The World Maker Parable Page 4

  You aided Alerion, Rhona thought to herself as she stared at the lake. Don't forget that. You went along with his decision. You were a willing participant. She looked at her hands, at her forearms, at the reflection of her face, all caked in dried blood. Was it worth it? All that death… I do as the Raven wills but…

  Rhona sighed. She had never felt so conflicted before. She loved Alerion, admired his character, but she had also been friends with Luminíl, with many of the Jémoonites who risen up against Alerion and Mirkvahíl and lost their lives.

  Rhona turned at a soft breeze against her back. Alerion stood there, midnight-feathered wings furled around him like a cloak. His gray eyes shone even without the aid of the moonlight. He offered a small smile, one that seemed to suggest his sympathy.

  Rhona stood to face him, arms wrapped around herself. She chewed her lower lip, eyes narrowed pensively. "I want to believe our course of action was the right one. I need to believe, to know that Luminíl's continued freedom would have left the world prey to unbounded mirkúr. That jailing her was the kindest thing we could have done."

  "Child." Alerion neared her. He cupped her cheek; his hand was warm and it eased her mind. "So often I have found the right thing to be the hardest. It breaks my heart. I can scarcely imagine everything that might be running through Luminíl's mind, through the citizens of Banerowos…but I take solace knowing we have quelled the threat of complete annihilation."

  Rhona couldn't ignore that fact. The cage in which Luminíl now resided kept her rampant energies at bay while still allowing the Jémoonites to draw from her mirkúr as they drew illum from Mirkvahíl.

  That somehow makes this feel worse. Rhona felt sick at the thought of Luminíl being little more than a source from which parasites drew strength.

  "Was there truly no other way?" she asked Alerion.

  He shook his head and his face caught briefly in the moonlight. His cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes red. "Mirkvahíl and I could find no other solution. I pray one presents itself in time; I do not wish to see Luminíl imprisoned eternally."

  Yet your tone suggests the possibility of such a thing is great, Rhona thought.

  "You are covered in blood," Alerion noted. "Why have you not yet cleaned yourself?"

  Rhona bowed her head. "Shame. Guilt, I suppose."

  "Both are reasonable responses," Alerion said, "but I see no shame in defending the livelihood of your people, of your home. The dead knew what they were doing; they rose up in favor of Luminíl despite Mirkvahíl and myself wishing things to be as peaceful as possible."

  "Maybe violence was the most peaceful option," Rhona said. "I hardly think a being so powerful as Luminíl would enjoy being locked away, even willingly."

  Alerion's expression darkened. "She was not—Luminíl has always been a bit difficult. It saddens me to say I foresaw her response. She always favored power slightly more than she did the lives of her people." Alerion tensed his jaw. "…She tried to kill Mirkvahíl some time ago."

  Rhona's eyes widened.

  "Not purposely, not entirely," Alerion said. "It was years back, when her temperance first began to wane."

  "What would have caused her to do such a thing?" Rhona asked. "She and Mirkvahíl…"

  "Were lovers, yes," Alerion said. "Mirkvahíl and I have been fruitless in our attempts to find an answer to her illness. What little we know is that it makes her lose control. It…eats away at her compassion, at her control."

  "Entropy destroying Entropy," said Rhona. "It would be ironic if it wasn't so horrible. How many others know?"

  "The whole of Jémoon," Alerion said. "It would be foolish for Mirkvahíl and I to conceal something of such import. And yet…" He heaved a sigh. "I know it will not deter her acolytes from trying to free her. I laud them for their dedication to Luminíl—it is plain to see she meant a great deal to a great many people. But I curse their blind allegiance, too. Releasing the Vulture from her cage will do more harm than good."

  They were both silent for a time, Rhona letting Alerion's words sink into her head. Jémoon and Banerowos were still in their infancy. Country and city had come so far in just decades yet peace and growth had devolved into civil war and the notion of utter and complete destruction. Rhona had never once dreamed things would crumble so dramatically, if at all. Never once had she dreamt of utopia and dystopia being one and the same.

  "What would you have me do?" she asked finally.

  "See the bigger picture," Alerion said softly. "Country over person, Rhona. As difficult a tenet as it seems, it is the one we must live by if Jémoon is to survive. Alf elo nor, nor elo alf. Do you understand?"

  Alf elo nor—one for all. Nor elo alf—all for one.

  Rhona nodded.

  Then

  "Twelve in a single evening," said Varésh. "A new record."

  "A new post-war record," Rhona said as they watched the blood-stained corpses dance their pendulum dance. She dragged her blade across the palm of her hand and pressed it to the earth, whispering, "Alf elo nor." It was her twelfth cut of the night.

  "You do that more than most," Varésh said. "Actually, you might very well be the only one who does it. Giving blood to Hang-Dead Forest, I mean."

  Rhona shrugged. "It might do you well to mimic me, Varésh. Reverence goes a long way in a place like this. Blood paid is a debt owed."

  Varésh snorted. "What could the trees possibly have to give?"

  "Whatever they deem worthy of my blood," Rhona said, bandaging her hand. "Who knows? My sanguine reverence may yet save Jémoon, and then would you be questioning my many scars?" They numbered in the hundreds. A cut for every corpse. The more that hung, the more Rhona bled; the more she bled, the closer she grew to complete exaltation with Hang-Dead Forest. Her gut told her this was right, that someday everything she had given would be repaid tenfold. She hoped it meant peace, harmony at last.

