Talystasia stands divided. An ancient wall runs down the city’s center, and for centuries, the Lorens and Telyras have vied for dominance. But their endless feud is not the only schism that runs through these pages. Here, loyalties are fractured and hearts and minds are divided. Will Andreas Telyra and Roselia Loren triumph on the war grounds within, or will they succumb to the cycle of violence and spiral even deeper into the dark?
~~*~~
~~*~~
I: Andreas
The ground was slippery and soft
with mud. Droplets of dirty rainfall
hung from Seleda's mane like feeble diamonds, mesmerizing in the forest
gloom.
She stopped, mud welling around
her hooves, ears pricked in apprehension.
There was a tenseness in her muscles, a quietness in her demeanour. Someone or something unexpected was here.
Andreas glanced back through the
brush, the chill seeping into his bones.
In the deepening dusk, he could make out faint patches of the road
between the trees. But the path was
empty, as were the woods, the silence broken only by the mournful calls of
evening doves.
Before him was a clearing,
verdant grasses bent flat by rainwater, a few stray twigs littering the
ground. A dull grey glow poured in from
overhead. The air was saturated with the damp scent of tree sap and the last of
the wintergreens and lilacs.
"We've ridden past here
thousands of times. So what is it? One of Loren’s brutes?” He laughed softly, stroking Seleda’s sorrel
mane. “We’ll spill his blood and make
him disappear."
Descending the shallow slope, he
dismounted at the trickling stream in the gully, his eyes on the trees. Lowering himself to the ground, he crossed
his legs, picking at a piece of grass.
Whatever it was that had Seleda
vexed, it could only be a soldier, a civilian, or an animal … or likely as not,
nothing. Give it half an hour or so and
things back in the city would quiet down for the night.
Then he could go home.
Yet the still paths of the
forest felt more like home than the citadel ever would. There were nights he didn’t want to go back
at all, that were fraught with unseen dangers. Here there was tranquillity,
however fleeting.
The faintest rustle broke his
reverie, and his eyes riveted to the undergrowth across the stream. Rising to his feet, he shook off a spell of
dizziness and fingered the cold hilt of his sword.
Seleda gulped softly. When he lifted his hand to her flank to
steady her, his fingers met with motionless muscle. He allowed himself a slight smile at her composure. Relief was in order, but hardly: The woman materializing from the forest was
not an enemy, but neither was she human.
She was difficult to make out at
first. The fine mist of drizzle between
them was like a watery glass veil, and the woman a liquid sculpture behind
it. As she drew closer, he could see why
her outlines seemed so fluid: The rainwater
collecting on her skin was gliding over her body and into her pores. The details went hazy for a moment with lust:
only a thick, wild tangle of capillary vines tumbling over her shoulders like
hair obscured her nakedness. Her skin
was a creamy silver beryl—the living inner flesh of a tree without bark.
He stiffened, his blood coursing
faster—past the initial shock of encountering a dryad in the flesh, he saw only
a woman under the quicksilver. The
stream of rainwater shimmering over her belly and breasts only made her shine
all the more, outlining her in a liquid halo.
"Greetings, Lord Telyra of
Talystasia.”
Andreas shivered as her voice
filled the clearing like wind creaking through hollow branches, androgynous,
low and cold. It was a frightening old
voice, immediately deadening the magnetism of her flesh. Had she been human, he could have overpowered
her in an instant. But he knew
better. The nymph was as strong as an
oak, however supple she appeared, and could rip him limb for limb if she wished
it. If her savageness matched his own,
he’d never stand a chance. On the
incredibly rare occasions that one of her kind had appeared to him, they had
brought nothing but trouble.
Unease hollowing the pit of his
stomach, he bowed carefully at the waist, allowing the controlled movement to
steady him.
"Greetings, Emissary,"
he returned politely, for that was most certainly what she was. His voice sounded indistinct after the
resounding clap of her own, but his nerves were solid once more. He looked up, determinedly at her face and
not at her body. Her features, framed by
a flow of water seeping into the roots of her fibrous hair, were uncannily
human. Dark, full lips cracked open as she
approached him, her wide green eyes framed by curving brows.
"It's the forest," she
said urgently. "Please
listen."
"I'm listening," he
assured her, glancing up at the darkening sky.
The dryad's emerald eyes
narrowed unnervingly. "Let us
review geography.”
He didn't say anything.
"Your only real
jurisdiction is inside the walls of the eastern half of the city, on your side
of the Wall and the territorial dividing line.
