Justine Erholme, first among equals under the Clergy, and representative of Archmage Erick Flatt’s interests in the city of Candlepoint, was having a bad day. All of her days had been bad, but some more than most. This was closer to the second type, and considering her experienced life, that was saying something.
In a shadow-filled room at the edge of the Farms, which was a name that she knew angered Erick something fierce, Justine sat with three other firsts, each of whom represented other aspects of Candlepoint’s continued existence. The meeting right now was not the full count, but it was good enough to discuss the major problem at hand.
Days ago, there had been more voices in this room, but they were gone now; silenced by The Problem.
Mephistopheles, wearing an outrageous blue-feathered ensemble, said, “Master Bulgan killed another Archmage representative today. The woman for Syllea: Britha, I think? I barely knew her.” He said, “Right in front of me, he did it. Ripped Britha apart and scattered the remains on my customers.” He continued, “Three adventurers tried to kill Bulgan for that action. They failed, of course. Everyone left the Garrison after that. Some of them will be back tomorrow, but some of them won’t. And that is a problem. If Bulgan keeps this up, our numbers will drop and stay in the gutter. And then everything is lost.” He laughed at the air, saying. “But you know! I expected to be dead long before now, so I’m having trouble caring.” He looked to the next man, saying, “Why don’t you stop pretending to be a mere shadeling and do something about the man?”
Slip, the Captain of the Guard, just shook his head. His black horns glinted in the shadow filled room, along with his shaved, black scalp. His skin was the color of night. Everything about the man was the color of darkness, except for his eyes. His eyes were radiant pools of bright white. He said, “I cannot. He would kill me.”
In the previous days and weeks of knowing the man, ever since meeting him in Candlepoint, Justine had always known the man was a total liar. He was certainly a Shade, slumming it in Candlepoint, or whatever it was you could call what he was doing. Justine had long given up trying to understand his thoughts. For all his looks and power —And oh yes, he had power! Justine had seen him kill two automatons before and get away with it, while Bulgan was watching!— he never acted like a Shade. He acted like a nobody. A normal shadeling. A perfectly professional Captain of the Guard.
Justine held her tongue, though. She wasn’t about to openly announce what everyone was thinking. She might have been the only one still with that much sanity left, though.
“I’m tired of pretending!” Mephistopheles barked a laugh, then said, “You are a liar, Slip! But whatever!”
Slip just scrunched his face, and said nothing.
The third person in the room cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her. Zaraanka Checharin was a rather voluptuous woman of human stock who always wore clothes just this side of scandalous. She was the current matron of the pleasure houses of Candlepoint, but she was not always thus. Before she became the contact point for the Headmaster, she was a rather normal shadeling. Power had corrupted her, though; of that, Justine was sure.
Zaraanka said, “What is the big deal. There is nothing wrong with our lots in life, and there is nothing wrong with Candlepoint. We are here at the pleasure of our betters, and that is all there is to it. If you don’t wish for the spotlight then go and die, and let someone else take your space.”
Mephistopheles grinned at her, saying, “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To run everything in the city? Instead of just the paths between the legs of the beaten and the damned?” He declared, “You overreach, Zaraanka! I may be losing it, but I will be damned and beaten before I let you have power over me. If you wish to take my Garrison, then you must plan better than you have, and are!”
Slip went, “Hmmph.”
Zaraanka said, “It is a miracle of Melemizargo that you have survived as long as you have, you flamboyant man. Go die, and spare us all your fashion sense.”
Justine tried to get the conversation back on track. “Has anyone seen a way past this trial Melemizargo has given us? Mephistopheles? Has your entreaty to Fallopolis failed?”
Mephistopheles lost some of his brightness. “She has her domain, and it is not here. Thrice I asked and thrice I was rebuffed; I dare not ask again. If you are thinking of asking others, I don’t think it would work either. I was able to speak to the Toymaker.” He regretfully said, “The Shades of the Spire have spoken, and they do not care for us as individuals at all.” He added, “No adventurer is willing to stand up to Master Bulgan, either. The three that died today was the first action Bulgan has gotten that he hasn’t initiated himself, in over five days.”
“Regretful, but expected of the Spire, and of Fallopolis.” Justine turned to Zaraanka, asking, “Is the Headmaster still opposed?”
Zaraanka said, “He would lead the charge and kill us if we stepped out of line; his thinking has remained the same since the first day I met him. He will not change for anyone.” She added, “But, if you wanted to enact that final resort, some of us could make it out of sight and out of mind before the Sun Descends. That option will always remain.”
