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“Let me go to him! He needs me!” she’d pled; above, out, beyond the happenings inside of that sheltered small world. But,
“Interference is forbidden,” responded icy, implacable Fate. “The die may not be recast, for you or for anyone else.”
She could be stubborn as well, though; refusing to listen, or leave the center of worlds.
“Not a full change! I just need to be there! I… I can find a way to help from inside. Please, Lady Fate, let me go!”
And she had... At a price.
XXXXXXXXXX
Alexion arrived in a shimmer of light. Found himself alone in a crowded and noisy plaza, having lost his grip on Falk’s calloused hand somewhere in transit. Came out through the gate to a place he hadn’t expected to see again. He was in Karellon, aye… but also at Magister Serrio’s fair, surrounded by drifting mage lights, swelling music and a weirdly up-swept horizon. The world as a jeweled velvet bag, seen from within. There were people, as well. Many of those, but none of them his.
Alexion backed to put something solid… an advert column… behind him, not stopping till humming metal and rustling paper ground itself under his spine and his shoulder blades. He blinked and coughed at the food smells and noise, looking around for Zibeg, Falk, Rowdy… anyone he knew and could trust.
“They are safe, Alexi,” said a deep and resonant voice, as an elegant tiefling stepped forward out of the gathering crowd. Magister Serrio. It was his spell that had seized and shifted Alexion, who reached for a sword that stubbornly refused to be drawn. Not here. Not without Serrio’s leave.
Alexion shook his head, sending scruffy brown hair into narrowed green eyes. All of his hard-won survival skills were wrong, here. This was a place of harmless amusement, and once he had known what that meant. Serrio did not come any closer. Just bowed, saying,
“Your Majesty, those who crossed with you are being attended to.”
Majesty? And, attended to, how?
The tiefling gestured, creating an image of freed miners and townsfolk milling around the West Gate near Ever Clear Fountain. They were being herded and healed by the city guard, if the spell globe image he saw was truthful. They were calling and signing for “Chatter” or “Bonesetter,” sometimes just “Elf”. His folk, searching for him. Not this lot of sleek, well-dressed strangers.
Alexion forced himself to stillness. To absolute outward calm. Betrayed nothing to Serrio or anyone else. If he could leave the fair, it would be simple enough to find and rejoin all the others.
If he could leave.
Alexion looked around for a means of escape, seeking a path through those clamoring people and packed, noisy tents. Thought he recognized his father, standing near Magister Serrio, although time had ground down Ildarion, if so. The emperor seemed haggard and shrunken, with Oberyn’s blessing stripped completely away. He was crying, too, which meant nothing at all to Alexion.
Not far from that possible father stood a slender and scholarly elf whose blood called to Alexion’s. Another relative, this one leaning urgently forward and trying to speak, fighting some magical ban. Might have been Little Guy… Korvin… grown to adulthood. Tough to say (and didn’t much matter).
Among the assorted others, only two were related at all: a dark-haired, green-eyed young nobleman and a taller, muscular blond holding tight to a skittish griffin. Alexion recognized neither of them. He took all of this in at a glance, between pounding heartbeats and ragged deep breaths, fighting panic. He wanted a sword or defensive spells, but none of those were allowed at the fair. Fate had a way of making things happen, though… most often to him.
A strange sword appeared as Alexion took a very short and difficult step away from the column’s shelter. Glowing with power, the sword hovered point-downward, three yards away. It crackled and spat, seemingly made of shadow and light spun together. Looked fated, like the weapons that Falk’s drunken heroes always struggled to yank from the corpse of a dragon or god.
His maybe-father started toward it, hand extended to reach for that floating blade, but so did a young elven girl dressed in thief leathers. A human paladin tried to interpose himself but could not. The sword’s enchantment sent the young mortal reeling back into the crowd. Not his problem, not his concern.
Alexion hadn’t spoken yet. Too enraged, bewildered and anxious. Not trusting his own newly found voice, at first. Clearly, something had happened, though. He’d been freed of his curse and summoned back for a reason; important to them, but nothing at all to him. Just… couldn’t leave without getting some answers.
“Stop!” he commanded aloud, instinctively drawing on Karellon’s manna. A wave of power radiated from Alexion, bringing everything around him to a screeching halt except for Magister Serrio, the former emperor, that roguish girl and the husky blond griffin-rider. The fair’s music and clamor fell silent, making it easier to think. Only…
What to say, that wasn’t a curse? What to ask, that wasn’t: “Why didn’t you help me?!” What to do, but lash out or flee?
Alexion whirled on the blond, in whom he could sense Alyanara’s blood, and his own.
“You,” snarled the exile. “What has happened here? How have my power and name been returned?”
The young elf realized that he was being spoken to. He came forward, leaving three friends and a griffin standing behind him like worried statues.
“Your Ma…” he began, but Alexion cut him off with a violent head shake.
“No. I want no rank and no honors. I repudiate everything, so witness the gods and powers! I just want to know. We’re related. Tell me how and then tell me what’s happened.”
“Yes, right. Of course. You are my great-grandfather, Sir. I am… was… Valerian Tarandahl, now Valinor. I was third heir to Ilirian.”