This mountainside—and the surrounding countryside—is under joint
jurisdiction—or shall we say dispute—between you and Lord Loren with respect to
your truce."
"Not quite. It’s true that
is my only solid holding, but we do have a minimal division between our
territories outside the city walls. It's
all under dispute, come to that,
particularly the bit inside the walls.
The truce is a thin veneer. Loren
and I both know that. But it's not like
we're stealing each others' crops. Nor
is it like our borders are completely sealed.
And the truce …"
"The details of your
conflict do not concern us. Because of
your vendetta, no one will come near this place save the merchants to trade—and
mostly with Lord Loren, of course."
He would ignore this jab as best
he could, though his hand itched to slap her.
Thankfully she was out of reach.
"Your feud. It's not ... specifically the cause of our
distress. I’m trying to make you
understand what this is not about before I attempt to make you grasp what it is about. Human influence on the forest has always been
mostly negative, and you have protected us from much of that by making this
region so thorny, for which we are grateful and indebted."
"Not on purpose," he
said with a shrug.
"Ever the honest man, whatever
your other flaws. Of course, the fields
used to be forest too, before they were cultivated without consultation. But can we really fault you for the actions
of your ancestors?"
Could she?
He did often enough. The need to reach out and share the burden
that weighed on him was almost a physical ache.
And with this deceptively vulnerable woman in front of him—if she were a
woman—it wasn’t the only one.
Hell with this. He was hungry, and drained There were still the night’s reports to see
to. Still work to be done. He shifted from foot to foot, losing his
battle with the chill, as he was losing the war with his guilt.
"What," he asked
impatiently, "is the problem then?
Though ... if you really want to talk about flaws, we could begin with
your people sending emissaries undressed to discuss with me."
"Why does it trouble you
that we do not bother with your human coverings?"
"Because if you were human,
I'd take you for a woman of no virtue.
And I don't negotiate with whores."
She was quick. "Not a surprise, as no woman of virtue
would choose your company—at least from what I’ve heard."
He flinched, but then
smiled.
"Not choose, no. Choice however, doesn't count for a whole lot
in my world. Speaking of which—if I had
one, I'd not be standing around in the forest outside my city walls chatting,
while it's getting colder, and windier ..." he paused, feeling his tone
cast a shadow, "... and darker, by the minute. My enemies are on the prowl, because that's
my life. And while I could take down
five or six tonight, I'm not sure I could take down nine or ten. I’m tired."
"The problem is you,"
she cut in.
"What?" Andreas peered at her curiously. Her ancient eyes flashed at him, but there
was a surprising lack of blame in her voice.
"That is the purpose of
this meeting. We didn't think you were
exactly ... aware."
"No, I'm obviously
not. What are you talking about? I—or we? ... are a problem to you ...? Loren and I, or just me? You just stated our conflict is superfluous
to you."
She let out a raspy sigh, the
sound of dry leaves rustling.
"Your rationalizations,
your politics, the thorny details—those are superfluous, yes. They are surface
discourse only. Our complaint is about
something far more subtle and specific, underpinning all these things. Come here."
She outstretched her arm. Rain pooled in her upturned palm.
Stepping forward cautiously, he
met her at the bank.
"Look down
please."
He peered into the rushing
waters. At first his gaze met only muddy
green stream water, slimy with algae, but then he saw it—a discoloured, bloody
stain blooming sickly against the banks to deposit ugly crimson residue on the
creek stones.
The back of his neck crawled as
if a ghost had breathed on it.
“What is that?”
"Even our water is tainted
with blood," she answered with a trembling edge of fright. "No evil may touch the forest, Lord
Telyra."
Andreas tilted his head—he was
well aware of the Elder decree.
"You know I do my best to
keep fighting clear of the woods. I did
that even before I called the truce.
Hell, these past three years—"
She didn't respond.
"What then?"
"Do you not see the greater
import of this event?"
"Of ... blood in the
water?"
She nodded.
"I ..." He closed his eyes, but all he could see was
what it might mean for him.
He spent plenty of time looking
over his shoulder on these evening outings, but part of him trusted the shaky
ceasefire that held the violence at bay.
He assured himself time and again that his anxiety was merely force of
habit, and for three edgy years, that had held true.
And now this. Was this a soldier’s blood? Or perhaps a woman or a child—collateral
damage? Where was the body?
He held his head, reeling with
uncertainty.
We're in truce ...
"Lord Telyra?" she
queried.