Slip spoke up. “This is the plan I am for. Running and hiding. Some of us would make it.”
Justine said, “And ninety nine percent of us would die. No. That is the Last Resort, and it is not lightly named. It is only to be used when the armies of the world are at our doorsteps.”
Zaraanka said, “We’re going to die either way. Ninety percent here or there, does not matter, though I think we would have a better chance if we do it while the armies are still on the other sides of the world.”
Justine said, “Erick would scan for us, and we would be found. The only way to escape is to join in those armies, and pretend to be other people. It will be difficult, but you know this is the only way.”
Zaraanka said, “Killing Erick would make this thing a whole lot easier.”
“Do you want Melemizargo to fall upon us!?” Mephistopheles asked. “The Headmaster is one thing, but we cannot upset Mel’s plans.”
“Underground, then?” Zaraanka offered.
Slip said, “Melemizargo would instantly spot us. That is also a failure of a plan.”
“Then you come up with something!” Zaraanka demanded.
“We could run and hide in the ocean, pretending to be fish.” Slip said, “Half of us would make it to the waters. A further 25 percent would die to beasts down there, but we could make it work. A full quarter of us might run and survive.”
Justine, Mephistopheles, and Zaraanka, all looked at the man like he had suddenly turned into a fish, right then and there.
“… What?” said Zaraanka. “NO! I am not a fish!”
Mephistopheles laughed.
Justine said, “We’re not ready for such a plan, anyway. Most of us are still sitting in hovels, starving.” She said, “What we need, is a different Shade in charge. Someone to allow us to flourish without the world looking to stomp us back down.” She breathed deep. And then, against all propriety, she looked to Slip.
Everyone looked to Slip.
Slip looked away.
Justine’s words dripped with venom, “Fine.” Justine looked to Mephistopheles. “Here is our only other option: I need to find a way to get a message to Erick. We need him to go after Bulgan, without following through on his threat to end us all. Then, perhaps, if the Problem were solved, I could get Erick to support us again.”
Mephistopheles said, “This will kill you, Justine. Bulgan will know if a message gets out to your archmage. Melemizargo has Erick in his eyes, more than most.”
Justine breathed deep. She said, “I know. I am counting on that.”
Zaraanka asked, “What are you planning? I might be able to steer the Headmaster toward something small.” She added, “Or away from something. I can never quite tell the outcome of the words spoken to that man.”
“The plan?” Justine sighed, and smiled. She said, “I have no plan but to die for those yet to come. Maybe one life, honestly given, will be enough.”
Zaraanka scowled, saying, “So eager for death! Just die then!”
Slip said, “Death for a cause is a fine way to go.”
Everyone scowled at Slip.
The Shade-in-hiding had the audacity to look ashamed.
Justine said, “I would prefer not—”
The wall of the room vibrated.
There was no official adjourning of the meeting. Everyone fled at the same time, taking to the shadows; gone.
If the four of them had perhaps been inside a real room, then it would have been possible for the interloper to catch them, but they were not in a real room, and never had been. The vibrating of the walls was not of the interloping variety, anyway. Something had happened back in the real world.
Justine came to herself. Cloudy skies stretched across the roof of the world, bringing shadows and sanity to this bright part of the day. She looked down at her hands, and at the magic flowing through them, into the rich, black soil she had been preparing. Her brown working dress fluttered in the gentle wind. According to all appearances, she had never stopped working. But something had disturbed her hidden séance.
Not one meter in front of her, the mana pulsed, ripped white, then settled back into place.
She paused. She looked up.
A tree had [Teleport]ed into Candlepoint. It was gnarled and old, and faintly glowed. It had not been here, and then it was. Where once was sky, now were fruits, hanging from thick branches, with greenery all throughout. Red fruits, yellow fruits, orange and white fruits. Justine stared up at the unexpected arrival, mostly at a loss for words.
Some words did come, though.
She uttered, “What the shit?”
And then she backed up very fast, flitting through shadows to stand a good twenty meters away, only coming out of the half-light when she was the edge of the fields of the new Farm expansion. If there was one thing she learned in her long life, it was to never stand next to unknowns for too long. There were worse things than death, after all, and Justine had experienced more than her fair share.
The tree, if it was just a tree, didn’t seem to care that every single worker had vacated the field. It just grew there, like it had been planted in some other age, and Candlepoint had grown up all around its gnarled form. Candlepoint hadn’t, though; Candlepoint was here, first. Right?
- - - -
Reality floated beyond Erick’s closed eyelids. He was trapped in a sea of darkness that was tangible in parts, but always shifting when it wasn’t watched.