“Never heard of it,” he said rudely, studying the young elf for likeness to an infant he’d held only once, or to Kaazin, abandoned in Deep Mar, so long before. This boy didn’t look much like either.
“It is a new realm, Sir,” explained Valerian, hurriedly. “Not much at all compared to Karellon… but all the world to me. I would not have been Silmerana… there is my brother Lerendar and my father Keldaran, before me… and Grandad… but I would have lived there.”
Probably true. There was a rough, up-country northern feel to the youngster, who looked about as fit for the throne as Alexion felt. Meanwhile, that girl had been edging forward, thinking herself unseen. Suddenly grown very powerful, with all of the city’s manna at his disposal, Alexion hurled her and his father away with an impatient gesture.
“I said, stop!” he repeated, magically doubling their weight. Watched both of them crash to the ground like toppled statues. Then, “Let’s have the rest of it, Boy,” he demanded, returning his gaze to Valerian. “What happened here?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
His descendant looked away from the pair on the ground, straightened broad shoulders and nodded.
“Sir… I believe that Vernax burst from the egg and then… somehow… the dragon was killed by His… former… Majesty.”
“Knocking him right off the throne. Straightforward, so far,” interrupted Alexion. “But none of that would free me from exile.” Or let him out of the hells on a visitor’s pass.
“That was my doing, Alexi,” said Magister Serrio, quietly. “I revealed your name to your father. Hearing it, he at once rescinded the curse and summoned you home.”
Not home. Not any longer. Alexion stared, feeling wooden and empty, wherever he wasn’t burning with rage.
“You expect gratitude,” he accused, glaring hard at the tiefling. “I don’t have any to give, Magister. You expect me to take the throne in my father’s place. Well, he and his empire can rot in the lowest pit for eternity. I want my people. I want to see Her, the baby... my son. After that…”
As if referring to She-of-the-Flowers gave her some kind of permission, the goddess manifested herself. First as a shower of blossoms, then as a naked young elf-woman. Crying and laughing. Reaching out for him with both hands.
He had nothing to throw over her slender bare form, but then young Valerian whipped off his own scarlet cloak and handed it over. Alexion draped the garment over the shivering elf-woman, nodding thanks to his great-grandson. She pulled the red cloth tight around herself, then burrowed into Alexion’s arms, repeating his name many times.
So… he wasn’t the foolish young hero who’d freed her, so long before. He was weary and scarred, inside and out. But she was no longer a goddess, either. Alexion touched her face, feeling warm flesh, rather than powerful manna.
“What…?”
“It was the price,” she whispered, looking up at him with wide, violet eyes. “Fate would not let me come back to you, otherwise.”
Alexion pulled her close, too confused to feel much at all for this beautiful, golden-haired woman.
“I might not be worth it. You may come to regret your sacrifice,” he admitted after a moment. “Not who I was, any more… But I thank you, anyhow. Thinking of you kept me alive when I would have died.” Then, “Alyanara? Kaazin? What news of them?”
“Our daughter is well. She is High Lady of Ilirian, where I have remained since being forced to cast you aside. I do not know the other one well…”
“But he lives?” probed Alexion, recalling his son’s tense, hopeful face.
“Yes,” said the statue-turned-goddess-turned-elf. “And now he hunts you in vengeance.”
Figured. His questions were answered, his future a knotted and thorny mess. All that Alexion wanted now was to leave this place far behind him, but that option suddenly vanished. See, a god had been sacrificed. She’d divested herself of divinity, near the shortest day of the year. An innocent act, done in blind and unthinking love, but one with immediate consequences.
Everyone felt the manna beginning to fade. Sensed their gods start to lose strength, undone by She-of-the-Flowers. All of their deities had started as One, shattered long ages past, and the act of a member affected them all.
“What? I… no!” cried that fallen young goddess, clinging tight to Alexion. “I only wanted to…”
“To empower my uncle’s curse!” snarled the female rogue, rising to lunge at that fated and glimmering sword, weight or no weight. “This is the will of Falcoridan Arvendahl, may his name be the last thing you hear!”
In that orchard of frozen people, only Magister Serrio, Ildarion, Sheraza, Alexion, She-of-the-Flowers and Val could still move. Ildarion, Val and Alexion jumped to block the wild-eyed and beautiful girl. Near-misses, for the most part. Sheraza dodged the prince and the former emperor, her fingertips just brushing Destroyer’s hilt. But it toyed with the desperate girl, flicking to sparkling bits when she reached for it. Her hand shot through the glittering cloud, touching Val, instead. He’d hurled himself in a powerful tackle. Struck with a meaty thud, cracking her ribs with the force of his impact. Sheraza gasped, hit the ground hard and got up again, whirling on her attacker like a wounded chimera. Val surged to his feet in a rattle of metal and leather, reflexively armoring up.
In the meantime, the gods began to appear; a few at a time, first, then all of them. Frost Maiden, Firelord, Ashlord, Hyrenn, Father Ocean, Lady Flame, even Lord Oberyn; all of them drawn to this sudden hinge of reality; all of them leaking manna like shattered pots.
