Chapter One. 

From the journals of Jain’Steen.

Fractals. Named after a complex geometric shape with nine radiating arms, they are an intermediary stage in the Zembbalight life cycle. (Now extinct.) Forming a symbiotic relationship with a selected warm-blooded organism, the host provides nutrients facilitating the growth of the seed fractal. The fractal remains attached and continues growing throughout the hosts life time. Fractal gift the host abilities or talents specifically related to the different colour variations. As the fractal increases in size the host can expand his abilities, but only within the limitations of the specific colour family. A diluted variation of the Gift can be passed on to male and female offspring in most host species. Distinct from other host species fractals only attach to adult men, not women. More research needs to be done to understand why this is the case. Other pressing questions have necessitated my journey to Alecheed.      

The whole area should have been condemned as a biohazard, the air was putrid and filled with inarticulate groans. Despair and fear pounding against Ilia’s temples. Twisted at her heart. The vast volume of pessimistic emotions took strenuous effort to resist.  

One did not expect the slave and D’char markets to be a pleasant place, but it took gross disregard for the sanctity of life to reach this level of despondency.

Lady Ilia’relaath schooled her features and steadied her heart. Standing on the secure bank of reason she glanced at the turbulent river of insecure passions present in the D’char pen before her.

“We can sell this lot as a group or break them up, but we have other individuals that would better suit your needs.” The guide explained, for some reason he was eager to move on. “None of them have the personal service experience you required; they have previously worked together as household Guards.”

But it could be worth getting people who were already familiar with each other’s idiosyncrasies.

At her age peaceful household staff was a necessity, not a luxury.

And Den and Alf, her current Guards, were only getting older.

But she didn’t need four.

Most of the groups inner turmoil was understandable, there was genuine grief and uncertainty, not a lot of guilt, all positive indications. This group would be grateful to her, consider her a saviour. Her Coercive skills were negligible, and an appreciative servant made the loyalty she insisted on easier to gain.     

“Do any of them have experience gathering or foraging?” Ilia directed hand signals to Den, who relayed them to the guide in the Common tongue.

Ilia noted the oldest slave in the pen’s attention to her hands and intelligent eyes picked up the gist of her inquiry.

“Of course they do.” The guide lied effortlessly.

Ilia kept her face blank. The man's blatant falsehoods were easy to detect. The D’char were from a deceased estate, but he had no knowledge of other details. He deployed no form of Blocking but even with her Reading skills limited to Feelings, his tone, body language and micro mannerisms made distinguishing truth child's play. She didn't need another older servant but the other three would suit her purpose.

The guide’s anxiety notched up another level. He wanted her attention focused elsewhere.  Interesting. Well, she could play the game.  

“Ask them each individually if they will work hard for me,” she instructed Den.

The guide rolled his eyes, as she noted frustration now overlay his nervousness concern. As expected, each of the slaves answered in the affirmative.

One of the younger ones had an unanticipated eloquent Chinquaar accent.

None of them lied.

Ilia had seen enough dull eyes and vacant hopeless stares. Too many reminders of her own inadequacies and inability to implement changes.

“I will take this group. All of them.”   Ilia came to an abrupt decision. It was highly unlikely the older one would be chosen for a situation where their age would be taken into consideration.

Den translated for her.

“My Lady, there's are others, with the skills you want, just a little further along.” The guide was blatantly lying, his level of apprehension rising to terror.

“My decision is final. Take me to the cleric to finalize the deal.”

How far could she push him before he revealed his true desires?

“My lady, as a woman of decerning taste at least let your humble servant show you a curiosity.                                              We have a Digger slave available, very cheap, and with the skills you require.” 

Not long evidently. The guide was frantic. This was important to him. Had he some financial incentive to sell the Digger? With his emotions a chaotic mess she would need others to Reed before finding the facts. Ilya frowned. She'd seen a few Diggers since arriving at First City.

Her grandsons coming of age and Fractal Presentation Ceremony a few days ago had been the primary reason to travel from her home in the city of Chruciaal. But the delight of catching up with extended family and old acquaintances had taken her all over First City.

In most other cities Diggers scurried down darkened tunnels, hiding faces beneath hooded capes, and studiously avoided respectable people. The Coalition's well run propaganda machinery had morphed unique Digger customs, religious and cultural differences into political tools promoting racial distrust. She was glad to see First Cities Godmothers and Commanders taking a more tolerant stand with the despised people.