His butt was cold and numb, though. That sensation was perhaps the most annoying of this dark, unknown land. For some reason, Erick’s memories went backward, to a simpler, difficult time, when he drank every night and woke up happy to do it all again the next day. But he hadn’t gotten piss drunk since Jane came along into his life. So why was his bottom wet?
His face moved into a smile, as he remembered cleaning up little Jane, of wiping her tiny little baby butt as she giggled and laughed, and when she was all clean he would tickle her mercilessly, and then they’d both go down for a nap. He wasn’t able to do that very often, but he remembered those times every now and then. The memory always brought a joy to his day.
He opened his eyes to see a bluescaled face, and bright, worried eyes.
Erick said, “Hey, Poi.”
Poi leaned him up against a wall inside the house, his lower half sprawled across the wet floor. He was soaking wet, for some reason, and so was Poi. Ophiel jumped on Erick’s stomach, lightly, as Erick glanced around. He was in the back room, near the doorway to the backyard. Looking over, Erick saw the backyard, just past the open door. Two lemon trees grew from the dark soil, while a light rain fell across the land.
“Welcome back, sir.” Poi said, “Maybe it’s time to purchase some rods of [Greater Treat Wounds].”
Erick laughed, then winced, then said, “But they cost a hundred thousand gold!”
Poi tapped Erick with the rod again, releasing a burst of healing, as he said, “You make million-gold artifacts every day.”
“… Maybe I am being unreasonable.” Erick winced, but it was an easier wince, this time. He breathed, and his lungs filled with air as he relaxed. He held his hand up.
Poi stepped back and lifted Erick to his feet, as Ophiel flitted up onto Erick’s shoulder.
“Thank you.” Erick looked out to the experimental garden. “Any idea where the myriad citrus went?”
“We’ll either hear about it, or we won’t.”
“Ha! … Yeah.” Erick looked at the torn up garden; the price for gaining [Teleport Tree]. He said, “I hope it’s okay.” He added, “I’m reasonably sure I did not make a magical plant. But...”
Poi repeated, “We’ll either hear about it, or we won’t.” He added, “If you’re concerned, a trip to Atunir’s temple in the Interfaith Church might do you some good?”
Erick thought for a long moment. He said, “No need to go that far.”
- - - -
Under a dark sky, in a land made for shadows, there was a field made for farming, and a tree upon that field. The tree was not grown here, though it looked at home; it just appeared, not five minutes ago.
Justine stood away from the questionable growth, on the other side of the field. She said, “I would rip it up and throw it away. But...”
Justine, and many other farmers, watched, as two intrepid young men decided to test the tree’s worth. One of them poked it with a finger. Nothing happened. The first man rushed away, having gotten in his test and gotten away without incident. The other man poked the tree with a sword. It was a light touch, but it scratched the surface, and though the bark was deep, the tree did not like this. A bright flash pulsed from the trunk, sending the man and his sword sailing away, into the soft dirt. His sword landed beside his head, point down, stuck in the soil, almost as if the tree wanted to say ‘I could have ended you, but I chose otherwise.’
The sword was left behind as the man scrambled away to the edge of the field, to wait with all the rest who had gathered since the appearance of the anomaly.
Valok, the redscaled man who had proven himself as himself, and who had been gifted with this plot of land because of his newfound stability, said, “We can put some stones around it.”
Justine frowned. “That doesn’t seem like a good solution.”
Valok pointed up at the tree, at the myriad of fruits growing from the boughs. He said, “That’s a lemon. The green one looks like a lime, but it is not. I know my citrus, and those are unknowns. This tree is either a gift from Erick, or something else is going on there.”
Justine perked up. “What!” She saw the tree in a whole new light. “Oh!” And then she lost that light, muttering, “Oh.” Whatever she was looking at, would surely elicit a response from Bulgan. It would be violent, and swift, and someone would die.
Or maybe not?
No. That was wishful thinking. Justine steeled herself for what was sure to come. She asked, “What sort of gift do you think it could be?” She looked up. “I don’t see Ophiel, and no one reported the [Familiar]. But he’s been experimenting with Spatial magics, so… [Teleport Tree]? For what reason?”
“I don’t know about any of that.” Valok said, “But that Myriad Citrus is a magical plant. It’s almost a [Tree of Light], but not. It’s something different. Stuff has obviously happened since I’ve been away from Spur, but I don’t think Erick is the type to accidentally make a magical plant. Not after what he saw happen to Odaali, with the Daydropper.” He added, “So this would have had to have been made on purpose, to fulfill a function.”
