‘This magnificent sea of stars,’ said Macros, and the scene changed. Now bright lights died in the sea of gas and dust, shrouded as if covered by a veil of soot or a thin curtain of dark gauze. ‘This dust nebula is where suns, like Midkemia’s own, are born. This is just one of millions of such places throughout the universe.’
‘But the time it takes to create this …’ began Miranda.
‘Time is an illusion,’ said Macros. He pointed to Pug. ‘We learned that when we travelled back in time. Or at least that was our first lesson.’
‘Time is an illusion?’ asked Nakor.
‘Not yet,’ said Macros, acting like a performer on stage at a fair determined to let the play unfold at its predetermined pace. He waved his hand and it appeared as if the swirling gas increased its speed, moving faster and faster as the suns grew brighter. ‘As the dust falls in, the space between the stars grows more empty. Or at least it appears to be.’
‘What is the point to this, Fa—’ Miranda cut herself off, ‘Macros?’
He smiled. ‘Either will do.’ The brightening stars grew more intense and robust and began to change colours. ‘Red, blue, yellow, white, tiny, massive beyond measure, so many types of stars,’ he said. ‘And like that giant, pulsing star, just within this nebula are entire galaxies being formed.’
‘Why are you showing this to us?’ asked Magnus. ‘It’s absolutely breath-taking and worth viewing for the beauty of it alone, but what is your purpose?’
‘To help you understand the stakes of this cosmic game,’ said Macros. ‘It’s why powers beyond the Midkemian gods are acting and why you four are standing with me now: because if we fail in the coming struggle, this goes away.’
‘Goes away?’ asked Pug.
‘All of it – the stars, the worlds, every tick of life on the smallest dust mote floating around the tiniest star in the farthest reaches of the universe – it all ceases to exist. It’s not just the end of the world,’ said Macros grimly, ‘it’s the end of everything.’
After a moment, Pug said, ‘What do we do?’
‘Now we start the lessons,’ said Macros.
The sky around them suddenly turned dark and brooding, gas clouds still, but now dirty grey and brown. A few illuminated specks of light in the distance gave a sense of dimension and shape, but otherwise it was a cold and lonely place.
‘This is how stars are supposed to end,’ said Macros. ‘Some just wither and die, like a candle flickering out, while others explode in a violence so self-consuming that all that remains is hot gas spreading out at unfathomable speed. For eons it drifts and in some impossible future it will gather again and start its progression to rebirth.’
With a wave of his hand, the sky changed again.
‘The Fourth Circle,’ said Miranda.
Pug nodded.
‘But Piper said it was ending.’
‘This is how a portion of the universe died at the hands of the Dread, and this is what will happen to most of it before they achieve their goals,’ said Macros.
‘What are their goals?’ asked Pug. ‘I’ve wondered for years.’
‘All in time,’ said Macros. ‘First, this.’
He waved his hand again and the scene changed once more.
‘The stars look different,’ said Nakor.
Macros laughed. ‘Look closer. Those aren’t just stars.’
A dot of light expanded as if they were swooping toward it, and as it grew larger they saw it take on the shape of a swirling mass of lights. ‘It’s a galaxy!’ said Magnus.
‘Each of those lights,’ said Macros, pointing outward, ‘is a galaxy. Billions of them, and within those galaxies, billions of stars, and around many of those stars, planets like Midkemia, complete with life.’
‘Now I know why the Hall of Worlds seems endless,’ said Miranda.
‘Because it is,’ said Macros. ‘Honest John’s is an anomaly, a place within the Hall but not of it, so it serves as something of a starting point, the centre of the Hall, as it were. But the Hall itself has no beginning or end.’
‘Because stars are constantly being born, which means planets are being born as well,’ said Magnus.
‘Yes,’ said Macros, pleased someone else made the point. ‘So doors arise as worlds are born, and vanish when the world they’re linked with dies.’
‘You’ve made the point,’ said Miranda, her impatience surfacing. ‘The universe is a vast place. Could we discuss the end of everything you’re warning us of?’
‘This is where it gets tricky,’ said Macros. ‘Because as vast as the universe is …’ He waved his hand.
