Serenity

[Zadown]

Prologue

 

I have seen this dream before.

 

A crimson sky was above him, made of still flames, narrow grey clouds hanging below it. The clouds ignored the wailing wind that blew past the tall metal towers and whipped the chaotic, multi-colored sea – purple, blue, red and yellow all mixed together, their hues vivid and deep. The powerful wind keened when it hit the tattered, torn towers, the sound rich and varied, not the thin, disappearing keen of a desolate winter wind.

 

He was different, here. His skin was less pale and completely unscarred, his hair brown, eyes green. Clad in silk and satin, all black, the sheathed Beneficial Dragon strapped to his belt. Not knowing why, he raised his hands up in a wide gesture of benediction before glancing down.

 

He was standing on top of the highest of the worn metal towers. Far below him cruel, twisted spikes jutted from the chaotic sea, each adorned with one or several trashing corpses, their wounds too grievous for them to live but their motions clearly not the work of the violent wind alone. The view was ghastly, but he felt oddly disconnected from it, despite the fact it seemed at the same time very familiar, something that was part of him in some hard to describe way. He lowered his arms and shaded his eyes with his freed right hand to see further away, beyond this ruined but beautiful decaying and tortured city.

 

Lances of red light rained down from the crimson sky, altering the already surreal landscape with the patterns of light and dark, shadows and reflected red glow they created. He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the phenomena, to see past it, but without much success.

 

... wait, why am I even dreaming, now? The very last thing I want is another shard.

 

His thoughts had no impact on the dream. It pushed him upwards to the effortless and surreal dream flight, the tormented landscape below him fading and making way to a new view. He was suspended above a lush if odd forest, the tall trees twisting upwards in a manner that reminded him of the rusty, horn-shaped spikes he had seen earlier. These trees had no crowns of corpses, however, just thick, wide leaves. A sense of calm peacefulness washed over him and he let himself descend slowly to the middle of a small glade.

 

That did not last long before a wave of unease washed through him.

 

It was all breaking down – the things he saw were blurred shapes, identified more through his dream-sense of what he should be seeing than their visual form. All the motions were jerky like a cheap illusion, even his own self-image starting to detoriate into an indistinct shade. When he raised his gaze, his back to the city of rust, he saw that the dreamscape was vanishing in front of him so completely there was only bright, empty whiteness left, whiteness spattered by bright red smears. The trees and lesser plants twisted into nightmarish shapes, appearing one vanishing moment as thorny, corrupted versions of themselves before being eaten by the spreading emptiness.

 

Enough!

[Zadown]

Enough!

 

The Dreamer snarled wordlessly after his shout and stood up, drawing Pain without a thought. He was still wearing his scale mail and the gauntlets of grey metal, his eyes burning with a yellow fire. In front of him he saw the shard that had tried to drain so much of him and paused, feeling so intense wariness it might well been fear.

 

The thing was a pulsing shadow, a creature of darkness and gloom with a few unflickering parts that jutted out of the dark central mass like sticks out of some child's mud statue. Its large maw was filled with sharp, misshaped teeth that would have made a crocodile proud and its elongated paws bristled with long, gleaming claws. It was an eerie juxtaposition of physical threat and ethereal presence, a slowly yet surely strengthening aura of supernatural terror obscuring its precise nature. Having drained far more of his essence than any of the previous shards, even any of the archmages, it was already a powerful thing. It shrouded the whole room with an ambiance of doom, fledgling spectres which acted out the planewalker's worst fears waking up inside the shroud. The new shard bellowed in defiance and challenge, a terrifying birth-shout of raw animal rage.

 

A grimace rearranged the various scars writing on the Dreamer's face. The planewalker growled in distaste, the fading clutches of the dream robbing him of words to express himself, before he roared aloud the runes of the first destructive spell that came to his mind. A bolt of crimson and black hellfire connected the progenitor and the shard with a short-lived umbilical cord before the abomination that had clawed its way out of his head exploded into ash and pieces of shredded spirit.