Ilia sighed. It had taken less than two ninety-nines for the once honoured race to become universally unpopular.

Yesterday, at the bazaar, she purchased a portable heater from a quintet of Diggers running a stall. Yes, there were more Guards casually strolling by in that area. But they were a presence to mitigate trouble not sent by the city administrators to initiate it. At least First City, no doubt because of its close historical and geographical connections to Xiaan, evidently still felt the need to nurture peaceful relations with other races.  

But was the cities general benign sympathy enough to secure a Digger slave a position in a decent Household? Ilia wasn’t sure, and how under the arura such a thing even come about. One of the irreconcilable differences between the Diggers and Coalition was their refusal to implement the accepted social structure. They didn’t believe in slaves, D’char, Godmothers, Commanders or any of the other expected tenets of the current class structure. And her understanding, admittedly limited, was Digger justice demanded the execution of criminals, not slavery.

Ilia’s curiosity outweighed her pounding head. She made the gesture indicating consent and soon found herself at a pen with a single occupant. It didn’t smell to bad.

The Digger was male or D’char, Ilia was not familiar enough with the species to tell and didn’t want to ask. It was unlikely the individual could read hand signals, but the vertically slit eyes were intelligent and bored into her with keen interest and undeniable perception.

It was a bizarre experience to Read such a different mind, but the emotion of hope surfaced and swam with powerful strokes beneath the more usual trepidation she expected for someone in this situation. 

The individual was young. Not a child, they had a comb, but it was only a single finger-width high. Ilia was not a large woman, but most Diggers would have fit comfortably under her arm. This one may have been a little on the tall side for the species but like all the Diggers she had seen, sinuous and slender. Possibly with extra bulky clothing, a hood and in a dark tunnel they could have passed for a person from The Rifts. Of course they would have to secure the long tail out of sight, but it was extremely flexible and therefor an option.  

The Digger’s mottled iron-grey scale pattern was ascetically pleasing, did it mean something in their own culture? It was a pity but if she purchased them it would be constantly covered with a respectable cowl and skirt. The concept of studying one at close quarters was an appealing thought that she couldn’t completely banish despite mentally rebuking herself. The individual was a sentient being, not a research project.       

“Ask if they can make fire.” Ilia signalled to Den. The message was relayed.

“No my lady this one is too young, but soon, very soon. Your humble servant can make potion bags warm, soothing for aching bones. Your humble servant can make drinks cooler, for refreshing. Your humble servant can warm a room or remove the moisture from clothing in a shorter time than a brasier. You humble servant can…”

The guard clipped on the side of the head. “Apologies my lady, he's a bit keen this one.”

Ilia would have preferred the Digger to have kept talking, such an interesting and useful talent their people possessed. Not at all well understood, and nothing like it among the Fractal talents. Was it also a symbiotic relationship? She didn’t know. Did anyone living today know? Was it yet another piece of lost knowledge? Or had Digger and human relationships always been fraught with difficulty? Possibly not, after all the High Council still contained seating for a huge variety on non-human peoples. They were all empty, but the seating still existed.

The Digger spoke Common well enough, but the accent marked them as natives of the Wild Waters area. She stroked her jaw, unusual, but not unheard of. The Digger diaspora was long ago, and they had naturally spread to remote parts of the Coalition to avoid strife and unwanted attention. The Coalition instigated covert pogroms when a population became too large, and this had led to a degree of fluidity among the remaining populations. She hadn’t heard there had been trouble in that area, but she was a minor Godmother, not privy to even a fraction of what was going on even in her own domain.

The avalanche and quantity of flowing words, spouted effortlessly from the slave’s mouth, had negated her efforts to connect specific emotions to precise sentences. But over all there had been nothing alarming. The Digger was desperate for her to buy them. That was to be expected. Working for her persona of a benevolent elderly Lady was the optimum outcome for anyone in the Diggers situation.

“Ask why they have been made a slave.” Ilia instructed Den.

Even as Den asked the question the Digger squirmed with a micro-mannerism of discomfort and his fear level spiked. So they knew hand signals. Impossible for him to have any Mind Reading abilities. They were always associated with yellow Communication Fractals, and diggers were cold-blooded so inheriting, even a watered-down version like hers, was impossible for their species.

