“Really? Can you be so blind?” Ranie let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not even what I meant to get into. Look, I …” Ranie scooted to the edge of the bed and positioned her feet side by side. She pulled up her gown so that her right thigh was exposed all the way up to her hips. Her right leg had a number of cross scars. They were carefully aligned and in different stages of healing. The latest was possibly a day old.
“Ranie … why—what is this from?”
“No one knows the psychiatric reasons. They vary from person to person, and most of them are very unflattering.”
“Person to person?”
“It’s not as rare as one might think.” She lowered her gown. “It’s easier to describe physiologically. It’s like a reverse itch. You scratch an itch because your brain detects a discomfort in your body, such as an insect toxin or lack of circulation. Your brain gives an instruction to scratch to relieve the discomfort. With cutting, your brain is in discomfort, and you cut to relieve the discomfort in your brain.”
“Does it help?”
“Does scratching help?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes the itch comes right back. Sometimes it goes away. If you over-scratch or scratch off a scab, it can make things worse.”
“Sometimes people do things that only make sense to them. And some people deal with things better than others.” Ranie’s head was slumped. “How do you do it, Donnie?”
“Do what, Ranie?”
“Day in and day out, with everyone, explaining everything time and again, listening to idle chatter, petty bickering, insipid dribble about soccer tournaments and politics—this endless, moronic pandering?”
“I know what you mean, but I guess it doesn’t bother me as much as it does you. I don’t know. I make time to read. I vary my free time. When I am in a situation where I’m stuck waiting on someone to catch on, I make a game of figuring out what I can do to help them understand from their point of view. I don’t know if I do any good, but it helps pass the time.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love your sister to death, but sometimes it would just be nice to have a conversation that is two ways—to learn something from someone else. And I don’t mean to pick on her. It’s my professors, those other students … you must know what I mean.”
“I also spend time at the alchemist’s. Well, I used to before the assault of WaterCrescent. Maybe it was easier for me because I had access to everything, with my brother as the Castellan. I could delve into whatever caught my interest. Of course, you have something similar, being involved with the university. They’ve got to have some research you can get involved in. I mean something more than what your job requires, maybe something in a completely different area.”
“I have done something like that.” She turned toward Visor and looked up at him with soft eyes. “Why do you think we are like this, Donnie?”
“Who knows? Our diet as children? Maybe some fish that only grew around our farmstead. Maybe it was all the rounds of Enigma. Early exercise could help the brain develop the way muscles do.”
She smiled, sort of. “We did play that for hours. Our game. I’m glad you remember.”
Why are you surprised I’d remember Enigma?
“What do you remember about the weeks before you left for WaterCrescent?”
“It was pretty busy trying to pack things up—saying all the goodbyes.”
“I always thought, for such a long time, that you would send for me, or one of the times you came back, you would stay. Even when you started the binding to Rap, I figured it was just a matter of time—two or three years.” She placed her hands on his temples. She closed her eyes and leaned in.
Visor tensed.
Ranie opened her eyes and pulled back. “What is Rapture like? What does she feel like?”
“She’s fine.”
“Do you want to tell me about her? You can show me how you do things with her.” She moved his hand to her hip.
This was so awkward. Visor pinned her hand. “You are so brilliant. And you are young and pretty.”
Ranie’s expression transformed into a scowl. She jerked her hands back, stood up and turned away from him.
Visor stood and gently touched her shaking shoulders. “Ranie—”
She spoke in forced wheezes between silent sobs. “This would be so much … easier if you … would just let me hate you.”
“What would be easier?”
Ranie broke into sardonic laughter. She buried her face in her hands. “Banshee Mortel, that was so stupid. I could never play you. And it still doesn’t work.”
What?
She looked up at the ceiling and wiped tears from her eyes. “Dammit, Donnie ... Advisor to Mourning, Rescuer of Sirens, you are no longer a boy.”
“Some might disagree with you.”
“She suffers the torments of the AciesMagus and emerges without a single scar. I can’t even …” Ranie said something that was either mumbled or a language he didn’t know.
“Rap has a certain strength of character.”
“She has you.” Ranie composed herself and faced him. “I would like to—I need to show you my work.”
“Okay. Did you want to measure my intelligence?”
“Not that work.”
Chapter 49
Enigma
Visor and Ranie put on outer wear and made their way two doors down to Emily’s house of entertainment. It was cool outside in the wee morning hours. The warmth of Emily’s was comforting.
They interspersed a round of Enigma between other conversations to pass the time. Visor said, “Two hour glasses, calibrated to seven and four minutes, needing to measure nine minutes, how many turns would—”
“Three.” Emily’s first floor was a bar and grill. Ranie waived to a waitress. “Hello, Amanda. Nine toothpicks, how many equilateral triangles could—”
“Seven.” The two stopped at the top of the cellar stairs. It was only wide enough for one, and a young lady already coming up from below. Visor helped her off of the rickety stairs.
“Where have you been, cuttie-lover?” The lady smiled at him and brushed her hindquarters against him as she passed—her version of a ‘thank you’.
