Mirian woke.
A hundred cycles were behind her. Over seven years since this started, she thought, as the water from the ceiling dripped down on her. I wonder if I could use relicarium to plug that damned hole.
The answer was ‘no,’ she already knew. It had to be bound to a soul, not a location, and besides, it would be a waste. But she could certainly fantasize about it.
Mirian reached down to pick up her spellbook and use raw magic to turn off the water heater above, but as she did, she nearly dropped it in shock. Her auric mana was rapidly expanding. It wasn’t just spinning faster, either; it felt like it had a denser quality to it. I think the Fourth Prophet made more than a sword, she thought.
She tried summoning it, but even though she could sense the rapier when she looked inward, she couldn’t manipulate it. I suppose I’ll still need the focus.
Mirian fixed the hole, assuaged and hugged Lily, then made her lightning wand so she could kill the bog lion and get the levitation wand, then the focus and orichalcum.
There, in the shadows of the Torrviol Underground, she closed her eyes and reached for the Sword of the Fourth Prophet.
She could see her soul swirling around, shaped as her own body, but made of threads of light. There, amidst them, was a cluster of nacreous threads. She willed them to move, changing their path through the currents so that they traveled from around her waist to up her arm, then into her hand. With a surge of willpower, she grabbed those threads, pushing them in that same way that one pushed mana through glyphs, only here, it was something far denser, far heavier, and far less volatile. As the pontiff had instructed, she visualized the runes of the ninth binding and imagined it moving through those. She imagined grasping it by the hilt and holding it aloft.
There was a flash of light, and the sword was suddenly in her hand, the handle nestled snugly in her palm, the blade extending out, gleaming in her summoned light.
Her heart soared as she admired it; it was a thing of beauty. The mythril core gleamed like moonlight, and thin strips of adamantium both glittered and absorbed the light in equal measure, making even the dark edge of the rapier stand out from the shadows.
And now it was hers.
“I need a name for you,” she whispered to it.
When Mirian was still in preparatory school, her astronomy teacher had used an illusion-generating spell engine to show them what a solar eclipse looked like. When she looked at the Fourth Prophet’s blade, she thought of that: the way the black moon was surrounded by a corona of white and amber fire.
Eclipse, she told the blade.
As she looked at it, her eyes stung, and she blinked back a tear. She’d paid a high price to bind it. I wonder what they did, those other Prophets. What prices they paid that they never talked about, that no one ever knew of.
Then and there, the exhaustion hit her. She had been working at this for years now, with little rest. She’d won the Battle of Torrviol, then hadn’t stopped until—until she’d yelled at the God’s damned Pontiff of the Luminate Order, then looted the holy vaults of the Grand Sanctum.
I’ll visit Arriroba again, she decided. Her family was still missing, traveling somewhere between Alkazaria and Palendurio, route unknown, but Granpa Irabi would be there, as would so many other familiar faces. She could make it through Alkazaria before the southern traveler sieged the city.
Mirian stowed Eclipse back in her soul, then levitated out of the passage and then out the exit by the old theater.
She avoided her usual sabotage and networking efforts, instead just scribing a few practical spells and fixing the train engine. While walking through town, a thought struck her as she passed the students walking to and from their classes: They look so young.
She did take out several loans so she could have plenty of coin during her vacation, and created a small spell engine that would ignite the registrar records at night so that her long term plans wasn’t compromised. Hopefully, he spends a few days wondering when the hammer will fall, looking for traps or schemes where there are none. Whatever power he could project, she didn’t think it had much reach out east, and once the southern traveler laid his siege, it would be nearly impossible to convince anyone to move assets out to some town in the middle of nowhere.
Her errands done, she only spent a part of the day in Torrviol. It was nice to simply board the train normally, instead of while fleeing after a killing spree and several counts of arson. She enjoyed tea and fruit-filled pastries in the dining car, then used minor illusion while she boarded the next train, just as an extra precaution. Once she was settled in her sleeper car, she enjoyed a fine dinner of roast duck in Madinahr curry with Tlaxhuacan fried yuca and fresh fruit from the Cairn River groves. Then she slept early.
When she got to Alkazaria, she spent some time doing something she hadn’t done in ages—at least, not unless it was part of subterfuge or a heist: she went shopping for new clothes.