The Digger gathered their thought.

The guide, impatient for an answer cuffed them about the head again. “Answer the question.”

“Your humble servant is the parent of a child by the daughter of Anekestren.”

Ilia didn’t see how that answered her question, but the Digger thought it did. The sentence dripped with pride and sorrow. Oozed tenderness and regret. Unlinked intense emotions. Complex and somehow intertwined.  

“You left your life partner and child?”  Didn’t Diggers have weird mating rituals?  She had heard something, but it had been a long time ago and details eluded her now. Anyway it wasn’t good. A servant who had voluntarily abandoned a life partner and child was the antithesis of reliable. And if he had been forced to leave a family, returning to them would be a natural inclination. Tracking a runaway slave was a headache not worth enduring.

“The daughter of Anekestren moves with the light of the sky. She did not see the fruit of her labour or hold our child in her arms.”

Penetrating uncensored grief made authentication unnecessary. Okay, incomprehensible customs. Did his life partner, or the cultural equivalent, die in childbirth? That appeared to be what he was saying. So, he was responsibility for her death?  It could make a warped sort of sense. Better than blaming an innocent child like the people of Kiylan had once done.

Ilia was not callous enough to pursue the subject. She could get the information she wanted with other, less emotionally volatile question.

“Will you cause harm to me or my Household?”

“No, my Lady, as the sky is above, never.”

A direct answer, spoken with an oath, without hesitation. The Digger had his sentiments mostly back under control. That was fast. Was he was emotionally mature or was that typical for the species?

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“Will you work hard at any assignment I give you?”

Den translated her words as, “Will you work hard at any reasonable assignment I give you?”

Serving her since their youth Den knew she didn’t make harsh or unreasonable demands, but it was telling they had used initiative to include the word. Sentimental fool, but she appreciated compassion in those who served her and could not expect the tide to only wash on her shore.

“It will be my pleasure to give some of my life’s energy in your service.” 

Some, not all. It was a conscious word choice, not a linguistic misstep.

“Are you a spy? Do you represent the interest of another House or City?

“What. No. I have never served anyone of the Coalition before.”

Hesitation.

Not an untruth, and the confusion and concern were probably natural given the situation, but there was undeniably also a hidden agenda.

“What do you need to ingest to keep your metabolism functional?”

The was a slight shift in posture, surprise and relief at her question.  She had known of his needs, and so further awkward conversation had been negated.

“Granite and a little silica, My Lady.”

Eazy enough.

“What is your name?”  

“I will answer to whatever it is your delight to call me.” The Digger gave a hopeful smile that reached his eyes.

Ilia shook her head, it was not a necessary argument for today, but you named your own babies. Not other peoples, he was a slave but still someone’s son. Unless she had died, somewhere a mother still held him in her heart.

“Your people do not believe in slaves, why should you serve me?”

It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact. Although she technically owned an obscene amount of household servants Ilia’s ancestral roots were from Chinquaar and the concept of valued staff more closely aligned with her treatment of them. Moss and Mold, she privately counted some of them as her closest friends. She had only been telling her second daughter yesterday new additions were necessary to care for the aged among them.

“My lady please. I will work hard for you. Please. Whatever you spend to buy me, I will make it up to you. I have skills. They will be brought to bear for you. You will not regret it. I give you my word as one who walks under the Aurora in Light and Truth.”

There was no censure in the voice just a soft, desperate pleading.

It didn't matter she had already made up her mind.

After a very long life anything that offered intrigue and stimulated curiosity was of value. Thies days the opportunity to interact with different species was severely limited. Who knew what interesting perspective the digger would bring to conversations? They were supposed to be highly intuitive. What arcane or forgotten knowledge did they possess?

And even if the servant became just another unnecessary accessory the shock value of having him serve tea to her mother would make the cost completely worthwhile.

…….

Chapter Two.