"A naiad?" he
hazarded, returning to her concerns.
"That stream isn't just a stream, right? It is also an Elder’s body, and now she is
sick because some human’s blood has tainted her circulation." He broke off, his patience dissolving. “Whose blood is that?”
And why for fuck’s sake wasn’t
it diluted? It was unnatural, the way it
was coagulating there against the rocks.
"The soul affected is
struggling to wash the poison from her body. Fortunately this is just a finger,
as you’d see it—she is also the soul of the Ganea River
and its three tributaries. That blood
came from a citizen of Lord Loren's."
"Will she
survive?"
"Yes. Her system is strong, and if necessary, the
stream could be … let’s say ‘amputated.’
But there are not many of us left."
"There's something about
this I'm not getting. Tell me. The Elder world … your world … is as alien to
me as mine is to you."
"No evil may touch the
forest," she repeated, this time more emphatically.
He didn’t respond. He just stared at her blankly.
"That isn't just an axiom,”
she elucidated. “It's ... the
truth."
"I'm ... not sure I get
you."
"Evil has never penetrated
this forest before. Ever. In the entire history of the world."
Andreas stared at her and then
started to laugh. "Plenty of evil
touches the forest! Not this one so
much, maybe—as you said, foreigners avoid the place—between the bloodshed and
the tragic weather, I sure as hell would.
And we have our conservation agreement to preserve the hillside. But outside our borders, many, many of you
are slaughtered."
"But Lord Telyra—you must
understand that we aren't talking about pollution, or lumberjacks, or hunters,
or dams on rivers. We aren't even
talking about a direct attack on us. We’re
talking about collateral damage. And you
are entirely missing the subtle distinction I am trying so hard to make. That truth about evil is specific, and now it
is being violated, here. Blood from animals and natural events and
even human aggression enters our streams all the time; it doesn't make us sick. You see that, don’t you …? In spite of your best efforts, many men and
women have died here, not to mention the countless numbers who were killed
before you assumed power or were even born.
What differs and what matters here is what lies behind the murder—” she
knitted her brow— “more specifically, the way it’s changing.”
Murder. There it was.
"You're more concerned
about our treatment of each other than our relationship with you? What happened here—?"
"It is ... the thing that
drives your violence that concerns us. I
am not talking about your politics. None
of that matters, and you are a fool if you believe that it does. I am talking about something else
altogether. If I were to write this down
in your hand … I would capitalize Evil.
A very particular Evil."
Andreas assumed an immediate
stubborn silence, his frustration with her ambiguity overset by a wave of
hatred—and shock. Shock that another
living being should mention it to him, this burden he lived with alone.
"You know very well what
I'm speaking of." Her mouth quirked
with grim acknowledgement, her eyes drifting to his brow. “And even you must know that the unusual
situation which afflicts your city should have been unsustainable over such a
long time, were it just an ordinary war.
Generations of conflict, and no resolution, no fundamental change, in
such a small territory? Beggars belief,
doesn’t it.”
He eyed her defiantly, but
already knew there was no stopping her.
Why shouldn’t I want her to talk about it? At least someone bloody acknowledges it. She may be the only one aside from
Rizaq. So why shouldn’t I?
… Because it disgusts me.
Because I feel helpless.
"… Something is
interfering, keeping you on your present track, and if you try to veer off of
it, it will react. As it presumably has
many times since the foundation of Talystasia—subtly, imperceptibly perhaps—but
definitely. Your war involves more than
human forces, Lord Telyra. And I'm not
talking about Elder magic either, a dying power."
"It's not something I can
help, or stop. Believe me, I've tried, and I’m doubtless not the first. It exhausts me. More than the fighting, which is a positive
waste of time, money and lives. But I
really cannot stop it. I’ve tried—I’m
trying ….”
She was frowning, as if to say
she didn't believe him.
"Watch," he insisted,
and reached up to the circlet at his brow, feeling the ubiquitous cool metal
that forever encircled his head.
"I rarely take it
off," he explained. "For good
reason. Not because it's a status
symbol." Wrapping his hands around
the thin band, he tugged until it wrenched free.
Manoeuvring it was work; the
vile thing fought his every movement, jerking back toward his skull. Elbows bent with effort, he held it out in
front of him.
"I don't take it off ...
because it doesn't stay off. There’s
simply no point. Take it," he
grunted, and with a mighty heave, tossed it across the stream to the elemental.
No sooner did she reach out to
catch it than it eluded her and catapulted around. He knew it was coming back fast, so he braced
himself to catch it. Then he hurled it
as hard as he could downstream.
