The Road to Galda
WYRE, to the furthest extent of its ancient bounds, stretched from the Ocean of Iarn in the east, to the rocky slopes of Harland in the west. Its northern frontiers were marked by the Thrumohar Mountains – the Heaped Thunders beyond which the frigid and inhospitable plateau of Tun Hartha stretched. In the south, it marched upon the cities which bustled around the warm and shallow waters of the Thalassine, where the winters were mild, and olive and almond trees grew in great profusion. For more than six hundred years, Wyre – in more determined fashion than its precursor, Borchiea – had dominated the political landscape of the subcontinent.
It was, for the most part, a fertile and well-watered land, strewn with numerous lakes in its inner regions, and hilly or mountainous at its margins. The forests which had once covered Wyre’s landscape had, by the diligent effort of fifty generations of farmers, been first contained, and then forced into retreat; save for the vast tracts of Nizkur in the west, where feys and older spirits still held sway. Wyre enjoyed the seasons in roughly equal measure, although the snows of winter had a tendency to linger.
Wyre lacked the ancient pedigree of the civilizations far to the south, or the enthusiastic dynamism of its closer neighbours in the Thalassine, but possessed a middle-aged dignity which had not been entirely leached of youthful vigour. Its stability, like most feodalities, was tenuous at best, and Wyre was often beset by internal strife. In its worst guise this manifested as open warfare between its grasping nobles but, more frequently, the internecine squabbles of Wyre’s aristocracy were resolved through the more elegant and precise medium of assassination. Millennia of history – mostly forgotten – underpinned Wyre’s traditions, but without the decadent self-obsession of Shûth, or the ponderous grandeur of Bedesh. The Wyrish, whether of noble or common birth, were not a people preoccupied with tradition and ceremony; although, in matters of faith and philosophy, opinions tended to be more jealously guarded – and more passionately voiced – than elsewhere.
Whilst power ebbed and flowed between great noble houses, its reins held by first one, and then another branch of the same huge family, the Orthodox Church of Oronthon prospered. By the beginning of the seventh century since Wyre’s foundation, the Temple – as it had become known in all of its guises – had firmly quashed any rivals to its supremacy, and sat, gross and distended, at the center of matters both spiritual and mundane. The plethora of heterodox philosophies which it had once tolerated had been reduced to the state of heretical cults by the Temple, and their adherents forced to Wyre’s geographical periphery.
The Temple levied its own taxes, dispensed its own justice, maintained its own army, and prosecuted its own wars – albeit with the sanction of whichever monarch happened to sit upon the throne in Wyre’s capital, Morne. The boundaries of ecclesiastical and temporal law became so blurred that an exclusive class of barrister had evolved in order to negotiate this perilous field – where a charge of heresy was often the price for failing in the defense of one under the scrutiny of the Inquisition. Nonetheless, despite its cumbersome bureaucracy and dubious methods, the Temple retained an attraction for those whose motives were pure and selfless. And, provided they could endure the stagnation and inertia which Orthodoxy routinely presented to them, such individuals would find that, near the centre, was a kernel of truth, and a light which had not yet gone out.
At odds with the Temple, subject to higher taxes and frequent harassment – and occasional open persecution – an older faith persisted. It concerned itself with the cycles of growth and death and decay, with the rocks, the rivers and trees, and the numerous spirits which dwelled therein. It lacked a formal body of dogma, was not graced (or burdened) by an organized priesthood, and boasted no central locus of power. In fact, its practices were so diffuse and various that to call it one name would be to do an injustice to the diversity of perspectives which comprised it. Less ecumenically inclined members of the Temple simply dubbed the practice pagan or heathen, and identified the woodland demigods and spirits venerated by the older faith with outcast members of their own hierarchy of celestial beings. Those clergy in Morne who adopted a more tolerant stance – often at some risk to themselves – called the other faith Uediian, after an earth-goddess whose cult had flourished in southern and eastern Wyre prior to the Temple’s ascendancy. The term, although simplistic, was deemed politer and was even adopted by members of the faith themselves. It was a name which simply identified them as ‘those who do not worship Oronthon,’ although downtrodden might have been more apt. The interface between the two faiths, tense and dynamic, bred several interesting schools of inquiry, all of which were considered heretical by the prelacy.
