5 : 362 : 04 : 18 : 59

We’re halfway home across the plains when it starts to rain. Wet, heavy sleet, like used tissues slamming in your face. I want to hurry and run back in, but granny’s with me and she’s not competing in the women’s sprint this season. Ditching my mentor out in the hail and going home first doesn’t seem politically correct either. Wouldn’t put it past granny to blast off people’s knees just to make a point on the importance of manners. So I endure getting wet and cold out of solidarity.

With my numb hands, I hold the front door open and wait for the senior citizen to catch up.

“Any day now. Take your time…Don’t exert yourself. Watch your step. Keep breathing.”

“Shut the trap, bellyache,” Master Teresina grunts as she goes in.

As soon as we’re up on the second floor, and shed off our wet coats, the Master demands tea.

“That pot ain’t gonna warm itself up, runt! Get to it!”

“I will, I will, geez!” I grumble and fire up the stove.

At least I can use magic for this much. This wondrous power can light up a stove. You can’t say it’s all useless. It can do things beside murder people.

“What shall it be today?” I ask and browse the tin cans on top of the cupboard. “The Mascalan blend? Rhudon? English Breakfast?”

“Chamomile,” the old crane orders. She sets her cane by the wall, hangs up her shawl to dry on a hook by the oven, and takes a seat at the kitchen table, audibly sighing.

Chamomile—to soothe the nerves?

I thought she seemed a tad moody before, maybe even moodier than usual, but is it serious?

“A word, rookie,” granny grunts while I put out our cups.

I pause. “What?”

What have I done this time? More importantly, I’ve been here for over three years and I’m still a rookie?

“A witch knows nothing ‘til she’s fifty,” Master Teresina answers my unvoiced thought. “So my mentor told me, and her mentor told her, and so on and so forth. After mere three years, you’re still a toddler when it comes to magic. Barely grown enough to stand. Yet, we need you to run. Even I think that’s unreasonable.”

She pauses to rub her tired eyes.

“Well, considering it’s only been three years, you’ve come a decent way.”

I stare at the old woman with open alarm.

“Granny, what’s this? Don’t tell me you’re dying? Because this sounds a lot like the ‘I’m dying’-speech. And I don’t want to hear it.”

“Keep the lid on it for a second,” she replies. “Yes, I’m not going to be around forever, that should go without saying. Because we’re mortal. Our days are numbered. But rest assured, I’m not about to keel over just yet. That’s not what I wanted to tell you. The thing is—I kind of care about you. Sometimes.”

“Aww. I’m touched. I really am. But you’re a little too old to play the bratty role. And to qualify as a MILF, you’d first have to be a mother, and second, somebody I could actually be expected to want to—”

“—And at all the other times, I hate your guts,” granny resumes. “But that’s neither here nor there. At the end of the day, I took on the role of your mentor. And, as such, I feel it’s my undesirable duty to dispense a bit of general life advice too.”

“Really?”

I can’t believe my ears. The timing seems a little too good. Don’t tell me she's noticed the big problem I've been mudwrestling with, and decided to lend a hand? Now there’s the wingwoman I never expected!

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, twerp,” Master Teresina raises a finger, right as excitement is about to shoot out of my nose and ears. “I’ve only one tip to spare for you tonight. Just one.”

And that is?

“Don’t tempt Irifan with talks of vacations or leaving Orethgon. It’s torture.”

“Eh?” I frown at her so-called advice. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

How does she know what we were talking about this morning, anyway? There was nobody else around. Did she read my mind again?

Granny sighs and shakes her head.

“You have so little self-awareness, I sometimes wonder if you’re sentient at all. But you have this uncanny talent to light a fire in the people around you. I don’t know if I should call it a gift or a curse, but in some cases, it’s definitely not a good thing.”

“Granny, are you being offensively cryptic on purpose?” I ask. “Because I hate that and wish you stopped.”

Master Teresina gestures at the bench across the table.

“Plant your plump butt on that board and I’ll tell you a little story.”

I do as told and sit facing the wrinkled bat, listening, with no idea what’s to come.

“This is a story I shouldn’t tell you,” she prefaces, “because it’s none of my business, and especially none of your business. But I think you should know, regardless, before you go and make an even bigger clown of yourself. I can’t bear to watch it anymore.”

“So don’t?”

Granny ignores me and continues, “Tell me, why do you suppose such a clever and gorgeous maiden ended up stuck in a cold old castle in the middle of godsforsaken nowhere?”