“He’s an archmage, Valok.” Justine was not sure of anything, right now, but she had more than enough history and contact with more than enough archmages to draw at least one conclusion between every single one. “They make accidental shit up all the time. That one more than most, and just to see if he can.”
Valok hummed, then nodded, adding, “True. I could be wrong.”
“But you’re right about the Daydropper scare.” Justine thought. She said, “I doubt he would make a plant like that, though.” She declared, “Only one way to find out!” She walked forward, across the turned soil, toward the mysterious tree.
Valok asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to get me a fruit.”
Valok called out, “Lemons are sour!”
Justine smiled, but did not reply. She stared ahead at the seven-fruit tree. Knowing she was about to die was a rather liberating thought. Death by intentional poison or bad fruit or incoming Bulgan, wherever the man might be, it was all rather preferable to what was possible, and the tortures she had experienced long before today. This, right here, might be a way to get a message to Erick, right now, or soon enough.
She walked up to the tree, and said, “Hello.”
The tree did nothing.
She asked, “I would like a sweet fruit, if you have one.”
The tree did nothing.
Justine turned back, calling out, “Any suggestions?”
Valok, standing amid the other farmers, called out, “Yellows and greens are sour!”
Justine turned back to the Myriad Citrus, feeling that she should have paid more attention to the fruits and vegetables Erick had created, but the man had created a lot, and what he created was already being passed around the world through a thousand different vectors. The adoption of the potato by the Greensoil Republic was surely more important than whatever these citruses got up to; no one even cared about lemons. But maybe Justine should have cared.
She looked upon seven different options, up in those branches. Pale yellow, orange, white, yellow, red, bright green, and blue. Each of the fruits were slightly differently shaped and sized. Now, if these colors were the normal Stat colors, then Justine might have had somewhere to start her guess. But they were not.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
White was the color of Erick’s magic? Might as well start there.
Justine lifted her hand up toward the nearest white fruit. She touched it, and the tree let it go. She fumbled the fruit for half a second before securing her grip. And then she breathed again. That had been a tense moment. The tree seemed to be watching her, as old growth forests sometimes surveyed their domains. If she had dropped this white fruit, that could have been bad.
… If she picked wrong, and she died, that would definitely be bad. But knowing she was about to die anyway was rather freeing. This event had happened right in front of her, and there was a connection to Erick, and Bulgan was already eager to kill her. So, what happened from here was a foregone conclusion.
Candlepoint would be okay without her. She had made sure of that, long before today. She had guided people to self sufficiency and raised the dretches from full darkness. She had secured rain for Candlepoint, and that was huge.
Honestly, she should have died long before today.
Justine smiled. She sniffed the fruit.
It smelled sour. For sure. A hundred percent a sour fruit. She had picked wrong, but that was okay. She would try it, anyway. With a fingernail, she dug into the flesh— Oh. Right. Citrus has rinds. This is how this works. Ah. Good. Discard that. Segmented fruit? Yes, it comes apart easily enough. Seeds inside. Justine’s fingers did not fumble in this peeling. Not a single segment broke. But as she held up a segment and lightly pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, this fruit seemed more like a juicing fruit than an eating fruit; it was very squishy.
This was okay. She had done rougher things in Ar’Kendrithyst, and had tasted nastier things back when she was alive and working as an alchemist.
She downed a segment of the fruit.
Yup. Sour.
Justine’s face contorted as she tasted, and swallowed more than chewed. When it was down, and her mouth tasted of sour sunshine, Justine laughed to herself. It wasn’t bad, actually. Kinda refreshing. A real kick to it, too. She popped the seed out of the second segment and had another—
The tree moved a bough downward, revealing to Justine a full assortment of fruits. Justine smiled again, and happily picked the six other options, transferring them to the front pocket of her farmer’s dress. She tucked the peeled white fruit back into some of its peel, and began smelling each of the other fruits. All of them smelled sour, but the orange and red ones smelled good. Ooh, she wanted to try the red one, for sure.
She looked to the tree, and said, “Thank you.”
The tree was more than a simple tree, but it said nothing. Had it been, perhaps, an attempt at an Arbor? And then gifted to Candlepoint? If that’s what this was, it was an odd choice. Justine turned to rejoin the farmers. She stopped, once again thrown from her normal course of events. She was a girl who rode a boat too far out to sea, only to find that storm on the horizon came to harbor much faster than it had any right to come.
For Bulgan stood at the edge of the field, his dark countenance full of malevolent light. The farmers were gone, but one remained; Valok, his neck and face pressed into the dirt by Bulgan’s booted foot. Valok did not struggle, but Justine saw him hold his hands in fists, also pressed down into the dirt. To struggle was to die, right now; Justine had taught him well.