No one had time to react or give honors. The power of Chaos flooded Sheraza, for she was its game-piece in this fight. The beautiful, furious girl flared with red light; with spells and weapons that came from the wild, empty space between worlds. She did not taunt or try to draw out her enemies, again and again just reaching out for that elusive sword. Valerian made it his business to get in her way, as the façade was stripped from reality, revealing the sigils and glowing lines underneath it; the places where just one strike might bring it all crashing to ruin.
Alexion was slower to act, fighting a mostly defensive battle. The realm had fixed upon him as its emperor, but he did not wish to serve; mostly rejecting his part in the game.
Waves of discorporation and static flared through the silent fair and its frozen, gaping crowd. Sheraza touched Valerian, who could have killed her many times, had he been willing to slaughter Prince Nalderick's chosen love. He’d been trying to block her instead, keeping himself between frenzied girl and fated sword. Sheraza’s touch did no immediate harm, but a minion of hers flashed off of the girl and onto Valerian. Like a demonic red garrote, that glittering rope wrapped itself tight around the elf’s throat and started constricting. Valerian managed to get a hand up between its coils and his own flesh, crashing to one knee as he battled for blood-circulation and air.
Magister Serrio stood with his arms folded across his chest. The tiefling did nothing but watch, standing by just as She-of-the-Flowers had had to, for so very long. Like the flickering gods, he was forbidden to take an active part in events… except for speeding Vernax’s return to life and causing the boy’s groping free hand to encounter a potion bottle instead of his knife.
‘The power of the ocean,’ Queen Shanella had told him. Val had a hand wedged under that tightening ruby garrote, giving himself a sliver of air and letting trapped blood drain out of his head. The cord was beginning to slice through his fingers, though, biting through glove and flesh and down to the bone underneath. Needed a blade. Didn’t get one.
His other hand found the potion bottle, which couldn’t cut drek, unless it was broken. He’d dropped to a crouch, forgetting everything else in the battle not to have his head taken off by that demonically shrinking garotte. Managed to smash the potion bottle on a paving stone.
Couldn’t hear anything else over the roar of his own pounding blood. Was barely able to see through his rapidly blurring vision. But shards of glass exploded outward. Thick fluid spattered, striking Valerian’s purpling face and neck. Bea’s potions were always strong, and they acted fast. This one was spiked with sea-elven magic, as well.
His great-grandfather was suddenly there, taking up one of the bottle shards to slice at that glowing red cord, as the potion sank into Valerian. Not just love, but temporary divinity filled him, granting the young elf a fraction of Father Ocean’s great might. And not just him, but the other two, for the potion's spell divided three ways. Miche and Pilot were almost united in space, if not time, and they felt the potion's effect just as strongly. That ruby cord snapped like old string; fell to the pavement as a rain of red splinters, freeing Valerian.
But as for Ildarion, the former emperor had one thing left he could do. As manna drained like blood from the gods, begun by She-of-the-Flower’s descent… as his son Alexion leapt to aid the struggling northerner… Ildarion pushed past Serrio to reach for that glowing and twirling sword.
His fingers, too, brushed the hilt, which seemed to move sideways out of Ildarion’s grasp. The call of the fated weapon grew ever louder inside of his head, beating and roaring like war-bells. The Arvendahl girl and She-of-the-Flowers both rushed over. The fallen goddess wasn’t a fighter, but she could get in the way, using the last of her manna to strike Sheraza half-blind.
Alexion’s command spell faded, slowly releasing the crowd, bringing others into the fight. A young, red-haired ship captain, two paladins and a mortal wizard came pounding up, along with a pair of monstrous assassins. The last two were fading just like the gods, for draining manna robbed them of magical un-life with each silent heartbeat. No matter, for the world was coming apart, shredding to symbols and lines, with glowing machinery visible below.
Meanwhile, the Destroyer called to both Chaos and Order. There had to be bloodshed and pain in the winning, though. That fated sword could not simply be reached for and taken.
Ildarion did the only thing left to him. Cursed by Fate and worn out with loss, the former emperor waited for the terrible sword to become substantial again. Timed it just right, crouching low and then hurling himself underneath its spinning sharp point. Stood up, next, driving Destroyer’s blade through his own back and into his right lung. He climbed to his feet, pushing the sword through his chest with a wet, grating crunch.
Grinding his teeth against pain, Ildarion forced himself upright, hissing and cursing as the blade was sheathed in his torso. Crackling spears of red Chaos and flaring white Order spread from the wound, burning his chest nearly hollow.
Ildarion managed to straighten, then staggered across to Alexion. Or… almost. He stumbled halfway, roasted and dying from inside. Valerian and then Nalderick rushed to catch him before he could fall. One on either side, they supported his reeling walk to the exiled prince.
The former emperor wanted to look in his oldest son’s eyes. Hoped to see something of love or forgiveness there, but the prince would not meet his gaze. Coughing blood, Ildarion wheezed,
“Take it… strike…”
Take it. Do what they've fated, honed you for. Play their game. A banshee’s wail pierced the air; terrible, haunting and sad. But maybe she cried for them all.