“That’s a good question. I’ve asked myself that question many times. I’m still not sure how it happened. Guess I was just born under the unlucky stars, huh?”

“You are here, because we took pity on you, and for no other reason. Then again, in a very ironic way, you and Irifan are a lot alike.”

“Could you be any more vague, old bag? I’m not even sure you’re here anymore.”

“You want clarity, I’ll give you clarity, you mismatched clothespin. But don’t come telling me afterwards how you wish you didn’t know.”

At long last, Master Teresina begins the story she wanted to share:

“As you may have gathered, Irifan isn’t your run-of-the-mill noble. Her grandfather, who founded the Order, Ludwig Van Menneroix, was a general of the Royal Army of Alberion, and a confidant to the late King, Banderwahl II. And he was the first Duke of Orethgon. A title bought by Ludwig with gold, not one inherited through blood, but it made him and his family aristocracy nonetheless. It was a bit of a fad at the time. You bought a piece of land somewhere, got a fancy paper, and were a noble. The state was handing out ranks like candy, to get people of wealth to cultivate the land.”

“Cool.”

“Ludwig and his family never even saw their small duchy. They ought to have led a long life of luxury in the heart of the Kingdom, enjoying His Majesty’s favor. But then love came into the picture.”

“Love?” I repeat the unexpected word.

“Yes. Love,” the witch says. “One day, Ludwig’s daughter, Criselle, met a handsome young man in the capital, and it was the old classic, at first sight. One thing soon led to another and before the family knew it, the young heiress was expecting, outside marriage. When the talk turned to tying the knot, an itty-bitty problem emerged: Criselle’s crush had failed to mention he was no average Prince Charming, but literally a prince, the Prince—the eldest son of Banderwahl II of Alberion. And his father was already one foot in the grave.”

My jaw drops at the reveal. “You’re joking. Irifan’s a—”

“No,” Teresina interrupts me with a grim shake of her head. “Don’t think there’ll be a happy end to this romance. The Prince had knocked up the daughter of some upstart barely a step above peasant—it was a scandal. A disgrace. And the Court was going to have none of it, the Queen Mother least of all. No word of the affair could be allowed to reach the public. The King ordered Ludwig to take his own life. To his once dear, many times decorated friend, he gifted a dagger. Ludwig’s widow was sentenced to house arrest till the end of her days. And young Criselle was banished from Lincastle, together with her child. Was damn close they didn’t vanish off the face of the earth, but the Prince begged his father for clemency. In the end, Criselle was allowed to live, on one inviolable condition: she and her daughter would go to their distant duchy, and neither would set foot outside its borders ever again. And that was that.”

The title that was supposed to be their ticket to prestige, made a prison.

Only humans could come up with anything so twisted.

Granny wraps up her tale,

“Not many years after moving to Orethgon, Criselle fell ill. A sheltered city girl like her couldn’t deal with the harsh mountain air, and before long, she passed away with pneumonia. Only her child was left, to reign over her own prison, paying for the mistakes of people she hardly knew. And that, my dear pupil, is the reason why you only ever see our leader in her dreary office, and why she never travels or goes anywhere. Of course, she’ll tell you it was her own choice, that this is where she's needed. But there was never any real choice there. Her guard are both her protectors—and her wardens. If Irifan ever ventured outside the borders of Orethgon, for any reason, the soldiers have orders to execute her on the spot.”

“What? You mean, even after taking over, Prince Dashing never revoked the sentence?”

Granny snorts. “Does that man even remember the whole thing? What was it to him, but a passing fling? People are quick to put things inconvenient for them out of their minds. Or maybe he thinks staying here is for Irifan’s own good? Don't know, don't care. Alberion has another Queen today, from a more properly incestuous dynasty. The last thing the Court wants is a ghost from the past to haunt them. The Queen Mother has even sent assassins before, to tie up loose ends. Of course, she's going to have to send better than that.”

Damn. That's some backstory.

In retrospect, I may have said a few things I maybe shouldn’t have to Irifan.

Acting like I knew any better.

“So there you have it,” Master Teresina concludes. “Do me a favor and don’t try to drag Irifan out of here. Unless you think you can commit better than his majesty, and look after her all the way till the bitter end. You, who couldn’t survive a day out there on your own.”

“That’s…”

Maybe not something you dive into without thinking twice.

A deal somewhat heavier than ordinary marriage.

Granny nods at my silence.

“Yes. This place may not be all roses all the time, but it’s still better than being a wretched fugitive. Here she’s not alone. She has the Order. Her way of fighting back against injustice in the world. If you really want to be of use, then do as you’re asked, and do a damn good job too. That's about the best any of us can.”

