"Keeping your memories kind of defeats the purpose of starting over, wouldn't you say?"
"No. I wouldn't." Never again would his soul be incomplete.
"Fair enough." The Lord turned to go.
Mirek raised his hand. "Wait. There is one more thing."
The Lord turned back.
Mirek couldn't help but smile. "When I return to the Fourth World, I want it to be as a Shannodsman."
The Lord stared at him for a moment, then said, "Traitor." There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, though.
Mirek's smile widened. He knew there was a part of himself that would say the same thing.
With that, the Lord waved farewell, and then all was turned to brilliant white light.
THE END
About the Author
Though having only discovered fantasy fiction in his adult life, Brandon was raised on a steady diet of science fiction novels, instilling in him the sense of wonder that eventually culminated in his becoming a fantasy author. He has lived in Washington State for most of his life, with brief stints in California and Japan, and received a degree in philosophy from the University of Washington in Seattle. Like many authors before him, he was attracted to fantasy for its ability to provide a backdrop for exploring philosophical themes, many of which permeate the stories and books of the Fourth World.
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About the Fourth World
The God Berahmain created seven worlds.
The First World is the Birthing Tree, called so because it is where men's souls are born. Those that find shape there Ascend to the next world.
The Second through Sixth Worlds are where those souls are tested. Each world has its own test, or Challenge, and in order to Ascend to the next world, a person must succeed in the Challenge. If they fail, they Descend to the previous world.
Those that Descend to the First World are consumed utterly, their souls destroyed to create the stuff of new souls.
Those that finally reach the Seventh World have proven themselves worthy to fight alongside the God in the War beyond Time.
Lives come and go in the Fourth World, sometimes to return to live again. Many of the denizens of the Fourth World have tales to tell, and Mirek's tale was but one.
A full-length collection of tales of the Fourth World, called The Clans, is the next part in the saga. Six tales comprise it, one for each of the Fourth World's clans, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. For within these six tales lies the key to prevent the destruction of the Fourth World, a key that only Kularro, a young novice in the Church of the Overarch, can find.
Read on for the beginning of Kularro's own tale, the first chapter in The Clans.
The Clans: Introduction
Kularro sat down at an empty desk in the middle of the empty lecture hall. He was the first one there, as he had been in every other class he had taken at the Citadel. It was deathly quiet now, only the infrequent patter of the rain escaping through the hall's balcony doors and the ticking of the wall clock to compete with his breathing. He wondered if anyone else would bother to show up.
Some of his instructors had always thought Kularro was early to every class because he was eager to learn, which was partially true, or that he was trying to ingratiate himself with the magisters, which wasn't true. The fact was he was early to class because he was an avid student of human behavior and wanted to surreptitiously watch the other novices file in. People fascinated him.
Yet today, what very well might be the day every one of them died, his habit seemed at once very important and very futile. Still, habits die hard, and he watched the door out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with a stack of parchments to appear like he was genuinely busy. Little writing space remained of the parchments, the rest having inexplicably rotted away like so many other things. Although it wasn't entirely inexplicable; everyone knew that the Corruption destroyed things, even if they didn't know how. All anyone knew was that Berahmain, the God, decreed it, and it was so.
Kularro only wished Berahmain had spared his robes. The fabric was worn and frayed, though he had only been issued this novice robe a couple months ago. He looked like a beggar. Idly, he wondered if Maye's robes had holes in them too, in places that would have strategic importance to Kularro's practiced roaming eyes. Instead of bringing a smile like he hoped, the thought only crushed his heart with sorrow. She deserved to have nice things, not tattered robes. She didn't deserve to die.
Kularro stared at the stone walls of the Citadel. So far, they were still intact, with mildew and moss growing in the hard-to-clean upper corners of the hall being the only sign that anything was wrong. He wondered if anyone would be left alive when the Corruption caused these walls to tumble down in ruins. He wondered if the Fourth World would even still exist that long.
He straightened, stirred from his musing, when someone stepped through the door. Inwardly, he smiled. He shouldn't have doubted that someone else would come. There were actually two of them, girls both, a couple years younger than him. Both of them were Wyrricsmen like Kularro, fair-skinned where his was more olive-colored. They eyed him warily as they took their seats at the corner closest to the door. Neither of them said a word.
They looked familiar. Kularro tried to remember their names but couldn't. He wondered if they both received the same invitation to the class that he had. Strange, that. It was the first such invitation to attend a lecture he had ever received. Mostly all he received were expectations that he attend. He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his ragged satchel, silently hoping it hadn't fallen out.
He sighed in relief when he found it. The invitation was written on remarkably crisp, unsullied paper and written in an elegant hand. It made no mention of the content of the lecture, nor its purpose. That had been half the reason Kularro had come; he had been intrigued. The other half was because he had nothing else to do except lay in his bed and wait for death to come. He remembered a magister once asking him, years ago, what Kularro would do if he knew that today would be the last day of his life. He had answered that he probably would go to class and learn as much as he could to find out why today would be his last day alive.
He stared at the invitation for a few moments longer before returning it to his satchel.