From the journals of Jain’Steen

Yellow Fractals. Yellow fractals grant the host abilities with mental communication. The most common variations are shades of light yellow enable telepathic Sending and Receiving. Mind Reading and Wall Blocking associated with clear bright yellow. Coercion and Mind Manipulation are granted by mustard yellow fractals. Lemon yellow fractals allow Tagging and Spotting. Yellow fractals can be tinted or toned with black and white permitting some interesting variations but are seldom streaked with other colours. Gold fractals have existed but as the only known human host also had a clear yellow fractal specific information on its unique abilities are unknown. The last nest including yellow fractals was completely harvested before the Great War.      

Deranick shifted the geode he had been using to keep the device stationary while he cleaned it so he could work on the part that had been previously covered. About the size of his open hand his efforts had produced half of the object with a shining surface that gleamed in the reflected light with a satisfactory silver lustre.

“What?” Kyd wrote the glyph on his arm and the impression of a question pressed onto Dereniik’s mind.

“A device I think, not sure of its function. How does it appear to you?”

“Circle. Metal. Maybe.”

 “I'm not sure either. Haven't come across anything like it before. There are two separate circles. A smaller one directly central and overlaying the larger. The cutouts from the top disc reveal some archaic symbols on the one below. Now I have cleaned it up a bit the top disc can be moved around a central fulcrum. The cutouts revealing different symbols beneath as it rotates. Both the front and back are covered with word symbols I am unfamiliar with.”

That was not unexpected, language was his specialty, but he hadn’t had time to study any ancient languages.

Deputized Operative Commander Dereniik was fluent in the three most popular modern languages and well versed in a couple of unpopular ones. Not that he advertised the fact. During his rotations as a trainee his abilities with language had earned him a Blue Cognition Fractal. That and natural ability had afforded him enough mental processing power to understand regional language variations and facilitate most interaction back in the days when his team had been commissioned to investigate crime throughout the far-flung Coalition controlled lands.

“You find.” The glyph followed by the question impression again.

Kyd was getting better at non-verbal communication. Any form of exchange had been challenging for his quiet teammate, even when vocal interaction had been physically possible.

“No, Orator has taken it into his mind that I need challenging. Sent this, along with a note, telling me he'll give me a reward if I can work it out in the next couple of nine-days.”

Dereniik didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. But he was grateful.

“Good?”

“I guess so, but his motive is selfish. He has bets going with other Healers, needs me to survive until the beginning of the next rotation so he doesn’t lose sequin.”

Dereniik spoke lightly. He'd gone through cycles of disbelief, anger, frustration and self-pity. Guilt was ever present but today his pain was manageable and that always helped stabilize boisterous unprofitable emotions.  

Since becoming disabled and the demise of the rest of his team twelve months ago, his own department, the Directives Committee had washed their hands of him. He didn’t blame them. Without a right arm and most of his right leg he was about as useful as a candle in a Brightstorm.  And he reminded them of a colossal Departmental failure. After surviving a surprise attack by a drug cartel Dereniik had slogging his way through a monster inhabited jungle. Months later when he eventually returned home, he had been awarded a rank upgrade, and expediently forgotten.  

“It looks like this has been exposed to fire at some time.” Derrick said returning to his cleaning project. “The flame hasn't damaged the material. It feels almost metallic, and the writing is meticulously etched, not painted, but there are traces of ash in every grove.”

“Clue’s.” Kyd scripted on his arm.

“There are twenty-eight divisions on the outer circle. Could be a reference to the twenty-eight months in a rotation but they are not evenly spaced. Honestly, without being able to recognize the script that’s just a wild guess. The device could have belonged to a culture or people that didn't divide the rotation into twenty-eight months.”

“That happened?”

“Yes, our current system was only widely accepted after the Great War, and not universally standardized until after the Power Wars when the Coalition consolidated.”

His own people, the Hunn, had held out against Coalition rule, until the monarchy was assassinated. Even after one-hundred and eighty rotations many older people still clung to a calendar based on the tidal movements of the Great Lake.

“Script or symbols.”

“More patterned than either. Something like the doodles you used to make in your workbook when you were supposed to be taking notes in class. Lots of flowing curves.”

Working on a stubborn blemish, the device shot from under the geode. Catapulted across the room to land with a soft ping on the flagstone floor of the suite Dereniik occupied.

God’s Light. Now he was going to have to get down to pick it off the floor. Getting down was a problem, but getting up was strenuous, humiliating and agonizing.

 Dereniik man-handled his crutches into a position of, not exactly comfort, more a less uncomfortable position, and went to stand.