“...”

“Now get me my godsdamned tea—with a hearty twist of gin.”

You know what?

I might need the same medicine.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

5 : 272 : 05 : 11 : 33

I spend slow hours aboard the Solveig rehearsing for my upcoming stage performance. Meanwhile, Master Endol, Captain Gideon, and Chief Officer Sam play card on the sunny deck without a worry in the world. Then the monkey starts ringing a bell and Captain Gideon returns to his post behind the steering wheel. Soon his excited shrieking puts a stop to my homework.

“Ey yo, dear passengers! This's yer Captain speaking! All hands on the deck and ready, pronto! We’re about to enter Dominion airspace in another twenty!”

“Twenty what?” I ask. “Minutes?”

“Seconds!”

“Was about time.” I throw Endol’s scroll away. “Any longer at this and I could apply to the Shakespeare Academy. Apply, and fail. Fail, but with grace, wearing stockings and a rose between my canines.”

I hop and skip to the bow and gaze yonder into the blurry grayscale panorama, next to the cheering chimpanzee.

My first time seeing the fabulous elfland—I can barely stay in my pants. There are no pictures or written descriptions of Amarno in the human realm. Nothing by real eyewitnesses, anyway. Only a few artistic interpretations of “how it might look,” with a big disclaimer of, if it were real. Like outer space before they threw Hubble up there.

Oh, where art thou, Romeo? Come on!

Master Endol goes over to his mystery gadget, grips a switch on the side, and begins the countdown.

“Disconnecting from the moonrail in ten...Nine...Eight...Seven...Six...”

The takeoff didn’t feel like anything, so how’s braking?

Nobody’s wearing seatbelts, can’t be that bad. I grip the ropes tight, just to be safe.

“...Three...Two...One.”

He skips zero and turns the switch. Then whomp—in a heartbeat, the restless earth below stops rippling.

We go seamlessly down from super speed to eight knots like nothing. There’s no twist, but I still feel like a bug smashed into the windshield, unsure if I’m whole, or a splatter. Until a cool breeze on my face revives me.

Not only did we cross the whole wide ocean in a matter of hours, we flew a decent distance inland too, it seems. The ship comes out right above the destination. I lean over the railing and look down—and breathe out.

“Holy honeyd honkers...”

The capital of the Dominion.

District 00. Osgonnoth.

I expected to see a city. A big city, maybe, but still just a city. Something like Nikéa, or Boston. I don’t have a lot of references. Basically, a lot of stone boxes close together. But I’m way off the mark.

The city I see spread under the ship’s ragged hull has no limits.

There are buildings, yes. A lot of big buildings, like in any proper city. It’s not so much a matter of quality, but the quantity. The scale. The jungle of stone and glass and metal just goes on, one layer on top of another, on and on and on, as far as the eye can see, in every direction, until it melts into the creamy, sunny haze over the horizon.

Buildings, and buildings on top of buildings. Streets over streets. Airy cathedrals with slim pillars and high arcs; stout condominiums of red marble; grand stadiums; breathtaking aqueducts; skyscrapers that sparkle with frames of gold; multi-story gardens that would put Babylon to shame.

It’s not at all chaotic or random the way a human city would be. Every structure is like a word printed on the page of a book; there’s clear thought and reason behind every street corner and lamp post. A house isn't there simply to give citizens a roof, it has to complement its neighbors and give a sense of continuity to the neighborhood.

The urban growth follows the natural shapes of the land. If there’s a cliff somewhere, the houses are built vertically; if there’s a lake, the houses stretch partially over the water. If there’s a good-looking tree somewhere, they left a gap for it to keep growing. If there’s a river, they built it a proper channel to preserve its original course. Wherever I stop my eyes, more tiny details spring up, sucking my gaze in like an endlessly looping kaleidoscope.

Oh, but that’s not all of it.

Over that vast urban ocean stands a vision more flabbergasting than everything else put together.

I see a gigantic ball. A megastructure at least a mile tall. The thick outer shell of the sphere is divided into sectors like a humongous sci-fi flower about to blossom. Inside the gargantuan outer frame can be seen a smaller sphere, like a great black pearl in the world’s biggest clam shell. I have no idea how such a thing can keep standing, but I guess a lot of god-tier magic is involved.

“Behold,” Master Endol comes up and says to me, “Golden Cradle; the proud jewel the Dominion, the symbol of my people, and the namesake of this district. Also the throne of the High King, who shall one day be chosen to lead us, after the wars are ended, and the nine districts are ready to reunite.”