More novices then began to file in. A lone Mistclanner, mottled gray skin and matching shoulder-length hair, strode in like he owned the place, glanced around, and sat alone with haughty disdain for both Kularro and the Wyrric girls. Kularro didn't know the prick's name, and didn't care to find out. He was doubtless a friend of Iovan's. If so, Kularro was glad he wasn't sitting anywhere near him.
A few more Wyrricsmen came in, then a couple of the blue-skinned, white-haired male Tokkarintsmen. Clinging to the skin of the Tokkarintsmen were frost-rimed leather straps, lightly heatbound to draw body heat out of them, and covered over with their novice robes. Kularro knew that without them the Tokkarintsmen would die in a matter of hours, and painfully. He had known a couple of girls from Tokkarint, and had often wondered what they looked like under their heatbound straps.
No one from Faceless Clan so far as Kularro could tell—not that he would have been able to; they were from Faceless, after all—and only two from Canterell, a young man and woman who seemed not to know each other, or at least pretended not to. Kularro wondered what their story was. Possible scenarios spooled out in his mind: spurned lovers, both shamed of the barbaric heritage reflected in the other's face. Of course, it could be that one or the other—or both—were Wyrricsmen, with their ruddy brown hair and fair features. But Kularro would have bet that by the way they carrie
d themselves, with their obvious lack of confidence, they were Canterellsmen.
Kularro sighed. Why was he even bothering with this? Figuring these people out would lead to nothing. He guessed he did it only to take his mind off of things, distract him from his hunger. He hadn't eaten anything nourishing in three days, save for some beetles he found scurrying through the dormitories. He gave the lecture hall one final glance. Unsurprisingly, there were no Shannodsmen. Unsurprising, because they were the clan who had declared war against the world. People don't take kindly to that, and any Shannodsmen remaining in the Citadel likely had the good sense to flee before becoming a victim of scapegoat violence.
Eighteen students so far, all of them with puzzled looks, all of them quietly awaiting the magister's arrival. There were three in particular that Kularro was waiting to see, and none of them had shown up yet. Stannol, his best friend, would be there since Kularro had already talked to him about it. Stannol was a bit of what Kularro called a selective genius. In some things he was far beyond the abilities of his peers, in most others he was more or less oblivious. But good-natured, which was why Kularro was such good friends with him.
He was the next one in. Stannol, slightly round—though less round than he had been when they were younger—with a mop of curly black hair, grinned up at Kularro when he caught sight of him, and stepped on no less than three feet as he wormed his way through the narrow row to the seat next to Kularro's.
Stannol suddenly froze, then leaned over to block Kularro's view of the door. "Don't look."
"Shit," Kularro muttered, already knowing what to expect. "Sit down."
Reluctantly, Stannol took the seat next to him, and sure enough, the next two people came through the door, crushing Kularro's soul in the process. Maye, the girl of his dreams, coming in on the arm of Iovan, the biggest asshole in the Fourth World.
Kularro watched it all, even as his stomach wanted to empty itself. Good thing there wasn't much in it.
Even despite the Corruption ruining clothing and food and causing everything perishable to perish much more quickly than it normally would, she looked gorgeous, not at all diminished. The clothes she wore would have appeared worn out on anyone else, but not on her. Wavy red hair gleamed as it hung free about her shoulders. Her perpetual smile seemed indomitable, like sunlight that could penetrate the deepest clouds.
Just seeing her momentarily drove all other thoughts from Kularro's head. The experience was sublime. But then it all came crashing back, and he saw Iovan touching her cheek briefly, saying a couple of words that widened her smile, before they disengaged and went to sit with the small group of their mutual friends. One of Iovan's eyebrows, handsomely dark where his close-cropped hair was bright orange, rose as he turned to briefly meet Kularro's gaze. Just long enough for his smile to be meaningful. Kularro almost rose to go strangle him.
"You okay?" Stannol asked, leaning forward.
"Of course not." Kularro sighed. "Sorry. I was just hoping for a more auspicious start to the day." He leaned back in his seat and tried not to stare at the back of Maye's head. He was almost successful.
A crash in the hallway startled nearly everybody, and a middle-aged man wearing the blue-trimmed-with-crimson robes of a magister pounded into the room. It was a magister that Kularro had never had before as an instructor, but was well-known for his eccentricity. Magister Ruethan.
Without a glance at any of the students here assembled, Magister Ruethan headed straight to the podium, retrieved something from one of the inner pockets of his robe, and began to scribble on the podium's surface. Immediately behind the magister, a complex web of sympathetically bound strings and pulleys began to drag bits of chalk across the massive slab of slate that covered most of the wall, copying what was written on the podium. Words as tall as a man appeared on the slate.
Stannol read each one aloud as it was written. "Why. Are. We. Here. Question mark."
Magister Ruethan lifted his gaze from his writing and settled it upon the various members of his audience. His eyes were hard, like a predator's, his cheekbones sharp and angular. Kularro felt like a worm being regarded, and then dismissed as unacceptable fare, by an eagle, when Ruethan's eyes took him in and moved on. Whereas many of the other older magisters had let their hair and beards grow freely, presumably to add to their reputation for sagacity, Ruethan's graying hair was shorter, his beard trim. Had Kularro not already known who he was, he would have pegged him as someone absolutely villainous.