“Well, you’re very welcome”. Visor helped Ranie onto the stairs. “Same hour glass setup—how many turns would you need to prepare for a one-armed cartographer to measure the nine minutes?”
“Do you mean you can stop the sand flow by turning it on its side?”
“Yeah, sorry.” The cellar was a casino. A clear container that hung from the ceiling housed a brown snake with black stripes. It was probably a viper. Visor almost lost his footing on something wet at the base of the stairs.
“Three and a half. This is Maxon’s Game Room.” They navigated through Maxon’s game tables and distracted patrons. A decorated door in the back led to another section of the basement. It branched off to several private rooms. Ranie took Visor into one.
A woman with orange hair and too much pink makeup sat behind a desk. “Well good evening, Ranie.”
“Ryona.” Ranie nodded. “How’s business?”
“Well enough. We capped two thousand last night. Are you looking for some company tonight? For your friend?”
“Just passing through.”
Ryona took them to a sub-cellar storage room. She unlatched a door and held it for them to pass. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Ranie led the way into the sewers. “An alfanar, a vardal and an ogre, after traveling from their respective homes on a cold day, walk into a high end bar and order tea.”
“If this is a word play, you have to call it.”
“I know, Donnie. It’s not word play, there’s no extraneous information and it has a real answer. I just wish you remembered how we used to play.”
What do you mean by that?
“The sirenic bartender says that she has tea,
but they’ll have to use their own cups. They do, and exactly one of them ends up thanking the bartender twice. If you cross to the left side, you can avoid—”
Visor’s boot sank below the surface of the shallow water. There was a hole in the concrete, and something squishy was in the hole.
Ranie said, “That.”
“Well, it is a sewer.”
“And storm drain. Luckily, it rained yesterday. This is as fresh as it gets.” As he worked his boot free, she fluffed her hair and pulled locks forward over her shoulders. It hung over her chest to her lower abdomen. She turned into a side passage. “This way.” They passed by a bum that studied Visor intently. Ranie was unalarmed by the bum’s presence.
“The ogre.”
“There was a time, generations ago, when the Dodelige and White Heart competed for the religious affiliation of the people.”
“I thought it was my turn.”
“Imagine two religions with similar messages competing for followers, the tithes, and the support of the Symphonic Knights.”
“It seems most don’t believe the churches were so similar.”
“History is written by the victor. White Heart proved the more powerful—or at least the more aggressive. When the competition started in earnest, key members of the Dodelige had fatal ‘accidents’. Their facilities were looted and destroyed, and records lost. Their property was seized. The Dodelige was characterized as demonic and outlawed. That was used as an excuse to have a center of Dodelige scripture, the burned Silent Hands church, cordoned off. They call it the birth place of evil, vilifying Mortal Banshee in the process.
“The White Heart decided that a guarded fence was not enough. They built a mission, the Silent Oratory, over the Silent Hands church. They call it a mission, but the Oratory is a fortress in design and function. It is rumored that the Silent Hands church remains intact in the innermost sanctum of Oratory.
“It is vitally important to the White Heart to keep outsiders away from Silent Hands. The greatest threat to their power is the truth. Do you know the words of Wescott’s prediction of Uncreation?”
Visor said, “The predictions aren’t clearly documented. I understand it is something like ‘How will Mortal Banshee end the world?’”
“Exactly—it is not publicly documented. If the predictions were all documented together, even an ogre could see the contradictions.”
“Such as?”
“The prediction of Uncreation is numerated as the third Banshee prediction. What is the first prediction?”
“The prediction of Conception.”
“Which answers what?”
“Well, the question is not clear, but it describes the circumstances of the Mortal Banshee’s birth.”
“Wescott was initially commissioned to determine the fate of Mortal Banshee. Her body was never confirmed found, even though it was widely assumed she died in the fire. Why would Wescott ask how Mortal Banshee was born?”
“I guess that doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. He first asked exactly what any reasonable oracle would: ‘How did Mortal Banshee die?’ Since she hadn’t died, the prediction answered how she would likely die. That is Uncreation. Conception; Immortality; Uncreation; Demise—that is the White Heart enumeration of Mortal Banshee predictions. The real order was Uncreation; Immortality; Conception; Demise; Deception.”
“Deception?”
“It isn’t included as a prediction of Mortal Banshee because it basically just confirms Demise. It also wasn’t by Wescott.”
“I do agree that the White Heart Enumeration is not in the order of Wescott’s asking. The predictions just aren’t that well documented, at least that I’ve seen.”
“So whatever the White Heart says is the truth.”
They came to a wooden door. It was water damaged but solid.
Another bum sat across from the door. He was more conspicuous than the first. He stood at their approach and regarded Visor warily. He slipped a hand inside his vest, apparently gripping something solid.
Ranie said, “Pale Siren crosses the Aurora Bridge to the Solar Sea. This is Visor.” Ranie leaned toward Visor. “I do a lot of research for the Dodelige and they are used to my face.”
“One might recognize your hair as well.”
The bum looked Visor up and down, moved to the door and knocked. A slot opened, some words were exchanged, and a heavy latch was moved on the other side. Once past the door, Ranie took them to a vestibule where they changed into dry, matching robes and slippers.