‘The Garden!’ said Pug.
‘Where we, you, I and Tomas watched creation.’
‘You witnessed creation?’ asked Nakor.
‘A metaphor,’ said Macros, ‘because the next step on the journey concerns perception.’ He looked at Miranda.
‘What Piper showed me,’ said Miranda. ‘Perspective.’
‘There are things outside our perceptions, things we cannot see, hear, feel, smell, or taste, things we can only infer and speculate about. Here Tomas, Pug, and I were trapped in a time-reversal spell of inordinate power.’ Macros smiled at the memory. ‘And a very pleasant dragon was with us, I almost forgot.’
‘Ryath,’ said Pug. ‘She was very pleasant.’ Then his eyes widened and he said, ‘She flew us to this garden.’
‘Yes?’ said Macros, tilting his head as if waiting to hear something else.
‘Through rift space.’
Macros nodded. ‘Dragons can fly through the void.’
Nakor said, ‘I never knew.’
‘Few do. Dragons don’t think about it. They just do it. But because they can, we have one of the keys to saving the universe.’
‘What are the other keys?’ asked Magnus.
‘Come with me and find out,’ said Macros, waving his hand again.
Suddenly they rose up out of the Garden, an impossibly beautiful floating parkland, and started moving toward a growing image of buildings, walkways, palaces, and parks. The cityscape seemed to roll out before them as if unfolding itself little by little for them to assimilate.
They touched down in a massive, but empty, boulevard.
‘The City Forever,’ said Pug.
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN •
Northlands
THE BROTHERS REINED IN THEIR HORSES.
Neither Laromendis or Gulamendis had ridden in their lives and their accelerated education had begun when the elves of Elvandar got them safely to their borders near the Lake of the Sky.
There was a trading post at the southern end of the lake where it emptied into the River Boundary, and from the first thaw of spring until the first snows of winter it was relatively active. Dwarves from Stone Mountain to the north, elves from Elvandar, humans from Yabon to the south-east, and renegades who lived in the northlands, all traded at the post. Originally operated by a trader from Natal, it had changed hands and names several times – currently it was Bram’s Post – but to everyone in the region it would always be Sky Post. There the elves from E’bar traded for two stout horses, tack, and trail goods. A man named Smiley gave the brothers a half-day’s instruction on the care and feeding of the animals. Fortunately the elven brothers had very good memories, because the man was loath to repeat himself and went through the subject of care and riding quickly.
Still, the brothers did their best and after two very uncomfortable days managed to get the hang of staying in the saddle, not being in constant pain, and keeping the animals going where they wanted them to go. They became adept at saddling and unsaddling, curry-combing coats and picking hooves, though neither was entirely sure what they were looking for when they inspected the legs at the end of a long ride. Gulamendis finally decided that they should only concern themselves if something in the afternoon looked different than it had in the morning.
After riding for another four days, they reached the Inclindel Gap. Patrolled by a garrison out of Yabon
, it had been neglected since the muster had taken most of the Yabonese fighting men south. A few Hadati villages nearby posed a threat for any moredhel moving south in strength, but two lone horsemen, despite being very tall elves, hardly warranted a second glance.
After negotiating a ford north of Lake Isbandia, they found the route to the town of Harlech. Of the four towns in the Northlands, Harlech was the largest. Barely more than a large village by Kingdom standards, it was big enough to boast four inns, several stores, a bakery, and two blacksmiths.
A large sign was posted at the southern entrance to the town in half a dozen different scripts. Gulamendis reined in. ‘What do you think it says?’
Laromendis said, ‘Given our surroundings, I’m certain it’s some sort of warning, telling us to behave ourselves in case we run afoul of whatever passes for the local constabulary here.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then cast an enchantment.
‘Ah,’ said his brother. ‘I forgot you could do that.’
Suddenly the sign appeared to be written in the language of the taredhel, repeated six times. Gulamendis read aloud, ‘Entering Harlech.’
‘I believe it’s pronounced “Har-leech”.’