"Anybody have the answer for the rest of the class?" The magister's voice was abrasive as his eyes continued to rake the class. Several people squirmed in their seats.
The Mistclanner, seemingly nonplussed as he rested his chin on his fist, raised his other mottled gray hand. The magister nodded for him to speak. "We were hoping you could tell us."
A few nervous titters followed, mostly out of politeness for the Mistclanner's poor attempt at a joke. There was little that anybody found funny anymore.
The magister's expression did not change at all, but he simply ceased looking at the Mistclanner. "Anybody have a real answer?"
Silence reigned supreme for what seemed an eternity. Everyone was looking at everyone else to see who would be skewered next by the magister's disregard.
A girl, one of the two that were first in the lecture hall after Kularro, tentatively raised her hand. Kularro could almost see her thin arm shaking from three rows away. When Ruethan saw her, she almost looked like a rabbit that had seen a wolf.
She quickly snatched her hand out of the air. "We're here," she began in a quiet, quavering voice, "because Berahmain created our world?"
Ruethan's face tightened in displeasure. It almost seemed as if he wasn't going to answer before he finally said, "I'm sorry. Were you asking a question or answering one?"
The poor girl shrunk in on herself.
"Anybody else?"
Someone Kularro knew named Westen mentioned something about people coming from the Birthing Tree, and that ultimately being the cause of why they were there. The magister shook his head in disappointment.
"And you truly are the best the Citadel has to offer?"
The magister's words gave Kularro pause. He scanned the room, surprised he didn't realize it before. Some of the other novices he didn't know personally, but those he knew or at least recognized were generally at the extreme top of their classes. Kularro felt himself to be somewhat humble, but he knew that he was brilliant, and more consistently so than his good friend Stannol. Maye, too, was highly intelligent. It was that as much as her physical appearance which Kularro found attractive.
The question the magister had raised—and the Mistclanner's aborted attempt at clarification—took on new significance. Why were the smartest novices in the Citadel gathered here? Kularro frowned as he puzzled it out in his head.
He knew, though, that it was a hopeless path to pursue, at least until the magister was ready to tell them. Ruethan was fishing for something, Kularro knew, and they would be stuck waiting until he got what he wanted. Kularro thought he knew what it was. Before his judgment could get the better of him, he raised his hand.
"Do you have something to add to this parade of absurdity, Kularro?"
He charged ahead before he could get offended by the magister's words. "The question is meaningless." Kularro almost puked when he realized what he had just told the magister.
"And why do you say that?" Ruethan asked. He didn't seem angry, as Kularro expected, but expectant. Almost pleased. He hoped his instinct had been correct.
"Well," Kularro began, feeling his throat tighten, "one of the problems is that everyone here has been answering a different question, yet each of the distinct questions could have been properly implied within the one you asked."
"And what's wrong with that?"
The fact that the magister hadn't yet attacked him gave Kularro a small boost of confidence. "Without properly defining the context of the question, its meaning could be anything, which is the same
as its meaning being nothing in particular."
A ghost of a smile flickered on the magister's face, and was gone before Kularro could even convince himself he had actually seen it.
Ruethan began slowly pacing, absently spinning the bit of chalk in his fingers. He stopped and spun to face the class, his face becoming even more serious than Kularro imagined possible. "All of you have no doubt seen what great peril our world is in."
Again the silence descended like a dark fog.
The magister broke it. "Without intervention, the Fourth World and all of its people will be destroyed by the man known as the Returner. If the dire state of our world was no indication, the destruction of the Fifth World should be. Without thoughtful action, we are all doomed. Berahmain's plan will not come to fruition, the War beyond Time will be lost, and the Enemy will have destroyed the God and all of his seven worlds. Everything will simply cease to be."
His eyes searched them as he continued. "You are the best of our students, rivaling even the greatest living magisters in your intelligence, cunning, and creativity. I am scarcely qualified to be up here, lecturing to you. But time has run out, and the number of magisters left in this Citadel has dwindled to a paltry handful. I have brought you here because you are the Fourth World's last hope for salvation."
He smiled. "And that is why you are here.
"All of you know of Magister Willfonde. So long as there are voices to speak, his name shall forevermore be whispered in reverence and awe for what he has done for our world. Unfortunately, he is no longer among us. He should have been up here, not me. Alas. The other magisters and I have been poring over his studies, and have found some remarkable things."
The magister held up all the fingers of his left hand, and one finger from his right. "Six primary texts he studied before leaving us on his final mission. Six, one for each clan—all of them restricted to novices. None of the remaining brothers and sisters of the Church have figured out why these six, what he saw in them that we are missing. Perhaps there was some greater scheme that he had discerned by studying these texts. We don't know; he never told us. We do know, from those who have spoken to him and were somewhat close to him, that he had pored over these six texts before leaving. We know that he believed them to be significant. Determining the nature of that significance is why we are all gathered here today. The most difficult part of our task, as Kularro has pointed out, is to determine the exact question we should be asking. Only then will we be able to answer it."