In contrast to both religious movements, a third group existed. It had evolved from the undisciplined arcanism practiced before Wyre’s emergence. Its members concerned themselves with the pursuit of knowledge and understanding, and their methods and language were esoteric and complex. They shunned involvement in politics and regarded the desire for temporal power as aberrant and bizarre, seeking only to deepen their own understanding of obscure and hidden lore. They worked alone or, occasionally, in small cabals. They were mysterious, furtive and utterly obsessed with their own, elite clique: the raw talent required to become apprenticed to one of them precluded all but one in ten thousand of Wyre’s inhabitants. The Temple loathed and feared them, the Uediians distrusted them, and the temporal rulers of Wyre begged them for favours – often to be rejected on the grounds of some mysterious Injunction, the terms of which, when cited, made no sense to those who were not initiated. They dealt with feys, elementals, and all manner of more sinister entities, in a seemingly undiscerning manner. They were the Wizards.
Each of these three traditions had, in recent times, undergone a transformation.
The Temple, beset by internal strife, had disestablished; its hierarchy was dissolved, and it's structure became cellular: the meditational practice known as Saizhan became emphasized above all else. Involvement in temporal matters was frowned upon, although not expressly forbidden. Simultaneously fragmenting and synthesizing, the Temple underwent an explosive renaissance in philosophy.
The ancient cults of Wyre which venerated Nature and Goddess were striving to coalesce into a single world-view which held that a Viridity – a "Greenification" of the world – was underway. Some viewed this phenomenon as a periodic awakening in the cycle of the Goddess herself.
The Wizards – finally frustrated by their own isolating paranoia – had relinquished the proctorship of matters arcane to the mysterious entity known as the Claviger, and, in an atmosphere of suspicious camaraderie, information had begun to flow more freely between them.
It was against this backdrop of revolution in philosophy and praxis that a fourth perspective – ancient and sinister – was revealed. It was foreign to Wyre, and the cause of its re-emergence after centuries of brooding silence, the source of much speculation. Its exoteric teachings were of nihilism and death, although its true purpose was impenetrable to all rational scrutiny; its appeal was visceral in the extreme.
*
Mesikammi flitted as an insubstantial mist through the night sky. A swift breeze bore her southwards with Hlioth to their appointed rendezvous with Mostin and Daunton. It was cloudless, and the young moon had already set; low in the east, the ruddy Eye of Cheshne – Soneillon's star – hung with her daughters. As Mesikammi gazed at it, it seemed to pulse with a menace which caused the shamaness to shiver; she shifted her perception rapidly, and concentrated instead on the rolling hills of Scir Cellod. A light frost clung to the ground below.
Hlioth spied a light and gestured. Both descended to where the Alienist had, in an effort to make himself comfortable, magically erected a small pavillion and a secure shelter on a hilltop, and conjured a number of minor pseudoelementals to do his bidding. Daunton sat, cross-legged on the ground, staring into a crystal ball. Flambeaux burned in a wide circle about them.
"Perhaps you could make yourself even more conspicuous?" Hlioth snidely remarked as she corporeated. She assumed the form of an alluring woman of early middle-age, which may or may not have been authentic.
Mostin ignored her. They were warded against magical observation, and that was all that mattered to him.
Daunton barely raised his head. "The appointed area is nineteen miles West. We can screen this location if it makes you more comfortable, but I doubt that any scouts are trying to pinpoint us visually. We should also make a move soon: we need to be outside of the quiescence again an hour before the meeting begins. We will be entering on foot or on horseback."