“Sorry Kyd, what were you saying before I so impolitely interrupted you?”  

Kyd waited until the device was retrieved and Dereniik’s breathing, and heartrate normalized.

“Doodles. Script. Here.”

Dereniik took a few moments to think about his friends message.

“Do you mean your doodles were script. It is an actual language, and you know where there is some similar here at Chruciaal?”

“Alastyyd. Knew.”

Alestyyd.

One of their former teammates.

Grief hit him like a landslide.

Sometimes he could go for days without thinking of all the people who deserved to be alive instead of him. Gods Light. There had been a whole settlement destroyed by the drug cartel. Men, women and children.

Children.

He had tried to help the ones he could.

Gods Light he had tried.

One little girl-child had been half buried from a rock fall.

So badly crushed she didn’t survive.

But she had been brave.

He had lied to her.

Made promises he could not keep.  

If there was any justice in the world she should have survived.

Why him?

Alastyyd.

Fun loving, good-natured Alastyyd. He had grown up in the capital.

His mothers only son.

Spent his childhood exploring Chruciaal’s ornately beautiful, vast and mostly uninhabited underground tunnels and passages. Then shared the wonders of his discoveries with his team. In the five rotations between graduating and the disaster at the beginning of this rotation Dereniik and the rest of the team had called the place home, but only scratched the surface of the cities secrets. Alastyyd had been their guide.

A great friend.

Kyd’s best friend.

Dereniik stopped.

Noticed the salty taste in his mouth.

Wiped his remaining hand across a wet face.

It didn’t matter, nobody visited, and Kyd couldn’t see.

Not anymore.

At least, not with his eyes.

And the sense that replaced sight when Invisible had to be developed for a double hand full of rotations before small details became something the brain could interpret with consistent accuracy. When Dereniik was Invisible most people were just a roughly human shaped shimmer shadow. The attack that left Dereniik disabled, and trapped Kyd in the Void, permanently Invisible and unable to interact normally with the physical world.

“Take. You. Now?”  Kyd scrawled.

“How far away?”

Dereniik felt an impression slide across the half-way point of his palm.

Half a hands breath, he could manage that. Probably.

The city of Chruciaal was carved back into a cliff face and covered multiple levels. Once it had supported a population of close to ninety-nine thousand, but mankind had not recovered from the devastation suffered by successive Power Wars. Only a fraction of the city was now populated. The disintegrating into dust and disrepair.    

Dereniik hobbled through spacious tunnels, well-lit with luminescent biophyte. Gods Fire crackled cheerfully reflecting off colourful mosaics and walls artfully arranged with semi-precious gems. A smaller tunnel turned into a narrow walkway before opening into a wide cave filled with battel costumed sculpture. A light grimy powder lingered, causing Dereniik to sneeze as his crutches left small hollows and muffled clunks on the upswept floor after each shuffled step. 

The ceiling, sprinkled with luminescent moss rose to an indeterminate height, giving the illusion of being outside under the aurora. It lent the area an eerie and mysterious air.

Decorative clusters of Grape Agate and trailing vines of an unknown material were artistically arranged at regular intervals.

Tunnel’s branched away and silent dark doors barred access to long forgotten areas. A tunnel branching right was their destination.

Regular panels carved directly into stone decorated the walls. In the distance they faded into darkness. Not a lot of biophyte had colonized the section, so Dereniik limited himself to the part of the tunnel closest to them. People could exist in tunnels without Luminescent Biophyte, but air could turn vapid or harmful without it. It wasn’t worth the risk. The ceiling was supported with arches and the domed ceiling joined the walls without a seam.

Each panel had been decorated with intricate patterns and fine craftmanship. The depictions were generally urban, with a few landscapes interspersed among them. An instant, frozen in time, illustrating a time long past. Mysterious shaped architecture, unknown clothing styles and what he deduced were machines performing enigmatic functions. How had such beauty and knowledge been forgotten?

Regularly spaced characters, glyphs, letters and symbols representing a wide variety of scripts, ran as a boarder surrounding each panel. Not simply decoration. Dereniik recognized an early prototype of Common Glyphs. An ancient variation of the Chinquaar language. Xianees and Hunn. 