It vanished into the woods, but
he never allowed himself a moment's illusion.
He did however permit himself a deep, inadequate breath, savouring the
moment’s weightlessness, luxuriating in the gentle caress of the wind in his
hair, its coolness against his scalp.
He pointed to the underbrush,
where the intolerable thing emerged, gleaming faintly in the twilight. It cut a path upstream, bouncing lightly off
the rocks, singing with each contact, coming to rest at his feet, upright on
its curving side in brazen contempt for gravity. It was a simple, golden band about the width
of his index finger, dull where rain had oxidized it with irregular patterns of
rust. Picking it up, he replaced it
unenthusiastically on his head.
“I was told the story,” she said,
“of the time you tried to destroy it in the lake. That … hurt
as well, like an infection. But at that
time, we did not guess the connection.
Your circlet, like that blood, is poison to us. Maybe the same poison.”
"It demands to be on my
head at all times. If I try to abandon
it, sometimes it springs back to me; other times, it just sort of rolls back,
and follows me if I walk away. It didn't
take long for me to figure out that there’s no getting rid of the damn
thing. Though every now and again I
still chuck it over the city wall.” He
smiled pensively. “It always makes its
way back by morning. It’s just too depressing
to try. So I gave up. I won’t torture myself with a dream of
hope. I will live and die with this
monstrous thing on my head and the obligations it brings—which trust me, are no
less hideous.”
She gave a mortified little
laugh. "How do you sleep?" she
asked incredulously. “Doesn’t it get in
your way?”
He snorted. “It’s always in my way. I stow it under my pillow, once I’m far
enough gone. It's not like I'll be going
anywhere. It knows. Good thing I’m not a sleepwalker."
"If it was, as you
mentioned—a ‘mere status symbol’—it wouldn't be a problem that you and Lord
Loren each possess one. You—or your
parents, or grandparents before you … or any of your ancestors …”
“… Might have abandoned these
damnable things and united the two broken halves of our city and land under a
single ruler. That's right—but as you
see, they couldn't take them off.” He
paused, struggling for words to explain why there was no way out.
“They aren't symbols of
power—they're objects of power. Try defying something you can’t understand
and can’t control … and can’t get rid of.
We don't own them. They own
us. I can’t stop wearing this thing so
long as I’m alive. As far as I can tell,
that’s all it does—cling. Choose, and
cling. But believe me, that’s enough. Our ancestral war … well, human nature’s done
the rest.”
She nodded mutely, apparently
waiting for him to say more.
Did she care? Or was she merely curious? Did it even matter? It was someone to talk to, someone who wasn’t
looking to cast blame and call for destruction.
Nor was she looking to him for strength and guidance; what a relief.
“But still, why cling to us like
parasites all the time unless they’re
doing more than simply clinging? There’s
got to be more to it than that. Most of
their wearers have taken them to be some kind of mystical substantiation of
their sole right to rule and avenge their forebears, but that’s it. That’s enough for them. They don’t care why. They’ve passed that
myth down to their bloodthirsty progeny, where it’s gathered momentum with each
passing generation. It’s a recipe for
never-ending atrocity—and here’s me, born right into the middle of it.”
"We do not want them to
lord over our forest, Lord Telyra. And
however difficult your circumstances, we still find it hard to believe you can
find no solution to your
dilemma. We know that our people mean
little to you—that you keep us alive more out of obligation to history than out
of any love of our present being.”
“You’re wrong,” he cut in
sharply, “about that.”
“Am I?”
“I read once that the appearance
of an Elder changes depending on who is looking at her. That a man who loves nature will see a vision
of love—that another who despises nature will see something that disgusts him.”
“That is true. To your eyes I appear different than I would
to another.”
“You look a bit like someone I
know. A woman.”
“And what is that to you …?” she
chided. “Something to subjugate.”
Anger flared in him from the
soles of his feet, and he wanted more than ever to lunge at her, the heat in
his body burning against the cold night air.
You’re wrong.
She smiled a little, and
shrugged knowingly. “Never mind that …”
“—I am the last man in the
universe to suffer any voluntary
obligation to history. That, I trust,
you can believe, whatever else you insist about me. This city is my prison, and history is its
mortar. This truce is all I’ve been able
to do to stem the violence. I can’t stop
the flood, I can only hold it back as long as I can.”
“Your truce with Lord Loren
isn’t going to save any of us. We are at
a fulcrum.”