 

The preternatural shadows turned shallower and the cloud of mad, dark rage that had hung in the air dispersed, impossible to notice before it was gone. Still grimacing, eyes darkening at the same rate the room turned from a demiplane of terror to its old, dusty self, the Dreamer stared at the scattered, charred remains of the dead shard. His eyes narrowed, almost black now, reflecting the fact he was draining back all that he had almost lost, all the darkness and gloom that had created the creature swirling on the surface of his mind.

 

That was careless of me, even if I am wounded seriously. Perhaps I should find a way to finally kill that last piece of dream god's essence deep inside me.

 

Perhaps, indeed.

[Zadown]

The whole town was suffused with bright summer sunlight, making the bright colors of merchant house banners glow and giving the view an almost unreal clarity. Most of the houses in this corner of the town were two-storeyed, made of wood and stone – big, impressive buildings for the rich lords of the merchant class, each of them surrounded by a yard or garden, the wealth evident in that as well. Trees grew here and there, all of them a particular species that had so light grey bark it was almost white, their trunks thick, short and twisted, their light green leaves rustling with a soothing sound even in the barely perceptible afternoon breeze. Not many people were about, the oppressive heat keeping locals indoors during these hours near noon. Some children played in the shadows the trees provided, servants wearing light colors watching over them. One or two of the biggest houses had a guard standing under a canopy, their cuir bouilli armor making them sweat profusely while they stood in attention.

 

One of the houses did not share the simple rectangular form of its neighbors – it was a squat tower, not much higher than the other buildings but so wide it seemed as a base for a taller structure rather than a finished house. Instead of flying one house banner like all the other merchant houses, this one had two different ones: the first one similar in design to the various other banners, a narrow wedge-shaped banner that had a black trade-sigil on a scarlet background, the other a short rectangular flag that had a stylished tree of brown and green on a white background, something written with black runes on both sides of the tree.

 

At the doorstep of this unusual house stood a young man in clothes similar to the ones the servants watching the children wore but of a better quality. He had a wide-brimmed white hat and thin, pale grey robes over black shirt and trousers. On his face he had a peculiar contraption made of wires and ruby-colored glass that hid his eyes, further making his already impassive face hard to read. In his left hand he held a smooth, short staff of white wood. He stared at the front door a long time, standing very still, before taking a short step forward and knocking it hesitantly.

 

A moment passed with no apparent reaction, then noise from the inside made it clear somebody had heard the knocking and was coming to open the door. The young man took a step backwards and put both of his hands on top of his staff to lean on it. Right then the door opened, revealing a young woman. She seemed as out of place here as the building and the odd banners, the bone structure of her face more delicate, her eyes narrower, her skin a different hue. She was beautiful, the two scars on her symmetrical, oval face old enough that a more merciful illumination would have concealed them easily. The woman's light summer clothes were alien as well, made out of the same fabric as everybody else's but the design was unique, the style barely a distant cousin to the general trends. There was no recognition on her face when she tilted her head upwards to talk to the stranger and her tone was neutral, devoid of both hostility and warmth when she spoke.

 

“Yes, what is it, Reverend? You should know by now we aren't too keen to see your kind here in the House Jalar.”

 

A wan smile appeared on the man's face and he removed the lenses that obscured his eyes. His revealed gaze was the deep, dark blue of untamed Astral, both immeasurable age and vast wisdom evident in it.

 

“Ye've forgotten yer ol' teacher so quickly, 'ave ye, Li'tl' Princess?”

 

“Uncle Dreamer! What ... what are you doing here?”

 

The shock made Jankiize's knees weak and she almost stumbled before recovering. On her face surprise reigned supreme, giving no other emotions any room. The Dreamer glanced downwards and tugged the brim of his wide hat to keep his unnatural eyes hidden.

 

“May I come in, first? 'Tis uncomfortable t' keep up this illusion, aye.”

 

“Oh. Of course, come on in, it must be hot out there.”