‘Leech, lech? What does it matter?’ He resumed reading. ‘Entering Harlech. Cross the line and you are peace-bound. Breaking the peace will result in fine, imprisonment, slavery, or death. Town Council of Harlech.’
‘They’re certainly generous in warning strangers,’ commented Laromendis.
They rode into the town. A group of moredhel, leading pack animals, were obviously on their way out of town. Several cast a glance at the two Star Elves, but none acknowledged them. There were two humans working a forge and they paused in their labours to gawk, as no taredhel had ever entered Harlech before.
A small band of odd-looking creatures stood in a knot at one corner, deep in discussion. They were poorly dressed in ragged tunics and trousers, but heavily armed. Their faces were roughly human- or elf-like, with two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but their ears were pointed, their fang tips showed even when their mouths were closed, their faces were dominated by a heavy brow-ridge, their hair was black and coarse, and their skin was a bluish-green. ‘Goblins,’ said Laromendis. ‘I’ve heard about them.’
They rode until they found an inn with the sign of an animal painted bright silver hanging over the entrance. ‘This must be the Silver Otter,’ said Gulamendis.
Neither of them had ever seen an otter, but the likelihood of two taverns in the town having silver animals on their signs was remote.
The inn was crowded. Gulamendis and Laromendis entered the room, shaking off the dust of the long ride. A dozen humans and two dwarves occupied the four tables, so the two Star Elves crossed to the bar. The barman was a scarred, heavy-set man holding a heavy cudgel, appearing ready for anything. ‘Something to drink?’
The door opened and a moredhel warrior entered the inn, looked around, and went to the far end of the bar.
Uncertain as to what to say, Gulamendis nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘What?’ asked the barman.
‘I said, yes, I’d like something to drink.’
‘I mean, what do you want to drink?’
‘Oh,’ Gulamendis looked at his brother. ‘What are we drinking?’
‘Wine?’
‘Don’t have any,’ said the bartender. ‘Word is, all the wine from the south has been bought up, so we got ale and spirits.’
‘Ale, then,’ said Laromendis.
A few moments later, two large pewter jacks of ale were put on the bar. ‘Ten coppers,’ said the barman.
The brothers exchanged looks. They had spent all their gold on the two horses, certain they were being taken advantage of by the trader at the Sky Post, but as the elves with them also had little experience with Kingdom coin, they had paid his price. Laromendis nodded, closed his eyes and moved his fingers across the bar. The barman scooped up something, dumped them in his pouch and moved off. The brothers drank and Laromendis said, ‘This is good.’
‘Yes,’ agreed his brother.
The moredhel who had been standing quietly at the end of the bar moved down to stand beside them and said something in a language neither understood. Seeing incomprehension on their faces, he switched to another dialect of the elven language. ‘Forgive me, but I’m not used to speaking to outlanders. I said, you’d better drink up before the barman realizes his purse is light ten coppers.’
‘You saw that?’ asked Gulamendis.
Nodding, the moredhel said, ‘I was sent to find you.’
‘Us?’
‘Unless there are more of the Star People wandering around Harlech, then yes, I was sent to find you two.’
‘By whom?’ asked Laromendis.
‘My clan leader. I am Chovech of the Hamandien, a Snow Leopard. My leader is Liallan. She sent me here a week ago. I was told to wait until two of the taredhel arrived in Harlech, then to bring them to her camp.’
‘How did she know we were coming?’
‘She is Liallan.’ Chovech inclined his head toward the barman, who was hefting his pouch. ‘Come.’
They followed him outside and saw that a third horse had been tied next to theirs. ‘Follow,’ said Chovech. ‘Our camp is just a few days north of here.’
The brothers remounted and exchanged a look that said they feared they would never again sleep in a bed.
Three days they rode, past cascading waters from the hills, up into the forested foothills north of the grasslands, then into the thicker growth that abounded at the foot of the peaks known simply as the Great Northern Mountains. While the taredhel could be considered reticent by human standards, the moredhel guide was close to being a mute. He ignored the brothers as they shared their wonder at discovering new things wherever they looked.
Laromendis had visited Midkemia as an advance scout for his people and had been the one to identify it as the ancient home of the elves, so he had travelled within the Kingdom and to the cities of men. Even so, much of what he saw struck him with wonder.