She perused the open markets of Altrukyst’s District, finally finding a tailor who navigated a nice path between traditional and practical apparel. The long tunic she chose had plenty of the vibrant colors and elaborate patterns Alkazaria was known for, while the trousers that matched it were both light and sturdy, a simple gray that matched her eyes. She traded in her enchanted cloak for one more suited to the arid weather; a half-cape that had simple heat siphoning glyphs that could be adjusted to either cool or heat the wearer. It had the same shade of gray as the trousers, but had the matching patterns and colors of the tunic along the outside.
The train to Madinahr was, of course, broken, but she already knew there was no way for her to make it there in time. Somewhere along the tracks would be a melted spell engine and a bunch of grumpy workers.
This time, she didn’t bother buying an eximontar. They were enjoyable to ride, and would cut down her travel time significantly—if she didn’t already have a levitation wand.
Instead, Mirian bought a mana elixir and filled a light traveler’s pack with food and water, then headed east on foot. She considered heading on a diagonal path straight to Arriroba, but there were no spellwards or travel obelisks on that route, and she could still only levitate for so long. She stuck with the well-beaten path.
When she was far enough from the city outskirts and out of sight of any other travelers, she levitated high into the sky, then streamed forward.
Flying was one of those things that never got old, and she enjoyed the elation of the wind whipping past her, sending her cape fluttering about and her spellbook jangling on its chain. Below, she could see the farms that paralleled the tracks and the faint shimmer of the spellward beyond them. To her right, the azure waters of the East Sound glittered in the sunshine and she could see the occasional ship hugging the coast.
She went for just over an hour, and though she felt she could go longer, she knew she’d need to conserve her auric mana in case she encountered any hostile myrvites, and to repair the damaged obelisks along the route.
Between walking and flying, it only took her three days to reach Madinahr, far faster than the seven it had taken her riding an eximontar.
She spent some time walking around the neighborhood of her preparatory school, thinking of her old friends, wondering what they were doing now and where they were. Torrviol Academy’s rigorous courses had sapped so much of her time that she’d fallen out of contact with them. She thought of the long walks they’d taken through the market, talking about the silly dramas of young love, or picking out where they’d open a shop and what it would look like, or griping about which classes they were absolutely sick of.
In some ways, the market hadn’t changed at all from what she remembered. Some of the same merchants still sat by their stalls, the inventories much as they had been six years prior. The bright colors still waved the same way in the breeze. Only, the schoolchildren were all strangers to her, and again, she couldn’t help but think how young they all looked to her now. Was I really like that back then? she wondered.
She stayed the night in Madinahr, then took her time traveling north, remembering what it was like before her preparatory school, when she and her parents would take a donkey down with them when they ran errands, usually to buy or repair some tool, or get some ingredient the village was short on. That had been before Zayd.
Little Zayd, she thought, heart full of longing to see him again. I hope the trip has been wonderful each month, and when the end comes, it’s beautiful and swift.
The countryside was as she had remembered it, full of that subtle beauty where the browns and yellows were dotted by those little places of color where a desert flower bloomed or a cactus stood tall on a hill. By the river, there were the farmlands, little mixed patches of color and life.
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As was the family tradition, she took a room from Pardia at Altrukyst’s Warm Candle Inn.
“Mirian!” she exclaimed when she saw her. “I thought you were out in Torrviol.”
“Ah, just visiting. I passed some exams early, so got leave to come here,” she lied easily. “It’s good to see you. How’s the inn?”
“Same as it always is,” she said, and they chatted amiably about nothing at all. There were no politics, no schemes, and not even the slightest hint of a dark conspiracy. It was wonderful.
Her impatience to be home got the best of her the next morning. When she was out of sight of the inn, she flew up for a few minutes, looking at the countryside from above for the first time. How small it is, from up here, she realized. And how big the world is. Even high above on a clear day, she couldn’t see the mountains to the north, just the scrublands and hills. She could only see this small section of the map. And beyond the map, there was more, where the world continued on past the known continents. Scholars had long since proven Enteria’s size based on measuring shadows and a bit of math, and beyond the oceans, past the deadly leviathans and ship-smashing storms, there were places humans had never seen. Perhaps other continents, perhaps fantastic creatures. As a child, she’d loved imagining them.
When will I get to choose my own path, one that goes beyond duty? she wondered wistfully. Or perhaps I never will.