 

She blushed slightly right after she had let those inane words out of her mouth, still suffering the lingering after-effects of her shock. The smile on the Dreamer's illusionary face deepened a bit, turned wry, but he did not say anything when he stepped past his old student into the house. She glanced out to see if anybody had noticed their guest, then turned back to see the planewalker in his normal guise: tall, thin, pale and hideously scarred, his medium-length grey hair free of any bounds, wearing the same clothes as he had in his illusionary form sans the hat. Beneficial Dragon was hanging from his belt but Pain was nowhere to be seen, and there was some other quality in his attire that seemed wrong to Jankiize, something she had trouble putting her finger on. When he turned to admire their hallway and she could see his bare neck, it suddenly came to her: he was not wearing his wine-red, constantly changing chaos armor.

 

While Jankiize shut the front door, the Dreamer let his gaze travel over every little detail in the room, memorizing everything with peculiar intensity. He marked down the framed parchments telling the tales of ancient coups, deals so brilliant they were turned into long tales by now, the sturdy stairs leading upwards and the thick rail made of gleaming, polished wood. The two narrow windows on both sides of the front door were made of colored pieces of glass and thus the light they let in was yellow and brown, red and green, the harsh sunlight tamed into house trained, dim and gentle illumination. A door was half-open to some other room inside the tower with clear windows, the doorway spilling white light into the otherwise rather gloomy space. Guarding the sides of that door were two large vases, the left one holding various umbrellas made of wood and silk, the right one empty. There were two more doors, both small and camouflaged in such a way as to almost blend with the brown walls, over them a pair of old paintings depicting some caravans possibly linked to the tales of the framed parchments. She let him go through his inspection, not knowing why he did it but knowing better than to interrupt him when his attention was elsewhere. Jankiize felt nervous and clasped her hands together, feeling suddenly out of place in her own home, fearing what the Dreamer would perhaps say about the house and realizing how absurd such a feeling was at the same time.

 

The brown, small door to their left opened and an older man in simple clothes stepped through, looking already worried when he did so, the worry deepening when he saw the Dreamer's scarred, alien visage. He coughed softly and turned a questioning look at Jankiize, who felt slightly reassured by this reminder of her status as the mistress of the house. She signaled with a minimalistic hand gesture that everything was alright. A mild frown appeared on the man's face, but he shrugged almost imperceptibly and withdrew back through the door. The planewalker gave no signal of noticing this exchange at all, but shortly afterwards he nodded and turned back to face her. With relief she noted that his eyes were sparkling emerald green, glowing in the dusky room with verdant warmth.

 

“So ... you didn't tell why you are here, yet.”

 

“Ya, 'tis true, I didn't.”

 

A moment passed, and so friendly were the planewalker's shifting eyes she could return the unblinking scrutiny he gave her, the gaze lacking the usual unbearable strangeness of immortal age and Astral chill. She tried again.

 

“Could you tell me why, then?”

 

He nodded.

 

“One o' th' reasons I am 'ere, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua, 's th' fact I owe ye an apology for th' recent incident. So, I, Wodzan Xe Chanima, do apologize fo' usin' ye as a conduct for th' powers o' th' Grail slightly over a month ago – these words I speak o' my free will.”

 

The planewalker's face was utterly serious when he spoke, the words formal and grave as if he had been pronouncing an unbreakable oath. When he was done, he bowed low, not as to an equal but as a lesser lord to a greater one. She nodded back, not knowing what else to do.

 

“Oh, apology accepted. Did you come all this way for that, uncle? Not busy with the aftermath of the Grail Wars any more?”

 

A grin appeared on the Dreamer's face.

 

“Th' answers t' yer short questions are long an' complex, ya. Such tales are better told not standin' here in th' gloomy hall, would ye not agree, m'lady?”

 

“Yes, yes of course.”

 

She opened the heavy door to the combined dining room and kitchen, letting the bright sunlight invade the hall. Between them and the tall, colorless windows was a large round table made of wood that had been polished at some point but was now worn and dull. Six chairs surrounded it, their surface looking less suffered and more shiny, and a small vase full of scarlet flowers was sitting on top of it, near the middle. To the left was the kitchen, the oven and stove at the far corner of the oddly-shaped, almost round room, one row of worktops following the outer wall of the tower, another similarly curved row segregating the kitchen area from the dining area. A young woman wearing drab clothes, her hair hidden inside a headscarf, was baking something. The room smelled of spices and cooked meat, baked bread and the fragrance of flowers.