After a generation of fighting demons across the stars, watching entire planets destroyed by magic, steel, and fire, the sight of the pristine beauty of the Northlands moved both brothers. The only other time they had felt this awe had been on their visits to Elvandar, but here was a different kind of wonder – nature without even the elves’ touch. They marvelled at majestic elk and herds of deer, a massive brown bear, and in the distance, sunning himself on a rock one afternoon, a northern lion, his copper-red mane looking like flame in the sun. The eagles and hawks that soared overhead were icons of freedom and beauty.
The third night, they found a camp of moredhel, a band of hunters from a clan Chovech called ‘Thunder Buffalo’, who offered them a place at their fire. Like Chovech, these Dark Elves were taciturn around strangers, though they did appear curious about their distant cousins from the stars. Chovech spoke little, but occasionally he would volunteer an observation. Before going to sleep the third night, he said, ‘They’re curious how two men, so big and apparently powerful, have delicate hands like women.’
The brothers took the remark in silence, glancing at one another. Just before falling asleep, Laromendis whispered, ‘Well, we are among primitives.’
The fourth day found them arriving at a recently erected palisade of wood. ‘Here we are,’ said Chovech, leading them through the gate. ‘The Hamandien. We are the Snow Leopards.’
The brothers were impressed by the size of the community. There were easily fifty tents behind the palisade. A very large tent of stitched hides stood in a small clearing, and before it was a forge where a smith was working iron.
‘Where is Liallan?’
Chovech pointed up a gully where a rough path had been pounded out by horses’ hooves. ‘That way. You ride for maybe half a day, then if you get lost, ask.’
The guide obviously saw his work as finished, so the brothers started up the gully. When they reached the peak, they stopped. ‘Gods of the stars
,’ said Gulamendis.
‘Indeed,’ said his brother.
Arrayed below in a shallow valley were at least three hundred more tents. ‘There’s a lot of them, aren’t there?’
‘This is one clan?’ asked Laromendis.
‘I don’t think we’ll have trouble finding this Liallan,’ said Gulamendis, pointing to a huge pavilion on a rise overlooking the camp.
His brother nodded and they set off.
The ride would have been shorter had there been a direct route, but it was nearly sundown before they arrived before Lillian’s pavilion. When they reined in before it, a pair of guards looked at them with an unspoken question.
‘I think we are expected,’ said Gulamendis. They dismounted.
One of the guards vanished inside and returned five minutes later. He held open a large flap and they entered. The pavilion was sprawling, several big tents placed together and divided one from another by curtains. The exterior was like the rest, of overlapping leather hides fitted around the tent poles, but the interior was opulent, to the tastes of the taredhel. Beneath their feet were colourful woollen rugs and heavy furs to keep at bay the chill of the ground below.
A woman stood waiting, and both brothers recognized the authority with which she carried herself. They were forced to crouch slightly, given their height, but they executed full bows before the mistress of the Snow Leopards.
‘Welcome,’ she said in a voice that was soft and melodic.
She motioned for them to sit and she sat in one elegant motion. The brothers glanced at one another. This woman was no primitive. She would have blended in with the most murderous politics of the Regent’s Meet, if it still existed.
‘Your coming was foretold,’ she said. A pair of servants, young moredhel women, appeared and trays of food were placed before the brothers. Prince Calin had told them of moredhel hospitality, so each took a delicacy from the trays and ate. It was a welcoming gesture that guaranteed their safety so long as they were under Lillian’s roof.
‘Then you know our reason for being here?’ asked Laromendis.
‘No,’ answered Liallan. All elves looked young until the last forty or fifty years of their life, so she was obviously old by elven standards, for there were tiny lines around her eyes and the edges of her mouth. Her raven hair had a hint of grey at the temples, but her body still looked slender and fit in her red woollen trousers, blouse of fine cream silk, and black leather vest. Both brothers drew the same conclusion: that she could at will be stunningly seductive or efficiently murderous. She smiled and said, ‘I only knew you were coming. Now, tell me why.’