"How quaint," Hlioth grumbled.
"Eadric says that it would be 'proper form' for a diplomatic party. For what it's worth, I've got no issue with it – I don't anticipate crossed swords just yet."
"You are optimistic," Hlioth said caustically.
Mostin handed her a scroll, with arcane glyphs smothered across it. "Here is the formula."
Hlioth glanced at it. "You require a transvalent contribution? And ten gallons of my psyche, apparently."
"I have modified the spell. It is more robust."
"It better be."
"What have you been doing, Hlioth?" Mostin inquired. "In Nizkur?"
"The Forest will be our last defense. It must be secure."
A chill went down Mostin's spine. Daunton glanced upwards. "If you have some prescience which you wish to share, Hlioth…"
"I am not the one with the web of motes," Hlioth gazed at Mostin.
"And I've not yet had the time and resources to inspect it," Mostin snapped. "Were others than I committed to Wyre's defense; if I were to benefit a modicum of support from the body magickal…"
"You lack the ability to rouse conviction in others, Mostin. When will you realize this?"
"As soon as any other takes responsibility," the Alienist retorted. "Something which, thus far, none have had the spine to do."
"Perhaps Mulissu is the prophet you are waiting for?"
"Perhaps you are," the Alienist replied drily. "Although being chased by fauns is more to your liking."
"Do not denigrate simplicity, Mostin."
"Nor should you overlook the collective. You have become too selfish, Hlioth."
Hlioth laughed. "You know nothing of me or my means. I see wider and deeper than you, Mostin."
"Then share your insight," Mostin hissed.
"Not yet; but soon, maybe."
"You are arrogant beyond belief!"
"I am a cog in a larger wheel, which is turning through more dimensions than you can readily apprehend."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Now that, I most sincerely doubt."
**
They moved at fantastic speed, phantoms of fear from which all that lived, fled.
Before they reached the limit of the quiescence, the stars seemed to wink out and, for a moment, utter darkness prevailed. The ground shook as in some terrible impact ahead of them. Space warped briefly. Gihaahia stood before them: her aspect was gigantic; winged and wrathful, and magnified to terrifying proportions. Flames kindled about her.
Choach invoked a shimmering ward which encapsulated them all, stretching the fabric of reality into a semipermeable interface of null-magic. It crackled darkly.
The Enforcer shattered it with a contemptuous glance. The lich reeled.
"You act beyond your purview," Yeshe was undaunted. "We are outside of Wyre and no transgression has occurred."
Silence your tongue. Speak not to me of my responsibility.
"Sister…" Naatha began.
And you, lest I deem your head unsuited to your body.
Naatha promptly closed her mouth.
From a huge, clawed hand, Gihaahia let a tablet drop with a thud. She sneered – evidently she preserved her sense of humour.
The Rules Have Changed. I suggest you read them before you proceed. Consider this a polite warning.
The Enforcer vanished.
Yeshe cursed. She didn't need to be told what the tablet was.
"She was three times thrice…" Choach began.
"I know it," Yeshe replied dismissively, waving a hand.*
"Need I remind you of…"
"I know it!" Yeshe screamed, her face contorting. Her calm – whether mood or façade – reasserted itself in an instant. "We have underestimated the Claviger. That could prove problematic."
"It is a strategy devised to allow the Ahma time to prepare," Sibud grimaced. "Jovol's prescience should not be underestimated. Who can tell how his negotiations with the Claviger proceeded? Jovol's Oronthonian sympathies were well attested to."
"As is your paranoia," Yeshe replied.
Sibud remained silent.
"My apologies, brother," Yeshe gave a curt bow. "Forgive my words – they were spoken in haste. Please continue."
"Thank-you," Sibud smiled. "If the Claviger…"
Yeshe pretended to listen, but her own head span. She waited for a suitable length of time as the Vampire spoke – his power should not be underestimated - before gesturing. The tablets rose from the ground and hung before her. She inspected them swiftly for any revisions: prudence had demanded her own familiarity with the Wyrish Injunction.