 

They sat down in silence. The planewalker dropped his hat and lat his scarred hands on the wooden table, the sickly color of his skin even more pronounced by the contrast. He studied his ward with eyes that were shifting back to Astral blue color. She glanced back, then averted her gaze slightly when she realized her old foster father was slightly detached from this world again, immersed in some memory or thought.

[Zadown]

Even though he had been ready for the sensation, he still shivered when he stepped in from the Astral. Where planes of low magic felt like a crushing weight falling down from great heights on his shoulders, a vise squeezing his head, this place was like stepping into a hot bath and getting quite drunk at the same time. Raw magic coursed through him, through his wards that manifested as an almost opaque sphere of emerald glass around him, through Pain which bloomed with black and purple flames of tormented souls, wailing with pleasure. Frowning at the cacophony, the Dreamer threw his blade away without even a glance towards the spot where it disappeared to the Astral. The distraction gone, wards fading to a more transparent shape by his gesture, he was able to spare a proper look at his new surroundings.

 

Behind him was the pearlescent planar wall, a short gap separating it and the stone pier he stood on. To his left, a massive ochre breakwater made of worked stone was half submerged in golden-red crashing waves of concentrated mana striking it violently yet silently, without reprieve – to his right, a road that lead forwards toward, then ended next to a stairway leading upwards, to the top of the pyramid. On the face of the pyramid, between the stone pier and the wide stairway, was a wide belt of tightly interwoven runes, the area they covered a perfect rectangle. Air hummed with energy, an electric but not entirely unpleasant sound.

 

“Who intrudessh!?”

 

The voice reminded him of a whisper with its softness, but it was loud and easy to heard. It ended in a fading sibilant note that joined the hum and was gone. The planewalker turned upwards to look at the top of the pyramid, even if it was impossible to see from his vantage point, and drew a deep breath, ready to raise his voice.

 

“'Tis but a visitor, m'lord Azkhael Raerzaven – will ye permit me t' approach?”

 

For a long time the only answer was the ambient hum. Then the soft, loud voice rang again, reluctantly.

 

“Come, then. I sshall shee you, thiss once.”

 

The Dreamer nodded to the empty air and quickly walked to the wide, steep stairs and started climbing them without hesistation. Midway, he paused momentarily and looked down to see the ocean of red-gold below him, the constant stream of raw magic crashing against the ochre stones of the building. There was nothing else to see inside this small demi-plane, so he resumed his climb.

 

The top of the pyramid was bare. Faint blue runes hung in the air, marking the storage locations of various treasures, but none of them were in sight. His back towards the planewalker, leaning limply against the parapet, was a lich. It was clad in tattered robes that still bore remains of extravagant richness, the bones that showed through the gaping holes translucent, almost ghostly. On its head was an iron crown: a simple, unadorned, not very thick band of black iron with spikes, one longer spike at front, shorter spikes at sparse intervals all over the band.

 

“M'lord?”

 

It turned its skull, the only part of its skeleton still looked wholly solid, and kept on turning it until it could stare the planewalker, something that would have been impossible to a living man. The skull was of a slightly dirty ivory color, the permeating light from the violent sea of mana illuminating even the depths of its eyes, the two red stars burning in them hard to see.

 

“Yesss? Have we met, planewalker?”

 

“Ya, m'lord Raerzaven. I was here a few hundred years ago, shortly after ye had this fortress built.”

 

The skull whirled back to a more natural position and the lich stood upright, turned to face the planewalker properly.

 

“Ah, yess, lord Chanima, here to see what happenss in the end. It may not come asss any great ssurprisse that we were wrong. If the corruption can be sstopped, it iss ssomething beyond my sskilss, even here.”

 

The Dreamer's eyes turned abruptly yellow.

 

“What yer sayin', m'lord, 's that I should be gone an' never t' return, ya?”

 

The lich grinned and tilted its head slightly.

 

“Yess, begone. BEGONE!”