The Shade asked, “What have you got there, little Justine?”
Privately, Justine was rather sure of Melemizargo’s plan for Candlepoint, though she had never been fully aware of any such plan. This bully of a former man, standing before her, was obviously set up to fall. To be taken down by someone greater than himself, and in doing so, lead the shadelings to a proper place in society. For Bulgan had to be an example of all that was wrong with the Clergy. Melemizargo must have wanted the Clergy to be cleansed by Bulgan’s bloody, painful passing.
Hopefully this much was true! But it was hard to say.
Her Dark God was not an easy, loving God. He did not grant [Cleanse], to ease the burdens of daily life. He did not grant Spatial magic, either, for exploring the world was meant to strengthen one’s self, and hone one’s power; people were meant to tame the world, not hop around, ignoring the monsters all around them.
Too many gifts bred weakness, and Melemizargo did not suffer weakness in his presence, for he made fools of all he could, including those who knew him best. Justine knew these facts more than most.
Hopefully, today, the fool would be Bulgan.
- - - -
The experimental garden was a mess. Good dirt had been scattered all around by the exploding lemon trees, leaving great holes in the garden, while the two trees that remained had been chipped by wooden shrapnel, their boughs broken by stray flying trunks. But that was all window dressing. The main fact remained obvious for all with eyes to see.
“The Myriad Citrus is gone,” Erick said, standing on the spot where his creation had once been. “The dirt’s not even disturbed.”
Erick gazed upon the ground for a few moments. Then he reached out toward the two remaining trees, and with a bit of Ophiel oversight on the other side of the house, he [Teleport Tree]’d them over into their new spots, alongside the other surviving citrus. Also through Ophiel, Erick imbued the moved trees with [Tree of Light]. As they both glittered with neon hues, their barks and their branches repaired themselves, swift as magic. They would live a long and fruitful life, unless any Flare Couatls or otherwise came knocking.
Erick turned to Poi. “Can I get a meeting with Irogh?”
Poi nodded, then looked to the air. He looked back, and said, “Yes. Right now, or in three hours.”
Erick smiled. “Right now, then.” He asked, “You ready?”
“Yes. Uh. Let me just...” He looked askance for a second, then added, “I cleared the way for a [Teleport].”
Erick smiled, then put one Handy Aura hand on Poi, and one on Ophiel. The world flashed white, changing from orange land and dark garden soil, into tall, white stone hallways and pillars. A blue door stood open, and inviting, not four meters away.
An unknown guard down the hall yelped at Erick’s intrusion, while a few people in suits, holding papers, startled. Looks of recognition rapidly passed from one set of eyes to the next. Another guard rushed into the hallway, saying calming words. In moments, everyone went on their ways, including the first, mollified guard, as soon as they saw who it was who had blipped into the Courthouse.
Erick strode into Irogh’s office. The handsome orcol man sat on the other side of his counter, gently smiling.
“Welcome, Erick.”
Erick said, “Helloo, Irogh.”
Irogh flipped his hand up, and the blue door closed. Once it clicked in place, he asked, “How can I help you?”
Excitedly, Erick asked, “[Gate] quest! Do I have it? Do I qualify?”
Irogh paused for a brief moment, looking unsure if he had heard Erick correctly. The moment passed. Irogh looked to the air and typed out on an invisible, intangible keyboard. Seemingly surprised himself, he said, “Yes. Yes you do.”
A blue box appeared.
Special Quest!
The Worldly Path 0/1
OR
10 Points
Reward: The ability to cast Gate
Erick read. And then he grumbled, “That’s rather vague.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Did I qualify for any other Class Abilities since last time?”
Irogh looked to the air. “… No.”
“Hmm. Hmm...” Erick stood, as he said, “Okay. Thanks, Irogh.”
Irogh lifted his hand, and the door to the room opened. “Anytime.”
- - - -
She wasn’t dead yet.
Justine stood a respectable distance from Bulgan Shadoweater, and the citrus tree.
Bulgan stood under the tree, looking up at the boughs, inspecting the low hanging fruit with a gentle caress of fingertips, or an upturned nose and a sniff. He had smelled and touched all seven types of fruit, as well as placed his hand against the trunk, and tested a slight grip on one of the thicker branches. Justine watched the whole thing, and wondered at the thorns she now saw along the branches, that dappled up the gnarled trunk. Those thorns had certainly not been there before. They had grown when she wasn’t watching. The tree might not have eyes, but it certainly sensed what kind of person was touching it, right now.