As her eyes scanned the engraved text, her face contorted in anger and disbelief.
"…dispensation to the Enforcer to act unilaterally…"
"…extension of the Injunction's remit to include aspects of Shûthite theurgy within the …"
"…the preservation of the Wyrish Collegium…"
Yeshe closed her eyes, and brooded silently. Sibud might be right: maybe it was an Oronthonian conspiracy, after all. She issued a sending to Temenun.
The Tiger-Who-Waits was nonchalant.
She is still finite. Let her flap her wings.
**
It was twilight. The company rode south to Galda.
"One wonders what would have happened, had you slain Despina," Nwm remarked drily. He rode bareback – and expertly – upon a charger lent him by Prince Tagur. The horse had seemed absorbed in an ecstatic trance since its temporary adoption by the Druid.
Eadric shrugged. He felt uncomfortable.
"Perhaps reality would not have unravelled to quite such a degree," Nwm continued. "Sparing her was an ambiguous act, wouldn't you agree? Rooted as much in lust as in compassion."
Tarpion scowled. Nwm smiled back.
Eadric sighed. "My conscience is fraught enough as is, Nwm. Why add more to my misery? I've thought long on this – and Nehael's rejection of Oronthon. I know it well."
"She asked me to remind you," Nwm grinned.
Eadric squinted.
"She said other things, do you wish to hear them?"
"I'm not sure," the Ahma shifted in his saddle. "Will they depress me?"
"Perhaps they can wait."
Eadric shook his head ironically.
"I can quote her verbatim, if you wish?"
"Spit it out, Nwm," Eadric groaned.
"'Enjoin the Ahma to recall that moment, and to reflect upon his motivation at that point – before his awareness had expanded to embrace a larger reality, when his concerns were more human and less divine. The seed of discord in his mind – the tension between his desire and his mercy – has been the source of his strength. The root of the Path of Lightning, which has unshackled him from morality. For a while, that path and the Middle Way were congruent, but no longer; if the antinomian view becomes dogmatic, he will fall as surely as the Adversary.
'The Viridity arises in response to the ontological paradox. It grounds the abstract in the present. Notions of ens and non-ens are abandoned in the face of the Now, and when the Sela apprehends the Viridity through Saizhan, he is pleased: the vibrancy of life crushes all philosophy.'"
Eadric reflected for a while, and scowled. "She has become no less opaque."
Nwm drew to a halt, and called out to Tagur, who led the company. "We will rest here for one hour. The Ahma and I will return shortly." The Druid began riding towards a lone cypress, a hundred yards from the roadside.
Eadric paused uncertainly for a long moment, and then spurred his mount to follow. "Where are we going?" He called to Nwm.
"To Afqithan," Nwm replied.
Eadric immediately reined his steed in, and shook his head. "I have no desire to return there."
Nwm wheeled about and stared hard at him.
"Oh, very well," Eadric grumbled.
**
The pool was black as pitch, and utterly still. Tendrils of dark mist clung to its surface.
"Welcome to the source of your nightmares."
"I am past grieving, Nwm."
"You are disconnected from your humanity," Nwm opined.
"So you bring me to the grave of the demoness? This serves little purpose."
"Your reluctance to be here would suggest otherwise."
"I am wary of invoking her: her memory yet resides."
"She is merely a phantom which clings to the real."
"What is the purpose of this excursion, Nwm?" The Ahma was wary.
"Consider the Viridity, Eadric. Aside from the truth of it – and you have experienced that, so you cannot deny it – your words can sway thousands.
If you were to adopt a reconciliatory perspective, you could effect the synthesis and flowering of religious thought for generations to come. An end to ethnic strife in Wyre. The Sela must surely agree…"
"The Sela would express no opinion, I'm sure," Eadric smiled wrily.