 

The oppressively powerful ambient mana flow bent towards the now sneering lich, brilliant blue lightning encasing both of his spectral hands without any gesture or spoken spell.

 

Whatever happened next, he wasn't there to see it.

[Zadown]

“How are yer studies comin' along, m'lady?”

 

She blinked, lost in her own chaotic thoughts, not understanding the words she clearly heard.

 

“What?”

 

“Yer studies, m'lady.”

 

Jankiize turned back to see if the Dreamer's face held some hint to the reason of the question, but the scarred face was impassive, the eyes blue.

 

“My studies? I have quit them, uncle. I have no need for that kind of knowledge here, in my new life.”

 

Now the planewalker frowned, the scars dancing around his face like snakes ready to bite. Behind Jankiize, a muffled cry and the crash of a broken dish marked the baker finally seeing the visitor's terrible face, but they both ignored the noise. Jankiize made a soothing gesture but did not turn her head, held hypnotized by the darkening expression on the Dreamer's face like a rabbit staring in the open maw of a predator.

 

“Ye 'ave ... quit yer studies, m'lady? Do ye perchance know what 'appens if ye fail t' reach a certain point in them before a certain age, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua?”

 

“Do tell me, uncle.”

 

Her voice was not as terrified as her paralysis might have lead to expect, and her face hardened as she readied herself to argue against an immortal.

 

“Ye die, m'lady. If yer fortunate, that is. If ye cannot resist th' lure of th' Art when at Death's door, ye decay while yer soul's still bound t' yer rottin' body, an' ye go insane.”

 

His eyes were dark grey and his face held a look she had never before seen. She had to swallow before she could speak, but her voice held steady when she did.

 

“I know I will die, uncle. You may think we all desire immortality, but if that leads to being like you, I'll take my one and only life, thank you very much.”

 

The crack of the kitchen table splitting in two under the planewalker's fist was painfully loud. Jankiize shuddered and pushed her chair backwards, her eyes moist and her hands shaking, but the Dreamer barely noticed. Eyes like black holes stared from his white, ravaged face, and his voice fell to a low, cold whisper that only she could understand.

 

“Ye know nothing, mortal child! 'Tis not my immortality that shaped me thus, this is me! Yer path is different – none o' us immortals turn into anything because our extended existences, we merely become more of what we already are!”

 

He stood up, sneering at the now silently crying woman, his gestures violent.

 

“Do ye really think ye can escape what ye are, m'lady? Why is yer house round? A mage tower, hmm? How well do ye sleep with all that ambient mana flowin' through ya, unspent?”

 

The kitchen door slammed open and a young man in simple clothes of fine quality appeared there with a naked blade in his hand, a furious look on his face. He took one look at the scene and rushed towards the Dreamer, pointing at the planewalker with his curved sword.

 

“Move away from my wife, you fiend!”

 

An astonishing, swift change swept through the planewalker, clearing away all the signs of his rage. He turned his clear-blue gaze at the young man, made a gesture of peace and put on his colored lenses with his other hand. When he spoke his voice was softer than normal, almost alluring.

 

“My apologies, m'lord. I was urging m'lady t' continue 'er studies of th' Art, an' lost in th' argument act'd with too fiery a temper.”

 

Jankiize regained her composure with commendable alacrity, blew her nose on a handkerchief which she also used to surreptitiously to wipe away her few tears, and moved to stand next to her husband. He was wearing a puzzled mien, still holding the sword but pointing it downwards, and stared at her with a questioning look. She nodded, then made the introductions, her voice almost stable.

 

“M'lord Duke Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Lost Paths, may I introduce to you my husband, lord Melenar Jalar, head of the House Jalar. Melenar, this is my foster father I have spoken to you about.”

 

“Duke no more, m'lady. An' of th' Scales.”

 

The Dreamer smiled wanly to the young man, who seemed more confused after the introductions than before them.

 

“Love, you haven't told me much about your history at all. You could have warned your father is coming to visit so we could have prepared a proper welcoming.”