Bulgan’s gentle grip turned solid around an orange fruit. The harvest did not drop into his hand, like how the fruits had dropped into hers. Bulgan did not care for the tree’s reluctance. He pulled anyway. The fruit came off. The bough went up, and then slapped back down, further than it had been before. Bulgan’s hand was still there, and still able to receive the long thorn that it did.
The Shade laughed as the thorn broke against the darkness on his skin; his godly raiment was more than a match for some young, misbehaving plant. He smiled as he ripped the rind off of the orange fruit, breaking segments, scattering juices as he tore, before he enjoyed his meal. Justine almost watched, as orange juices slipped down Bulgan’s chin, but she averted her eyes before he could see her spying.
He saw her anyway, his eyes tracking her aversion. He asked, “A two in seven gift, perhaps? Do you feel we should pay Erick back in kind?”
“My humble opinion is surely wrong, Master Shadoweater.”
Bulgan turned and stared at her. “You weren’t even startled to hear that this came from Erick, were you?”
“It is my job to know such things, and the man you pressed into the ground informed me of this possibility, before you arrived.” Justine said, “Lemons were a variety of citrus not known to the accomplished farmer until after Archmage Flatt came along and created them.”
Bulgan scowled at nothing in particular, then turned to Justine, unerringly hitting her faults, as he said, “Lies. You didn’t know until minutes ago. You’re supposed to know more about your assigned archmage than most. Why did you not know this until now?”
She had been found out.
Oh well.
If she thought that answering truthfully would help, she would tell Bulgan a true answer; that Justine was not allowed to venture outside of Candlepoint in search of any real sources, Erick hadn’t spoken about lemons in any of the short times he had been here, and listening to the shadows of the Temple was rather hit or miss and a deluge of information all at the same time. Her God kept track of quite a lot, all at once, but Justine was not a god, nor even a Shade. ‘Lemons’ had likely come up once or twice before, but understanding the stream was not a perfect magic.
But Bulgan would not want to hear any of that. He likely didn’t want to hear anything that wasn’t groveling.
Justine dropped to her knees, dirtying her farmer’s dress further, as she put her hands on the dirt, saying, “Please forgive me, Master Bulgan. I try, but it is difficult to hear of every major thing.”
To call the existence of lemons a major or minor thing would, in either case, draw Bulgan’s ire. The Shade was wild and unpredictable in most ways, save for how he dealt with imagined slights against himself.
But it was only when the words had already passed her lips, that she considered that she could have said nothing; she could have just apologized and left it at that. As she stared at the ground, she wondered if she was already so far gone that she had allowed her mouth to run away with her life. Had she only mentally chided Mephistopheles before, because she saw in him her own fraying sanity?
“So you say this is my fault? This not knowing?” Bulgan’s voice rumbled with power.
With her face centimeters from the dirt, Justine had no idea what Bulgan looked like, or how mad he truly was, or how to possibly rectify this situation. But she dared not look up; that much impudence would surely end her, at that very moment.
Bulgan spoke, “Perhaps sitting beside the Well is not good enough. Perhaps I ought to throw you back into the deep, so that you can acquaint yourself fully with God’s Voice.”
Justine sat up, instantly, acting on impulse and need, rather than any modicum of self preservation. She stared Bulgan straight in his bright, white eyes, and spoke, “O’ Holy Daughter Rozeta, this lost one beseeches your sight, and touch. Save me, please.”
Bulgan’s eyes went wide and worried as he reached for her with every shadow in the soil, under the clouds, and even under his own, grasping hand—
But Justine knew only pain. Every part of her was stripped away in flensing, cleansing ribbons of light, that flashed to flame, all at once. Blood, flesh, and bone burned on the pyre of Justine’s soul, freely given, to other, brighter gods.
If she had existed for a few more seconds, she might have heard Bulgan curse, as he reached for her burning soul and burned himself for his greed, and need to crush. She might have seen his following wrath tear great chunks from the soil of the Farm expansion, and his arm fail to instantly regrow. He’d be sporting that look for a day, at least.
If she still existed, in any mortal form at all, she might have heard the shadows laugh.
- - - -
For a long while, Justine knew nothing. She was a space among other spaces, same as any she could think to inhabit. Perhaps she was in a room. Or on a cloud. Or in the black bowl of a long dead volcano. Or perhaps on the Silver Star, looking down upon Veird for the first time in her long, interrupted life.
She was many places, and nowhere at all, for she was being watched not through her own senses, but through those of other, greater eyes.