“What fulcrum?”
“There is old magic in us, Lord
Telyra—the only magic left in this world.
It used to be the dominant force, but its time has passed. It was strong enough that its truths were strong
in turn—but they are crumbling into the dust of the new world, as are we. That ... object you carry isn't magic. When I tell you that the force that
influences the situation of your city—and yourself—through those circlets—has
not interfered with us in this place in any observable way in all the centuries
of your families' conflict—I am not exaggerating. This change will affect us all, human and
Elder alike.”
“Where did the blood come from?”
“You don’t know?”
“No!” he shouted. “I’ve been trying to get you to tell me this
entire time!”
“A skirmish outside Talystasia's
southern wall.”
"Skirmish? We are in truce.
You must mean a fight. An honest
fight between men—"
"… I am sorry, but I don’t
know the details of your politics. The
dead man is a soldier. Does that help?”
He stared at her, outrage
welling inside him.
Not this, not today …
“The blood should just be blood,” she went on, “but now it is
more, now there is Evil in it. I know
you see only blood against the rocks, but when one of our own gets sick from a
supernatural incursion, that is a serious matter.”
“You said this place … this forest
…”
“Correct. These sicknesses have struck before, but
never here. They’re rare, but increasing
in frequency. We’ve never known the
cause, but long suspected a supernatural agency at work. We never thought to connect it to the
circlets until now.”
She stepped toward him, her tone
pleading, her eyes intense. “Lord Loren
persists in his denial. That’s why we’re
begging you to do something. There is
Evil in your circlets and Evil in your conflict. A force beyond you.”
“What do you expect me to do?
You just said it’s beyond me!”
“… I don’t know,” she
admitted. “We just thought you should
know that your enemy,” she glanced at his brow for emphasis, “is becoming
ours.”
He sighed, dropping his
hand. Always at an impasse.
Nothing further was going to be
achieved here. She knew it. He knew it.
They stared at each other fruitlessly, struggling silently and in
vain. He turned to go, and paused.
"There are other
things. That I've noticed. Other changes. The weather has been picking up lately."
She tilted her head
curiously.
"Are there ... wind
Elders?" he asked, trying to make a connection to her world.
"Not here. In the north where the winds are
stronger. And along the shores."
"I don't know a lot about
you," he admitted. "I've only
met with your emissaries ... a dozen times, if that, in all these long
years. Anyway—the weather. I can't be sure, but I think there's a
correlation between the storms and our engagements."
"How can that be?" she
asked.
"I don't know. I certainly don't plan my attacks to
coincide; there’s no strategic value in it.
And I can't imagine that Loren does either. But whenever there’s an engagement, it seems
a hellish storm breaks out. I tense
every time the wind picks up—"
Even as he spoke, a chilly
breeze ruffled his tunic, whispering unhappy tidings. "The rains are heavier and the winds are
more bitter than they have been since we signed our accord."
"Have you ordered a
study?"
"I'm doing it myself. I have been for years. I've hardly mentioned it to anyone. Nobody wants a mad lord on top of a
heartless, violent one. Human beings you
see ...” he broke off, and laughed bitterly.
“Everyone knows the circlets are unnatural, everyone at the very least has heard the rumours about them … but
nobody wants to believe that this war has any motive power behind it other than
ours. No one wants to think he's being
controlled by something he doesn't understand.
Believing that your house has been mystically ordained to rule, and that
you have been chosen to lead others, that you have been granted control, is one thing.
That’s palatable. But believing
that something else is ruling through you, and that your war is its war, that
you’re being played and you’re trapped … that’s terrible. There are few things more powerful than
self-deception. I—wasn't always like
this. Violent tendencies perhaps ... but
not ..."
"... I imagine that would
wound your people’s pride greatly. And
destroy whatever faith they have in you,” she added sympathetically.
Maybe she did care, this
emissary of a dying race, this exotic beauty housing a primeval and formidable
spirit …
But he knew he’d never find out,
because after this meeting, she’d do what the Elders always did—fade away,
leaving him to face the world and its trials exposed, human and alone.
"I ... perhaps so. I don't know,” he answered finally. “Certainly whatever faith I have in
myself. I long ago had to accept that I
was no longer the man I thought I was.
But nothing will ever destroy their faith in me. I often wish it would. Then I’d be free from their vengeance and
their weakness."
"And what are you now, if
you are not the man you thought you were?"
He had to think for a while
before answering.
"I'm still a man."
~~*~~