Where the shadows of that massive globe hang darkest, I see lines of artificial lights shine, and I’ll tell you now, they’re not burning whale oil there. There’s electricity. There are elevators and running water. There are—fucking flying cars and hoverbikes, and real, honest-to-god airships. And…and…

And I puke overboard.

“Hyeeeuuurgh…”

I guess it was a little overwhelming.

“Oh, coming off the wind drive does that,” Captain Gideon remarks. “Takes time for yer cells to get used to the change of pace. Steady breaths! Steady breaths!”

Master Endol closes his eyes. He always goes looking for Nirvana when his patience is tried. I hope the people below thought it was a bird.

“If one thing’s for sure,” I turn back to tell Master Endol and wipe my lips, “you’ll need balls of adamantium to call yourself king in a castle that bombastic. Your chair’s got more gravity than you do. I wouldn’t dare go to work in the morning if I was the janitor!”

“The Cradle is a fine work of craftsmanship, yet only crude matter,” he replies. “To lord over our people, it is the spirit that counts most, not the premises.”

“Speaking of which, what’s the boss like? I mean, the Commander we’re here to see is the de facto king up there now, isn’t she?”

If the district governors are chosen based on merit, then it stands to reason the boss of the capital is the reigning heavyweight champion. I mean, that’s the whole reason why we’re here, to aim straight for the top. But I’m starting to wonder who we’re up against, for real.

“...You'll see, soon enough,” Master Endol answers and turns away. “I would not have the words to describe her eminence.”

This guy has no words? Now I’m scared.

Captain Gideon drops us off at a rooftop landing. We wave the Captain and First Mate Sam goodbye, and watch the dirty, tattered hot air balloon rise back up to the baby blue sky. The vessel sort of sticks to the eye, and not in a good way. It’s a wonder they didn’t shoot us down as soon as we popped up. Or is that thing a regular sight around here?

We descend to the street level and get onto a floating, elliptic plate of white something with ape hangers. It takes off without a sound or smoke, and carries us over the traffic and towards the ginormous citadel. The thing just keeps on getting bigger and bigger as we draw closer, like somebody dragged a moon down from the sky.

On a related note, everyone and everything here is so damn huge. The city looked big from above, but you only really see how crazy it is on the ground level. I thought Master Endol was needlessly lanky, but I don’t see anybody under 190 centimeters here, young or old. It's like a humanoid forest.

I stick to Endol’s shadow and maybe it’s thanks to his presence, but no one gives me weird looks. Some locals even bow their heads respectfully as we fly by.

Could it be, he’s actually something of a big shot?

Come to think of it, I know nothing about this guy, other than the wife thing.

“What is a Sage, anyway?” I have to ask. “A local celebrity?”

Until now, I thought it was only another way of saying he’s super old and doesn’t get out much. But maybe it means something else in their culture? The man shakes his head.

“Not at all. ’Sage’ is merely an honorary title bestowed for outstanding achievements in sciences, or other noteworthy contributions to progress. There are several other Sages, and I consider myself wholly unworthy to be included in their ranks.”

“Outstanding achievements?” I echo and raise a brow. “What did you do?”

Weaponize diplomatic speeches? Turn words into nerve gas? I guess that’s how they win their wars.

“If you insist to know, I discovered the cosmic background radiation and determined the approximate age of our universe. Nothing that interests you, I’m sure.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t just string a bunch of big words together to mess with me, did he?

They have a guest room reserved for us up in the Cradle. It’s a room that makes the banquet hall in castle Menneroix seem like a country outhouse. Spacy enough to play tennis in, and more stylish than the temples people build for Divine Lords. The dark, glass-clear stone floor feels warm to touch. A long window is cut into the back wall, showing a staggering ulta-wide view over the city.

I keep as far away from the window as I can. We’re 882 meters above the street level. More than halfway up the side of Vesuvius. You get vertigo for less than that. Instead of taking in the sights, I hug the floor and take it easy. After the chilly spring of Orethgon, any place with central heating is Shangri La to me.

“I suggest you resume your rehearsals, for the time being,” Master Endol tells me and once again hands me the scroll I threw away. “We will meet Lord Commander tomorrow at sunrise. By then, your delivery must be flawless. No matter how I am a Sage, she will not suffer us wasting her time with incoherent nonsense.”

“Right. By the way, where’s the nearest pub? I may need a shot of heat to help my stage fright. Oh, hey, that almost rhymes! Right-fright. Maybe I am Keats in the making, after all?”