"It must happen," Nwm seemed adamant. "It is only a matter of how and when. You have a responsibility to posterity: you must exercise it wisely."
"The weight of history is not mine to bear."
"I do not shirk my duty thus," Nwm was acid. "I still strive to effect change for the better. My concerns are human."
"When you are not pursuing the elusive Goddess."
Nwm smiled. "My perspective is balanced. But if you wish to speak of the devouring feminine, Eadric, I'm all ears."
The Ahma pondered briefly.
"There is much common ground here, Ed. You know it. A mystic is a mystic, after all."
"I do not determine doctrine," Eadric groaned. "And I will not be drawn into a debate involving comparative mysticism. At least, not until I've eaten. And I will not make sweeping religious reforms."
"Why not? Who says you can't? Or shouldn't? You say that the Sela would have no opinion on the matter, and why should he? But you can. You are the Ahma. You are not the 'gnostic intellect of God.' If not you, then who?"
"Bah! Perhaps. But it is not my immediate concern. And even as we stand here, hours fly past in the World."
"There is something you should see. Please indulge me!"
"Be quick!"
Nwm shifted into the form of a raven with a thirty-foot wingspan, and made an odd clicking sound, indicating that Eadric should climb onto his back. He powered upwards through the canopy, into the violet and saffron gloaming of Afqithan's sky, and bore off in a direction away from Ortwine's Fortress.
"Look through the Eye of Palamabron," Nwm croaked.
Eadric did so, and gaped. Nearby, soaring above the treetops, was Murmuur's tower, abandoned. Coiled about its upper quarter was a linnorm of dreadful size, dark with shadowy power – some ancient vestige from the umbral fringe of Afqithan. Teppu had bound it, and set it about the place in guard, before hiding the tower itself from all but the most penetrating sight.
"Hlioth is of the opinion that Mostin, were he to use the web of motes in his inquiry, could determine the mode of operation of this device."
"I think that Mostin owning a planar nexus to the Hells is a bad idea," Eadric said. "Besides, why has it not been retrieved?"
"Devils do not step here. They have no place now."
"Nor do I."
"Ah, but you are here by invitation. My question is precisely this: should we tell Mostin?"
"I suspect we have to, now," Eadric said glumly. "Can you imagine how he'd react if he found out that we knew about it, and had said nothing?"
Nwm nodded his avian head. "There is one other thing…"
"How many other 'one other things' are there likely to be?"
"No more. I am wary of your reaction to this, however."
"Thank-you for the warning."
Nwm squawked. "Around now, Mulissu has seized control of the City of Fumaril."
Eadric was aghast. "You cannot be serious!"
"The Temple of Jeshi has endorsed her coup, and a dozen wind-sorcerers are backing her. She is erecting a barrier – similar to Soneillon's paling – around the city."
"The Injunction?"
"She is outside it."
"But the other Wyrish Wizards…this is a massive breach of etiquette."
"Who cares? She's Mulissu. No-one dare challenge her. Especially if they know that Mostin would jump to her aid."
"It seems most unlike her," Eadric mused.
"Teppu is persuasive. And Jovol was the only Wizard that Mulissu ever deferred to."
"And you support this course of action?"
"I'm not sure," Nwm admitted. "It risks a great deal – it is a response to the compulsions which were laid down by the Cheshnite cabals, and ups the ante more than I'm altogether comfortable with. But she will bring order to the city very quickly, either by persuasion or by domination."
"Does she intend for this to be a permanent arrangement?"
"She is styling herself Tyrant of Fumaril, so one would assume so."
"At least she makes no pretence as to her role. I wish I could say the same. Is this the same Mulissu? I mean, has her reincarnation changed her?"
"It always does," Nwm seemed matter-of-fact.
"But how much?"
"Enough that she has stepped into the political arena. But I think the integrity of her ego has remained intact." Nwm landed upon the ground, and resumed his human form.