She dropped down a few miles outside of Arriroba, appreciating the familiar faces she saw on the road or tending their farms as she walked. Once in the village, she picked the lock to her family home with a bit of raw magic telekinesis, then settled in. For a day, she just made easy talk with the people she’d known growing up, repeating the lie she’d told Pardia at the inn.
Then she sought out Grandpa Irabi.
She found him playing horseshoes with some children who were just a bit older than Zayd. For a while, she just watched as he complimented their throws or made some correction to their technique. After a bit, he glanced up at Mirian and said, “You’ll have to play the next round without me. Someone else needs to see me.”
He always knows, somehow.
Grandpa Irabi looked Mirian up and down, then got a curious look. “You’ve grown older,” he said finally.
“How do you know?” Mirian asked.
“It’s the way you hold yourself. And you’re more controlled. Has the last year in the Academy done that much for you?”
She gave him a sad smile. “It’s been more than a year, for me, at least,” she said. “Let’s walk as we talk. The cliffs are nice this time of year.”
“Indeed they are,” he said, and joined her.
Mirian started from the beginning, telling him of those first loops, then the battle, then her discovery of the other time travelers and the revelations of just how deep the war conspiracy ran. Just as he had before, Irabi betrayed no surprise, and asked no questions, he simply let her talk.
By then, they’d made it to the cliffs where they sat, overlooking the rolling hills, which alternated between fallow fields and olive groves. “…and I don’t want to try to find my family, because if I lead Sulvorath to them, then they also become targets. And I just couldn’t… I don’t even want to imagine anything happening to Zayd. So I came here to talk again.”
Grandpa Irabi nodded. “You’ve had quite a burden placed on you,” he said.
“I just wish… that I didn’t have to face it alone,” and as she said it, she felt her body deflate.
She felt Grandpa Irabi squeeze her shoulder. “Perhaps you won’t, at some point. If the Ominian saw fit to have others join you, perhaps all of them aren’t so bad.”
“Maybe,” Mirian said with a sigh. “But I can’t risk even finding out unless I have enough power. I can’t risk a curse disabling me.”
Irabi nodded again. “Now you understand the perspective of those with power. Once they have it, they fear losing it.”
Mirian recoiled slightly. “But this is different! As far as I know, there’s only three of us. And if we fail…”
“Maybe it is different. I didn’t say you were wrong, just that you can understand their perspective better.”
Mirian took in a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess.” She ground her teeth for a bit, not liking the idea that she had anything in common with the other powerful people she’d encountered, like the bishops or Oculo. “I thought that maybe if I showed them that their stupid conspiracy was leading to the literal end of the world, they might be… repentant. The Pontiff helped kill everyone in Torrviol, and he didn’t even regret that, only regretted it didn’t work like he wanted. I can watch those bishops commit their crime, and they’ll still lie to my face. I can save the Akanan Embassy, but General Corrmier will just accuse the Akanan merchants of treachery anyways, and even with no cause, people will take to the streets to harass them, burn down their shops, and kill them.”
Grandpa Irabi let his fingers run gently over a strand of grass, his eyes pondering the horizon. “People are always looking for an excuse to do what they already wanted to do. And people are built up over a lifetime of thoughts and habits. A day is too quick to really change their hearts.”
She shook her head. “Then how can I fix it?”
“Can you fix it? A vase that is broken can be mended. But an egg that is shattered can never be put back together.”
Mirian sighed again. “I suppose that’s why we have chickens.”
Irabi burst out laughing, and Mirian couldn’t help but smile herself. He let the silence that followed linger in the air like the soft breeze, then said, “You will have to find out if there is anything to fix. That priest, Hamel, sounds like a good sort. And the embassy worker, Kathera, was happy to help you. It is usually the greedy who claw their way to the top, but that does not mean most people are greedy.”
“Everad,” Mirian said. “I still feel terrible about what I did to him.” She embraced her focus, then closed her eyes, picturing the sequence of the ninth binding. The sword materialized in her hand, looking more vivid than anything else around them. “I’ve done horrible things. And I think I have to keep doing them. Because there’s going to be war. Or rather, there already is a war. I can see no path forward that doesn’t involve fighting. I don’t think these conspirators will stop unless they’re made to.”
Grandpa Irabi let his eyes wander over the shining blade, taking it in. “Violence befalling humanity isn’t a new story, sadly. Tell me, did you start this war?”