 

Melenar realized he had a sword in his hand and was embarrassed, waved it around. He was quite a lot taller than his wife, his hair and eyes brown and his skin tanned. Melenar's legs and arms were muscular and his build overall solid, almost stocky – he looked like a rich farmhand, but there was a glint of intellect in his eyes. He did not move with the graceful, wary motions of a warrior and the Dreamer's wan smile grew wider when he realized Jankiize must be by far better with a blade than her husband.

 

“She prefers t' call me 'er uncle, m'lord. Uncle Dreamer.”

 

Jankiize's face hardened again and she shook her head very slightly, telling the planewalker that long tales of her childhood would not be a wise idea.

 

“So, which art were you referring at earlier, sir Chanima? I was not aware she was interested in any of them expect cooking.”

 

The Dreamer grinned, showing his white teeth.

[Zadown]

The three of them were sitting in the living room, the remains of an afternoon tea on the small table in the middle of them. There was a half-glass of wine in front of the Dreamer, but his plate was clean. Jankiize had not eaten much either but had drank a few glasses of wine, Melenar eating enough for all three but taking only small sips of the almost black liquid. The small talk they had centered on the business transactions Melenar had had, the planewalker managing to almost sound like an interested mortal. He was still wearing his colored lenses, and his accent was still thick and alien, but Melenar showed no signs of being rude enough to ask questions about either detail or about the scars the planewalker bore. Jankiize hadn't said much beside some polite words after the introductions, her feeling of anxious unease flickering through her beautiful face whenever she thought nobody was watching.

 

“... and I must confess that particular caravan line has been less of a success I had hoped for. But, say, I hope you don't mind me asking what brings you here now, sir Chanima? Jankiize's due time is not in several months yet, you know?”

 

“Naw, I did not know.”

 

Something resembling a genuine smile appeared on the Dreamer's face as he shifted his gaze from Melenar to Jankiize and back.

 

“Congratulations! To easy birth an' healthy baby!”

 

He raised his glass and Melenar his, Jankiize joining the toast after a short pause when she had tried to find the familiar sarcasm from the planewalker's tone and failed. She smiled also, shaking loose some of the apprehension she had felt since the Dreamer had stepped into her home earlier today.

 

“Do ye still wear th' amulet I gave ya, m'lady? It may help even with th' rigors o' yer childbirth, though I'm no expert in those matters.”

 

“She never takes it off, heh, not even when ... never, that is.”

 

Melenar blushed slightly and a brief grin appeared on Jankiize's face, the grin fading when she looked directly at the Dreamer for the first time since their conversation in the kitchen. With her right hand she lifted the crystal amulet from inside her robes, holding it by the chain made of raw magic. The crystal turned this way and that, reflected and refracted the sunlight pouring through the big windows. The light bent around the runes, creating hundreds of minuscule rainbows that sparkled inside the crystal.

 

“I still wear it, yes.”

 

“Excuse me if I ask a stupid question, but what did you mean by it helping her? It's just a very well crafted piece of jewelry, is it not?”

 

“Ya, I suppose yer right. 'Tis nothin' but a pretty bauble, yet th' people where I come from do think th' inscrib'd lines of luck an' blessing on the crystal do make a difference. A superstition, if ye may.”

 

The planewalker grinned to his own private joke, sarcasm creeping into his tone.

 

“Where you come from, then? The design of those runes seems alien to me, and I fancy myself somewhat of an expert in the different scripts of this world.”

 

“Alien, ya.”

 

He nodded thoughtfully and examined his old work, leaning forward to see the runes better. Jankiize didn't seem to like the direction the conversation was heading, and she put the amulet back inside her robes, making the Dreamer first frown and then lean back.

 

“You must be tired after your very long journey, uncle. We have a spare guest room you can rest at, and we can talk again tomorrow before you leave.”

 

Her voice was exact, commanding, and even though her words made Melenar look at her questioningly and the Dreamer's frown deepen, neither contradicted her. The planewalker nodded to both of his hosts and stood, jostling the table loudly as he got up.

 

“Thank ye for yer hospitality so far, m'lady, m'lord – I shall withdraw t' my room to meditate, then. I hope ye go through what I said earlier, m'lady, an' look at th' wisdom they contain with unbias'd eyes.”