"Unlike Jovol-Teppu?"
"Unlike Ortwin-Ortwine," Nwm smiled. "Teppu is…well, who knows, really?"
**
Eadric drew alongside Prince Tagur. "Highness, if I might have a word?"
Tagur scowled. Highness? This man – if such he still was – retained an odd respect for conventional forms. Or perhaps he was simply the consummate diplomat. There was no particular need for the Ahma to address him at all – Tagur was under no illusion that his presence was anything other than ceremonial. There was nothing that Tagur could actually do to influence the course of events. He sighed, and nodded.
"I should like to speak with you regarding the possibility of things…ah…coming to blows, shall we say."
"I’m sure I shall die very quickly," Tagur smiled.
"I suspect you will have as good a chance as I," Eadric said wrily, "considering I will be their principal target."
"Ah, yes," Tagur half-apologized. "There is that."
"Before we meet them, there will be a period of preparation."
Tagur raised an eyebrow.
"It is customary to fortify oneself as best as possible before this kind of parley – the kind that can degenerate quickly into a bloodbath. Especially if Mostin is present."
"Are you quite serious? Why is this madman even involved?"
"I wish I knew," Eadric groaned. "In any event, do not be concerned that you will be ineffective. You will be bolstered with numerous spells, and will prove quite handy. I suspect you'll find things more evenly-matched than you fear."
"You may spare my pride in this matter, Ahma."
"Trust me. A large part of me hopes that it does come to swords. When I get the opportunity to hit something in the head, the odds tend to favour me."
"Have you considered simply striking first?"
"Oh yes," Eadric nodded. "I consider it all the time."
**
Ortwine rode on ahead, utterly self-absorbed.
I want my sword. My Heedless Githla. She realized that her desire for the weapon bordered on obsession, and shrugged.
Ripples in consciousness, to which Ortwine seemed to be becoming increasingly sensitive, spoke to the sidhe of the Green in motion: Nizkur was awakening, the ancient spirits of the land stirring. In the south, feys and elementals were agitating.
Despite herself, Ortwine felt the Viridity drawing her in. The lure was impossible to resist, as much because she felt it was stemming from her as calling to her. It made her uncomfortable.
What do I want? It was the perennial question for her. Her existence was so often a jaded malaise. An ennui which had persisted through four successive incarnations. A sword? A throne? Divinity? All was empty. Ortwine turned her head, and gazed over her shoulder.
Nwm, who rode behind her, stared impassively at her.
Ortwine's eyes narrowed. "Your religious machinations will not determine my purpose," she said acidly.
"I seek only to inform it," Nwm smiled.
Ortwine glowered. "Fine. But I want my sword, first."
**
Mulissu floated above the balcony before an immense throng; they screamed in frenzied adulation. Redemptrix, they called her. Goddess. The euphoria was intoxicating.
Temporal power is dangerous, she observed silently. Still, I will not have my city tampered with. The savant raised a hand, and an excited hush fell.
"I am Mulissu, your new Tyrant," Mulissu announced. The proclamation was greeted with rapturous applause. The witch waited for it to subside.
"My apologies to any council members present for the inconvenience of your displacement; rest assured that you will remain unharmed, and your mundane duties will be mostly unaffected.
"You will find me largely benign, if somewhat aloof; my occasional fits of pique seldom result in malicious transmogrifications. Please refrain from engaging in civil uprisings, as such would be doomed to failure. Your day-to day activities are of no concern to me, and I have no interest in managing your affairs beyond providing you with protection. Continue to pay your taxes. Put your children to bed at the normal time. For the moment, you are safe."
*The numerological significance of the Enforcer's magnification was not lost on members of the Cheshnite delegation. Enitharmon was said to have been three times thrice magnified – i.e. to have been bestowed with nine divine ranks – for the purpose of expelling Oronthon's Adversary from heaven.