Visor said, “It sounds like White Heart numbered the predictions in chronological order. I agree that it’s inaccurate, but I don’t think that necessary means they are trying to hide something.
Ranie led him up some stairs into a warehouse. “The words of Uncreation were something like ‘How did the Mortal Banshee die?’ It was perverted by the White Heart into ‘How does the Mortal Banshee destroy the world?’”
“But isn’t the end result the same? I mean, if she dies in the process of destroying the world, who cares?”
“But she doesn’t destroy it! She uncreates it. It’s completely different.” Ranie led him to a roped-off display case. She held up the rope for him to pass under and gestured toward a scroll pressed behind a piece of glass. “See for yourself.”
Chapter 50
Uncreation
Visor read:
THE ACCOUNT. Herein lies my account of the sale of the Ring of Uncreation, the receptacle of Wescott’s Prophecy of Uncreation. Common belief is that the recording was effected from the question “How did the Mortal Banshee die?”
THE TRANSCRIPT. My view was obstructed because my viewing was not authorized. I could hear the recording clearly. I believe my record of the words to be accurate. I produced my first draft of the writing minutes after witnessing the projection. I trust my recollection, as this made quite the impression on me.
THE RING. The receptacle appeared to be a ring. The ring had a large, blue gemstone, surrounded by smaller gemstones. The blue gemstone was lightly colored—perhaps a blue diamond, aquamarine or sapphire. The ring setting appeared to be platinum. An artist sketch is attached.
THE ACTORS. I was only aware of myself, Wescott, the buyer, and an unseen creature. The buyer was a woman of no more than average build. Her face was obscured by clothing and dim lighting. I had a friend draw the attached sketch. I suppose the unseen creature to be a large tiger or lion based on the sounds I heard.
THE CONSIDERATION. The buyer paid with coins and a collection of a few dozen figurines. One was a white horse miniature, which I was able to view intimately at a later date. It had two horns. The workmanship was remarkable. The clay was put into the kiln with davits around the collar, horns, hooves, and saddle. Some of the davits were filled with gems in various setting material. A painting is attached.
THE ACTIVATION. I don’t know how they were able to project the receptacle’s image. It appeared only the buyer touched the Ring. There may well have been a hidden pixie, given my obstructed view.
THE RECORDING. A lone figure in very fine, if not bridal, clothing knelt on the crest of a muddy hill. The sky was dark and filled with rain. The land was featureless and the ground was only gray mud. The figure had long hair soaked from the rain. Lacking lighting and terrain reference, I am unable determine the figure’s gender or race visually. The voice pitch and content of the message identifies the speaker as female.
“Galron Mettleheart, Paladin of Bahamut, Lord and Master of the Amaranthine Alliance and Protector of the Same, and My Immortal Beloved,
I speak to you as the world dies all around. That which we nurtured all the years of our life together has been twisted and corrupted since your passing. And now, at the end of all things, I am alone. It is left to me to pay the price.
[Lightning flashed. Because of the rain and unreflective gray mud, I could only d
etermine that her outer clothing was not brightly colored. Perhaps it was some shade of blue or gray.]
Our Union, peerless and invincible, was forged in the infernal flames of Belial’s layer. The demon lord created a reality breech, and through it, invaded our world. You and I were chosen to lead the counter attack. During our incursion, we were hunted relentlessly by hoardlings of the Fourth Layer. To survive in the midst of the tempest, we were forced to drop our mutual defenses and rely on each other’s strength. It was utterly impossible, a palad- [Thunder masked several seconds of verbiage] – is the truth. It was in the stillness on the Eve before the Final Assault on the palace of Belial that I stared into your eyes so blue, and you whispered the words so sacred, “Marry me, Sparkling Angel of Gray".
And together we vanquished the Lord of the Fourth and returned to Esselin to marry. Our Union rippled throughout the populace to unite the races in a lasting peace. As gods, we reshaped the world to our will. It was orderly. It was good.
But your reign was too short. Without you, the Alliance fractured. Vardal and nymph turned against alfanar. The race of alfanar was lost. Without her caretakers, Mother Earth herself began to die.
I was lost in arrogance, and lost your legacy: the Alliance, our ch- [Thunder]. I once said that I would trade the world for you, and as fate would have it, that has become reality. But it cannot be this way. And therefore, I must undo the best and only purely good thing that happened in my life. I speak these words of Uncreation, and send them across reality to undo what was once done. Our Union shall never be.
With all the love that is left in the wor- [Thunder] -nd your Sparkling Angel of Gray”
Visor said, “So the Uncreation saves the world.”
Ranie said, “Mortal Banshee sacrifices her own happiness to save the world.”
“She’s talking to someone in her past—Mettleheart. Do you know who that is?”
“We haven’t been able to figure that out yet. We have made inquiries at the paladin hood.”
“Presumably, this prediction did not take place in Wescott’s time. For an alliance to be formed, Mettleheart to die, and the alliance to fail, and an epic war to finish—that would be many years, probably generations.”