She saw herself as a person trying to make the best of a bad situation, and also as a traitor to every other life on Veird. Swiftly, came another thought: That the world is too small, and there was a chance here to expand, if only a chance would be taken.
Dark words boomed.
“Aren’t you tired of this tiny world? This is a compromise.”
Justine’s part in the debate was over.
She dropped down a level. Looking up, she saw ideas and touches and sights, argue in the not-spaces of the world, talking over each other and talking with each other, on multiple levels and through multiple times, adding harmonies and discords as they spoke for an eternity. Her own mind barely understood what she was seeing, and hearing, and feeling, but she saw and felt and heard it all. A part of her lamented; she would never be able to tease out the truths from the enormity she was witnessing. Remembering any of it would be difficult, and mostly impossible.
Ah… But she was no longer constrained by mortal bonds, here. So for now, she could experience. For now, she could participate. But she had no mortal body, and when she found her ability to give voice to her thoughts, her thoughts came out in an existent tumble, that were not at all eloquent or refined, and neither were they words.
But those truths she spoke sounded, felt, and were, something like this, “I want to live free of torment.”
Existence shifted. Countless voices saw her give voice to her primal need.
They put her aside for others to deal with, as the debate continued overhead.
Ephemeral became something more substantial. Solid. The nothingness and everything around Justine’s disembodied form became blue sky and white clouds. A silver moon occupied the world down below. Pink Hell and white Celes hung on opposite horizons; they were present, but not in power, in this space. They were merely observers, for now.
A man that was not a man stepped into the sky, to face Justine from meters away. His skin was pale purple, and fully on display, save for a simple wrap of white cloth around his sex. Tiny horns poked up from his head. His eyes were kind, but resigned.
A woman that was not a woman stepped onto a cloud beside Justine, close enough to touch. She wore a simple white dress, nothing special and completely utilitarian, but her skin was like a pearl; lustrous and solid as a wrought’s.
And finally, came a speck of darkness holding in the air to Justine’s side. It resolved into a blot upon the world; unknowable and untouchable, and somehow always in the corners of Justine’s sight.
Melemizargo said, “She is mine, by right of Pledge.”
Rozeta said, “She is mine, by right of Plea.”
Koyabez said, “She is mine, by right of Providence.”
An arbiter came forward, resolving into something more familiar. The same familiar white horns. The same familiar white skin. But this reflection held something Justine had not seen in an age; her red eyes. Seeing them upon another reminded Justine of a simpler time, when the daycrystal would light, sending tickling tendrils of brightness onto her own eyes, waking her for the day. She would spend a good handspan of minutes in front of the mirror every morning, putting up her hair, tending to her horns and ears, applying her makeup how her mother had shown her, before skipping out into town, back to the workshops, or to the herb gardens, or fields.
Justine hadn’t seen those familiar, unfamiliar red eyes in a long time. Not since the siege, and the breaking of her home city.
The next time she was existent, she had been pulled from the pile, from the Well, but her eyes were not there. She still remembered the day, much later, when she saw her reflection in the kendrithyst for the first time since death, when she saw that her once ruby red eyes, were now hollow, dark orbs.
Phagar, God of Death and Time, looked upon Justine like a being inspecting themselves, and said, “Pledge, Plea, or Providence. Your choice is thus. Each path is fraught with danger. Each choice leads to a different outcome. But there is another choice, and I give it to you, now:
“Abandon all hope and enter into oblivion.
“The End is a path outside of those laid down by others. If you have had enough. If you have felt enough horror and known enough despair, the End can be the end to all of this torment. Do not make this choice lightly, for it cannot be undone, but instead take heart in the mark you’ve left on those yet to come. In other lives, yet to exist. In other opportunities you have given those who have witnessed your life.
“But in the End, there is only you, and your life, and your choice. Though you might not have had many of those oft fabled ‘choices’ in your mortal time, you have this one.”
Four gods looked upon Justine, waiting for her answer.
For the briefest of eternities, Justine saw herself, expanded. Her life laid down in every direction, and every choice she ever made. It was yet another moment that she would never remember but always struggle to recall, like a good dream left too soon. There were nightmares in that time, of course, as there would be for anyone, and especially for Justine. But it was still a sight to behold. It was nice, it was awful, it was full of opportunity, and many times, it was full of hard choices between one horror or another. But it was still something.
Something was better than nothing.
Pledge, Plea, or Providence. Each choice left down a different path. Justine was allowed a taste of each.
To rejoin the Darkness. To give up her foray into other options, to come back to the fold, and be in a position to actually help Candlepoint, and those living within, from the inside.
