold upon the world and finds many places where roosts are plentiful.”



Elric intoned, “Look closer and descend to any one of them, Phoenix. As you do, recollect that your wings are afire. This means you will be consumed.”



Zerika felt a moment of panic. Desolation followed. She said, “I am the last. I am alone.”



“It is the end of everything if true, Lady Phoenix. No hatchling has ever fletched from an egg unseen by cockerel. The future is arid and bare for the creature that lives in solitude. Would you find purpose in this eventuality?”



“Is there any?”



“The world is bleak, red and blasted. The hills descend and flatten. The sands run down to the seas. Where do those that inhabit this old place go for comfort? Not into solitude but into the warmth of a fire.”



“You’re saying I could hope to be useful somehow?”



“I cannot interpret my words.”



“I see.”



“It is what I hope for you.”



“That I will hear your words?”



“That you will see.”



The Phoenix empress could not stop her hand reaching for the veil that hid her eyes.









Finndo propped his feet atop the dining table. The slight risk of a fall backwards was well worth chancing in exchange for the comfort of his pose. He only needed lean his head back and the glass, seemingly affixed to his bottom lip, would fill his mouth with its contents. Over the glass’s rim, he watched the man across from him. He was a man Finndo knew to watch closely. The man was so likely to make bold proclamations and broad gestures that the subtler mannerisms he let slip through could easily be washed away in a sea of bombast. The man wasn’t saying much.



“Well, long-lost brother of mine, say something.”



“What would you have me state? Make a bold proclamation or bombastic oath to the enemies that threaten all about me?”



“Something very like it, aye.”



“Well, it’s not happening.”




“No?’




“No. I’m not who I was, Finn.”




“That was made apparent the last time we met. Did you stay long in Spansis afterward?”



“No to that as well.”



“This new you... I’m not sure I like it.”



“What would you have me say?”



“Gerard, you can’t turn circumspect. What will I do if I am all that is left of our family’s appeal?”



The larger man squinted at his ‘brother’.



“You’d tempt the unicorn to fornicate, Finn.”



“Nothing as obscene as that, I think. You can’t close your hope away from the world. It needs your full attention and full effort.”



“I’ve done my part in those grand schemes. I just want a small share to call my own. A small allotment. A kingdom little more than a principality will do me.”



“The Realm may require more from you than that. You’re too large a figure in that scheme you mention.”



“Think so?”



“I feel it, aye.”



“Axewing is allowed retreat to ‘fortress fastness’. Why not me? He was there, much as I was, at the end, you know? If he, why not me?”



“He is Outremare. You are not.”



“What of it? Words. Titles. I don’t give a pattern-damned profanity for them.”



“Titles have meaning to those that don’t hold them. This is the point of them.”



“Tell me more, Bulwark of Amber.”



“You see. Despite your sarcasm, you see me as this. Ahh, I see you do! I will never be that again except in your memory. The castle I swore my heart to defend is lost. I failed. But you call me this title, just the same. With its being heard, the title gives us both a view through time's window pane. What a place it was! You should see it as I do and all from my title, uttered by you.”



“Perhaps I am merely being spiteful.”



“That was never you, Gerard. More Brand or Florimel.”



“They had their reasons. Maybe I have mine.”



“Self-pity too! You are a picture. I wish I had Dworkin’s eye and paint pots. I would capture you just as you are now. What a fine trump card it would make. Captured for the rest of eternity, Gerard the Piteous.”



“Finndo.”



“Yes, Uncle?”



“Wipe that expression off your face or I’ll use your moustache to do it.”



“I wonder if you’d have the prerequisites.”



“It won’t work. You were always an obvious man.”



“My flaws are many.”



“Don’t you see that is the point?”



“Point?”


“We weren’t supposed to be what we were. Kings of men. Leaders against Profanity. All of it. We were just a family, flawed and too wrapped up in ourselves to get of our own way.”



“I might use those words against you someday.”



“I have given it much thought.”



“Too much thinking.”