“Of course not.”
“Is it the defenders in a war who are culpable?”
“Of course not,” she repeated.
“Then you must be forgiven for defending your home and family. I know that here—” Irabi said, jabbing a finger toward her chest, “—is why you fight. War is always a terrible thing. The most just and worthy wars are still as awful as the five hells opening up. But if there is a war, it is not because one person has made a poor choice. So though I abhor violence, I feel obligated to tell you to keep your courage. And if you must do violence, hold on tight to your humanity, as you fight. And hear your heart when it speaks, even if you cannot always listen to it.”
Mirian felt tears pricking her eyes. “I’ll do what I can, Grandpa.”
“I know you will,” he said, words soft. “Sometimes it helps to hear what we already know.”
She closed her eyes, letting the Prophet’s rapier dissolve into luminous mist. “It would be easier if…” she started, but she couldn’t finish. She wanted so badly to be able to walk her path with someone. Someone who could support her, without having to be told to. She wanted a companion. An equal, who she could trust. She couldn’t find the words to express that yearning properly, but she saw that Granpda Irabi understood anyways.
“If you are to walk this road alone, you must make sure you are in company you enjoy.”
“How do I… how do I find peace in myself, when my existence is an endless fight?”
“You find the moments you can close your eyes, and look for that peace. I see it over there,” he said, and Mirian could just make out the two children he’d been instructing on horseshoes still hard at play. “And over there,” he said, pointing to several people laughing over by the market stalls. “And there,” he said, gesturing to a man taking a nap in the sun. “And in the birdsong, and the gentle wind, and those clouds hanging over the horizon. Then you bring that peace inside you with big deep breaths, and hold it as long as you can.”
“Oh. Meditation,” she said. “I’ve done a bit of it. I learned it back when I was a kid and… anyways, it just feels like a waste of time. I need to spend as much time as I can making progress.”
Grandpa Irabi watched a stray leaf bound about in the wind, then said, “Time spent healing your mind is never time wasted.”
***
He was right, of course. Mirian spent much of the rest of the cycle joining Grandpa Irabi for dinners at different houses in the village, catching up again with acquaintances and old family friends. The rest of the time, she spent in meditation. She let Irabi’s words guide her, and as she closed her eyes and listened, she couldn’t help but see her soul swirling about, that endlessly spinning gyre. When he was busy, she took walks around the village, finding moments of peace to collect and stash in the Mausoleum like she was a squirrel preparing for winter. Then when she meditated alone, she would focus on those memories.
As the cycle neared its end, she began to notice that her meditation was changing her soul’s currents. Idly, she wondered what kind of effect that might have on her auric mana, since there was a clear connection between her soul and her mana generation and capacity. Research for another time, she thought. The Luminates seemed to have lost a great deal of knowledge on souls, but perhaps some Akanan auramancer or Tlaxhuacan nagual would know something about that.
On the last day of the cycle, Mirian stood outside her family’s apartment, trying to remember something. There was something she had wanted to see, something she’d wanted to do… but the harder she tried to think of it, the more her mind seemed to slip over it. This damned memory curse, she thought. She could see so vividly herself, moving through this village with her dad on her way to school. She could remember the language lessons as he tutored him so she could catch up. She had been seven, right? But whatever had come before that slipped away like shadows behind a fogged mirror, and the harder she stared, the denser that fog became. Despite her progress in soul magic, she couldn’t begin to manipulate a binding so deeply embedded in a soul, especially one so small.
Ah well, she thought.
She examined her aura. She had done little magic during her retreat, so its currents were fast and its body wide.
“Hey Grandpa Irabi,” she called. He was comforting a girl who had started to cry as the magical eruptions and quaking intensified. “You ever wanted to be a bird?”
He raised an eyebrow, and she grinned.
“Let’s see how many I can take. Hey kids!” she called to a group of schoolchildren who were in the village square. “Who wants to fly?”
She spent the last few minutes taking them up in groups of three or four using an enhanced lift person as she levitated, spiraling around the sky like a dancer, letting out bursts of light like fireworks. It was a nice gift to be able to give them, and she smiled to see the children’s joy as they soared.
She took Grandpa Irabi last, and let him glide with her like an eagle.
“Thanks again,” she said, as the moon descended.
“Keep these moments close to you,” he said, over the howling wind.
“I will,” Mirian promised.