“Emiri do not drink alcohol,” Master Endol informs me. “Deliberately consuming poisonous substances is irrational. It has no pleasurable or intoxicating effects on us either.”

“If that’s the attitude, I can’t wait to find out how your food tastes.”

“Our kind requires very little in terms of nutrients. You should prepare yourself for no more than one meal per day.”

I'm stunned yet again.

“You best be joking. I’m not dieting, I’m bulking! How do your people get so huge if you don’t even eat?”

“A significant portion of our sustenance comes straight from prana. Also, as large as we seem compared to humans, we are somewhat slower to mature, and not fully grown until past ninety years of age.”

“Well, I’m still going through my growth-spurt, professor. I need my carbs and protein, so you’d better steal me a Snickers. Otherwise, I might be forever known as the ‘washboard of Orethgon’—not the title I was looking for.”

“My observations suggest your body has already reached maturity and is not—”

“—OH BOY, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT SUNSET!” I interrupt and run to the window, not listening.

I’ll rather face my fear of heights than certain facts.

Master Endol takes a deep breath in the background.

“By the way,” I change the subject, “if I have to do everything here, what is your job, exactly? Other than making toxic, body-shaming commentary? You could’ve just given me the speech at home and stayed.”

“Have you already forgotten?” he answers. “Securing Osgonnoth’s support only marks the beginning of our work. I must ascertain the condition of the Heaven’s Pillar in Ukulu, and then locate the second tower of the west. I am not yet certain of its whereabouts.”

“Oh, you’ll do that? I thought I’d have to do that too.”

“Well, I did hope you would come with me.”

“But what if I screw up and we don’t get any backup here? Do we have a plan B? Who’s the next biggest guy on the list?”

Master Endol answers me with a look of heavy disapproval.

“I sincerely hope you do not consider ‘screwing up’ an option at all. We could ask the other governors, but though equal in rank, they are not equal as monarchs, and emiri are by nature adherent to power. If Commander Lebennaum dismisses us, the rest are unlikely to even hear us. Not to mention, if we dally overlong, Yaoldabath—a governor himself—may learn of our efforts. He is bound to take action to thwart us.”

“We could always return to my plan A,” I suggest. “Which is to go straight to the bad guy and punch his face in.”

“You mean, attack a member of the High House on Dominion soil? And what if your actions are perceived as an act of war by humankind? You are assumed to represent them all.”

“That’d be pretty bad?”

“Now there is an understatement, if I ever heard any. The Accord will not protect you, if you strike first.”

The Sage steps over to the window and stares out without looking any dizzy.

“We need tangible, irrefutable proof of Yaoldabath’s wrongdoings for the other governors to ostracize him, and Osgonnoth’s military aid to bring him down. Yet, without Commander Lebennaum’s support, we cannot even investigate properly, never mind exact victory. Thus, a lot depends on your performance tomorrow.”

“What if we take out the bad guy with a sneak attack nobody sees coming, and vanish without leaving evidence?”

“I believe we went over this at the meeting before.” Master Endol walks up to me and leans over to bring his eyes on the level with mine. The seriousness in his gaze denies arguments. “Throw such delusions out of your mind. ‘Sneak attacks’ do not exist for the Duke of Elevro. I know less than a dozen names in all world, who could oppose him in person. And I am sorry to say, but neither you nor I are among the dozen.”

“Not even you could take him?” I ask. “The guy who invented the cosmic microwave?”

“Of course not,” he replies and returns his gaze to the window. “I have dedicated myself to the peaceful study of nature, not to sowing occult chaos. And I did not join the Order to slaughter our foes in the name of ‘peace’. I came to teach humans civilized methods of problem-solving.” Then, more quietly, like only mumbling to himself, he adds, “So how are we even here…?”

“Well, some assholes just don’t want your peace,” I tell him. “They only understand one language. And that’s kind of the whole problem with this Order of ours. A lot of ideas guys and very little real muscle.”

The old master returns me a very tired, world-weary look.

“For our future's sake, I hope we find a non-violent agreement tomorrow. Otherwise, the few steps of progress the created have taken since the departure of their makers will reach a very pitiable end. Now, Zero, the scroll.”

I go lay back down on the floor and close my eyes.

“I’m reading it, okay. Later.”

“Now.”

“I think I’ve got the gist of it already. I’ll just review quickly in the morning.”

“Do you want me to look into your mind and check?”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Read it.”

I know the stakes.

I’m well aware of them.

But what’s hard to do is still hard to do.