In the bottom left corner, two handprints and more of the enigmatic characters identifying the long-forgotten individual artist.

“Small handprints,” Dereniik commented. “Youths, I would conclude the gallery was a student graduation project back when Phasing Carving was taught at the capital.”

“Alastyyd agree, How?”

Kyd’s interest in artistic endeavors had not been limited to drawing, but the ability to produce an accurate rendering in charcoal of a person’s facial feature had helped the team close a few cases. This place would have been of natural interest to him.

“This granite is all over Chruciaal, the murals were sculpted with Phase Carving while the rock was soft.”

Dereniik hobbled to stand before the third panel. The walk had been more taxing than he had realized, and Nostalgia tugged at his tired mind.

“I know the vantage point the artist had in mind when he made this. It’s changed a bit, but this is my old hometown, Hunnaal.”

The patterns of light and shadow made by the multiple cave entrances on the cliff face had been rendered well but the huge lake was the focus and most unique feature of the city. Dereniik’s eyes gravitated to the glyphs, of an older style but they described a prominent Great Tree Circle, (by name), a common plant that grew well in the district, a personal name, amphibious animal, a statue, temple, marketplace, Nisayaan roost and the virtues of the reigning queen.

Dereniik inspected the city scape with renewed appreciation. Because he already knew the position of a couple of surviving Great Trees, the location of the complete circle was not difficult to find. Why did they ancients name them? He had seen a similar thing in Amaraanth. The attention to detail was amazing. A small cluster of figures on the ostentatious palace balcony halfway up the cliff-face was the ruling monarch and her entourage. Once he knew what to look for, even the circlet of ninepins crowing the queen’s brow were discernable.

His hand instinctively went to the head of the nine-pin he used to secure his cowl.

The complete Great Tree circle and the reigning monarch were obvious inclusions in a scene of Hunnaal. But why had the other features been chosen? With a plethora of statues adorning every man-made structure and available rock shelf, what made the hero Taloon important? He had been a popular hero among adventurous youth, but not a principal or significant player in the parthenon. And among the ninety-nine temples, why single out the Glass domed  “Place of Gathering Remembrance?”

“This one.” Kyd tugged on his cowl and drew his attention to another panel not much further along.

After a brief comparison Dereniik concluded the script surrounding the frame of the picture was the same language as that on the device. Not that reading either was an option.

Shades of grey and silver dominated the granite in this area and with limited lighting many of the surrounding panels were monotone. Time had erased much of the artists visions leaving smudges and faded tones hinting at previous grandeur and leaving much to the imagination of the observer.

Kyd had drawn Dereniik’s attention to one of the few panels still imbued with vivid colour. Light bouncing off two manmade pillarlike city structures carved into a rockface. They shone bronze and contrasted with the verdant green of the forest surrounds. Sparkling in the daylight a waterfall plunged to an aqueduct, flowing into a gliding river at the foot of the cliffs. Behind the city mountain peaks marched up into the Aurora. The air shimmering with petite quartz crystals in pink, green and lilac tones.

Around the edge the script that had reminded Dereniik of doodles could have been mistaken for an unintelligible pattern.

And carved into each corner of the frame, glistened in shell pastel colors, was a replica of the device Dereniik had secured in a pocket of his cowl. Four more miniature circle within the circle, etched with enigmatic writing in impossibly tiny script.  

“In all my travels I have never seen anything like this city.”

“Many the same.” Kyd answered.

Dereniik took a moment to consider his friend's words before arriving at the conclusion that Kyd understood this city was unique, but that many of the scenes depicted in this section of tunnel were equally unfamiliar.

A thought took his breath away.

It was a long tunnel, each panel of equal width. A couple of body lengths at most. The pillars supporting the arched ceiling were perhaps an arm's length wide. Dereniik counted at least twenty panels before they faded into shadow. Lining both sides of the tunnel. If each one depicted a settlement or city, even if they were not as populous as thoes he had so far examined, it was a lot of cities.

A lot of cities that had fallen to wars generations ago.

The great and proud Coalition boasted nine city states or regions. Or only eight now, Chinquaar had pulled out four rotations ago. Cutting themselves off and refusing all attempts at parlay.

Dereniik sighed.

Humans didn’t need the dangers of the jungle to finish them off. They were doing a great job of it all by themselves.