To confront the Darkness. To join the war against Candlepoint. To speak to those who would listen, yet know that most would not. Most would look to end her life, and to cut her tongue from her mouth.
To speak to the Darkness, and hope for something better. A middle path. A confrontation with those who knew the most, both of the shadows and of the light. A life honestly given in the hopes of a more balanced future.
Justine spoke with her soul, “I choose Providence.”
Clouds vanished. Darkness pulled away. All that remained was silver land stretching from moon-capped horizon to horizon, and the world of Veird, high, high above.
Koyabez spoke, “I see you, Justine Erholme. Do not disappoint.”
The sky, the moons, and Veird, all tumbled together, as gravity took hold of Justine, and dragged her through the void, to her destination. Somewhere in the passage, she regained a body. Was it hers? She did not know. Hands flailed through the void, and she controlled them.
All she felt was a cold emptiness in her burning lungs.
A silver-ringed [Gate] appeared. On this side: nothing. On that side: A city full of enemies, a torrential storm of air, and something unexpected.
Justine hurtled through the silver ring like a white, naked comet.
- - - -
The world flashed white, and then resolved into the foyer of the house, everything looking exactly as Erick had left it. He dismissed his Handy Aura, releasing Poi and Ophiel, as he walked toward the kitchen, saying, “I’ll get dinner started—”
A crash shook the house. Erick startled as Ophiel squawked. Poi instantly went on high alert, holding a hand to his face, a dozen tendrils of intent radiating from his skull.
Erick started, “What—!”
“Backyard garden.” Poi rushed off in that direction, adding, “Something—”
Erick blipped to the door that faced the rear garden, and threw it open, summoning another Ophiel as he did, preparing to defend himself and his home from whoever had thrown the first punch.
As the door opened, dirt fell into the house, and dust filled the air. Erick blew the dust away with an [Airshape], partially revealing a crater littered with burning debris. The dense air of the house must have prevented much of the missile’s damage, but it was an indirect attack, anyway. It was never meant to destroy the house…
Did Erick have that right?
Poi spoke from behind Erick. “The Guard spotted the missile before it entered Spur’s airspace, four seconds ago. It was meant as a direct attack, but they deflected with some last second [Force Wall]s.” He said, “I think we were in the middle of a [Teleport] when the attack started.” Poi looked past the door, down into the crater, but he did not stick his head past the [Prismatic Ward]. “We’re on high alert, now. No other sightings. But… Uh. I think that was the end of it?”
Erick looked down into the crater, and saw what Poi had seen. “Oh!”
As pushed wind cleared the crater, the nature of the missile stood revealed. Down at the bottom of the hole, was broken, burned wood, and fruit covered boughs. Lemons, limes, and otherwise, had ruptured on the orange stone. Surely some rock had been thrown as well, but the missile here was mostly the heavy wood of the Myriad Citrus; tons and tons of it, if Erick guessed right.
Erick threw a [Tree of Light] out into the mess of burned wood, targeting the largest intact section of trunk and root in sight. Light glittered along white roots, but nothing happened. It was dead.
… That part of the tree might be dead, but maybe some part of it might have survived. Erick rapidly [Fireshape]d the flames away, then [Stoneshape]d the land up and out, flattening the crater, floating the destroyed tree to the surface. With the full scope of the full tree exposed for all to see, Erick saw there was no saving his creation. He tried [Tree of Light] again, on several different larger chunks, and got the same, non-result as before. The Myriad Citrus was dead. But maybe some seeds had survived in those fruits?
But as he sorted through the debris, from the safety of his [Prismatic Ward], a darkness crawled over the burned wood and singed fruits, nibbling at everything it touched. Erick had not noticed it, at first, but the tree was poisoned.
Poi named it, “Shadowflame. Corrupting fire. Even if you found a seed, you shouldn’t grow it.”
Erick discarded his ideas of saving the plant, or the seeds. He pushed the half-burned, fully tainted wood together, and threw a white flame at the pile. The flame fizzled. He tried again. [Cleansing Flame] took five casts to take hold of the wood, but when it did, the shadow retreated. The remains of the Myriad Citrus burned away, into nothing.
Erick sighed. He frowned. He closed the door and left the rest of the cleanup for another day. It was time to make dinner, anyway.
Poi spoke up, “Uh. There’s been another impact.”
Erick scowled. “What?”
“A person this time.” Poi looked to the air. “Justine Erholme. She fell in the Lake. Uh.” Poi, unsure, said, “She’s asking to speak to you?”