“Oh? Take that one upstairs. Selidor, shackled to his bed by his own body. What sort of a fate is that? A terrible one. Even if he were not mine to be concerned about. Messing about in the planes of Law and Chaos! Foolish masteries that can never be. These 'noble' concepts don’t care for their followers. They don’t so much as acknowledge the sacrifices. It’s pure folly to be involved at all. If he wakes before I leave, I will tell him so.”



“I’ve been with him you know.”



“What of it?”



“I’ve seen his skills. He’s very good. Mastery? Maybe he’s close to that.”



“You believe so?”



“I’ve seen a few, the same as you and one or two that you haven’t.”



“Of Law?’



“Oh, absolutely.”




“Small wonder then.”



“What?”



“That Selidor is with you. He’d be intrigued. It’s not worthy of you to hold out a carrot like that in front of him like he’s a racehorse.”



“You’d be wrong about this.”



“Oh, am I now?”



“Not just now. You’ve very often been wrong but in this specific matter, definitely. I never told Selidor I knew anything of Law. He’s in the black on my actions within Law’s boundaries.”



“Boundaries! There’s a way to put it. You and Osric. The pair of you, mucking about in the Realms the way you did. If the Mule hadn’t ruined everything you might have had to face charges... Where is he anyway?”



“Osric's presence eludes one.”



“Leave off the properness, Finn, it never suits you.”



“You’re right of course, it is my impropriety that is my saving grace and my charm.”



“Grace. You have the grace of a beaten dog at the bootheels of a dead master.”



“You should spend some extra time with the Melnibonean to work on your metaphors.”



“And you should keep your hands off my son.”



“Let me say this one time. My interest in Selidor was as a relative. The place we are sent to is important. His skills are formidable but untested. He will come ‘round, the elf has seen it. He will need allies like me. Law is a field of rigid endeavours, laced with intricate traps. If his mutterings are anything and they are, he knows of Vaxus now. He didn’t know he had a twin, did he, Papa? How will he react when he sees you? Will he need me to speak for us? Will you need me in your corner? If you say anything remotely like that again, I will vanish. Touché?”



Gerard’s mouth moved to one side of his face. He glared at his brother-turned-nephew. “Very well, I won’t say it again. Watch out for him, damn you.”



“Should you be slain, with your dying breath, you might well utter something similar. You know it, I can tell.”



“His existence was a closely guarded secret.”



“Yes, your secret ways shocked all of us. I have to grant you that.”



“Necessary.”



“You believe. I might have kept your secret. Osric too.”



“My brother would have rested it from one of you. I couldn’t chance it.”



“For a moment. I thought you were going to say that you couldn’t live with our being interrogated.”



“Whatever.”



“What next? Will you be staying?”



“I cannot. My time is at the behest of Typhon and the jewel.”



“You have it?”



“I needed something to legitimize my claim to the throne. The jewel was mere flotsam in the flood.”



“But you can’t remain.”



“It was Selidor’s need that drew me out.”



“Vaxus has much to answer for.”



“What’s that supposed to mean? Am I part of his crimes?”


“I wasn’t the one who described your being drawn out, as if you were a poison. You said it, I didn’t.”



“I wasn’t inferring that.”



“I did it to properly draw you out anyway. Good to see your ire. Your eyes looked ready to pop!”



“Somebody’s eyes might well do so...”



“There are many who could do with a little ‘Gerard massage’.”



“Huh.”



“You cannot stay. Pity.”



“No, my splintered self requires reconstitution. Until then, there’s nothing for it.”



“Tell me, does this world-weariness and lack of connection to reality extend to diet? Need you eat at all? Does that gut of yours grumble at you as I do?”



“I -- could eat.”



“We shall. When we have settled into second dessert, I will pester you further like the hornet’s nest that I am.”



“You admit, you’re a hive full of pricks?”


“I’m happy to accept the sting if you are.”



Gerard smiled. It was a long time since he had felt the need.

End of Book One: ‘The Time Of Shadows’ of, Beyond the Veil