 

With his long stride he quickly disappeared after a servant towards the guest room.

[Zadown]

As soon as he managed to sit down in a lotus position, he sent his senses wandering outwards. He was not worrying about planar threats or plotting Chaos planewalkers as the tentacles of his perception slid through walls and encircled the whole house. What he wanted to do was to listen.

 

“... and you can't say I have not been tolerant of the fact you have no past, no allegiances to count on. I married you against the wishes of my relatives, as you know. But you can't say this uncle of yours is exactly a normal foster parent, can you? Can you blame me for asking about him, hmm?”

 

“No, no. You are right, but ... it's a tale I'd rather forget than tell. My past is nothing I'm proud about, but it will not interfere with our lives, Melenar.”

 

“You don't count this person appearing out of nowhere and breaking our kitchen table while encouraging you to continue pursuing some age-old art as 'interfering with our lives', then? Can't you see how confusing this all is to me, love?”

 

“Yes, and I'm sorry of it all. I'll send him away tomorrow, as soon as I can.”

 

“What art was he talking about in the first place? I wouldn't mind getting one definite answer – I feel like every one of my dozens of questions I've asked today has been deflected away, as if there was something too terrible to tell me in your history, Janki.”

 

“You really want to know about what Art I studied when I was young? You really want to know that, even if I plead you not to pry that information out of me?”

 

Silence.

 

“Yes, my love. Answer me this once, tell me what is so terrible about your history you can't share it with me as I've shared with you all of mine.”

 

“My 'uncle' Dreamer taught me ... magic. That is the Art he refers to, and that is what I've abandoned now that I'm here.”

 

“Magic? You are ... not joking?”

 

He felt the tiny tug on this plane's weak but still usable ambient magic, heard the soft whispered words pronounced perfectly as there had been no pause in the studies, no gap of years to bridge. It was one of the first cantrips any novice learned, a simple calling of minor light, conjuring of a mageflame. The Dreamer felt his face twist into a wry smile.

 

Rarely magic so faint has been used for so great an effect, I'd wager.

 

“That's only a minor trick, Melenar. I can do a lot more than this, if I want to. My father ... was a warmagus, and my mother a spirit-raiser, it is in my blood. This ... place doesn't have a very strong magical field, so ... I doubt there are any other wizards or mages or witches. I still can work my magic here, if I'd want to. But I wanted to leave that behind me, Melenar. I don't need any of this any more!”

 

“I ... see.”

 

Silence, again.

 

“I think I will go for a walk. I need to clear my head, think this out by myself.”

 

“I love you, Melenar.”

 

Soft sounds and sounds of opening and closing a door, then silence. Long, uninterrupted silence.

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

It was again a bright summer day, the coolness of the night giving in quickly to the rising heat of the day. A priest, or somebody clothed as one, stood at the doorsteps of the great House Jalar, the mistress of the House standing there talking to him. An unusual sight, after what had happened between the Jalars and the Faith, but people were used to unusual sights where she was concerned. Her voice was perhaps sad, perhaps relieved, it was hard to tell – his was deep and odd, the words coming out of his mouth mangled, somehow, even if nobody could understand the language the two spoke. Curious, that, that a priest would know the language of her distant home.

 

“There is something I'd like to ask you to do, a favor, if you could?”

 

“Ya, m'lady? Ye know what ye can ask o' me, neh?”

 

“Um. Could you ... could you send a servant of yours to bring me a few books, so I might continue my studies, uncle?”

 

The planewalker's eyes were hidden behind the colored lenses, and his face was impassive as always, his posture too rigid to tell anything. Jankiize could not tell if he was watching at her or through her, if he was lost in his thoughts or merely thinking what to say. Silence stretched longer, the soft murmur of background noises swirling past their immobile forms. Silence, peaceful, relaxing silence – and she felt a smile appearing on her face, a jubilant grin she didn't want to suppress. When he spoke, she knew the words before he said them.

 

“Ya, of course, Li'tl' Princess.”