  "What does Mirkvahíl think of you shedding blood so freely? Alerion?" Varésh asked. He was a bit green in the face.

  "They agree with it," Rhona said. "In fact, it was Alerion who first suggested doing so."

  "A bit…macabre," Varésh said. "The Raven, wise as he may be, has become a bit dark these last several years. A bit more…oh, shit—what's the phrase I'm looking for?" He snapped his fingers repeatedly. "Superstitious. I think."

  Rhona cocked an eyebrow. "Superstitious?"

  "Alerion never used to be this obsessed with death," Varésh said.

  "I would hardly call putting Jémoon's best interests at heart 'superstitious,' Varésh," Rhona said. "We do as the Raven wills. If Luminíl's acolytes are going to continue threatening harmony with their individualistic nonsense then what better recourse is there than to snuff them out? Utopia is only attainable if everyone is working toward the same goal."

  Varésh sighed. "I suppose you're right." He shuddered. "Can we go?"

  "Fine," Rhona said, and they started back toward Banerowos.

  Then

  "It had to be done, Varésh." Rhona squeezed his shoulder. "I'm to lead Djen to her end a fortnight from now. I…know how you feel. I hope."

  Varésh said nothing as he watched his wife, Sonja, swing from the Lost Tree.

  "She and Djen freed Luminíl from her prison," Rhona continued, not knowing what else to do but preach the sins of their beloveds. "They may have very well doomed Jémoon—Harthe, even—to its end."

  "I know." Varésh was hoarse. He had clearly spent the previous night screaming. "We do…" He sniffled, then tense his jaw. "We do as the Raven wills. If only Sonja and Djen had seen sense to do the same." He bowed his head, muttering indiscernibly.

  "Power corrupts," Rhona said. "If it was not plain to see before then it surely is now." The words were meant more for her than they were Varésh. Sonja had always been outspoken where Luminíl's imprisonment was concerned, but Rhona had never thought she would do something so rash as releasing the Vulture. She had never once dreamed Djen would be swayed to such recklessness, either.

/>   Fuck.

  "I suppose…I suppose I never really knew Sonja as well as I thought. My own wife, conspiring to sentence Jémoon to its end." A guttural scream escaped his lips and Varésh sent a thread of illum javelining upward through the trees and into the night.

  Rhona took his hand and squeezed. "Come on. A drink will do you some good."

  It would do her some good as well. She had a fortnight to rid herself of her emotional attachment to Djen. It was best to start now.

  Now

  “I wonder if you really know…” Mother Woe said, snapping Rhona from her pensive trance.

  "Know what?" Rhona asked.

  Mother Woe smiled and said nothing else.

  Rhona had no clue as to how long they had been walking through this awful, twisted forest. Fiel had been utterly silent, quelled by the presence of Mother Woe, of what had once been Djen…centuries ago, whatever that meant.

  “Time is complex,” Mother Woe said. “Memory is complex. Amalgamate them and you might very well lose your mind trying to put the pieces in the right order. no one ever said parables were harmless.”

  "Is that what this is? Some sort of lesson?" Rhona asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Mother Woe said. “If you really think about it your entire existence has been a parable, Rhona. one could say the same of alerion as well, the fool. What a lie he is.”

  Rhona refrained from asking what Mother Woe meant. She knew the response she'd get.

  At length, the forest bled into a pitch black night. Before them a stone bridge stretched the length of a massive chasm. At its other side stood an old gate and a wall of mirkúr, bone, and stone.

  "What is it?"

  “The birth place of clarity,” Mother Woe said. “The bone garden.” She gestured toward the bridge. Her hood fell back and her dark hair whipped about her face in a gust of cold air. Amidst her ruin, in the depths of her eyes, Rhona could see a hint of the woman she had loved, the woman she had hung. Her heart twinged.

  "Am I to go alone?"

  Mother Woe nodded. “Farewell.” She took a step back and dropped into the chasm below.

  Rhona wrapped her arms around herself and swallowed.

  "What a horrible place this is," Fiel said, startling Rhona.

  I…I don't want to cross that bridge, Rhona thought.

  "You must," Fiel said. Its dread was evident. "You seek answers."

  Rhona heaved a sigh. Oh, Djen… What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  She started across the bridge.

  7

  Forest Dark

  There was a profound correlation between morality, truth, and the lies one told oneself. Varésh had spent the last few days ruminating in silence—thank the Celestials for that—on Rhona and Djen, on their significance in what he had seen in his dream. It was certainly within the realm of possibility they and the dream were mere conjurations of his shadow twin, an attempt to further unhinge Varésh. To further blur the line between reality and falsity.

  But something in him told Varésh there was more to the women, that they were connected yet to the Phoenix Mirkvahíl. His shadow twin's claim of having infiltrated Rhona's dreams suggested as much, suggested, at the very least, Varésh and Rhona had fought for a common goal. The only problem was Varésh, long as his memory was, could not remember once having that conversation, let alone speaking with Rhona.

  "Trees," said Varésh as he crossed the threshold into a dense wood. "Thank the Celestials for trees." He had seen nothing but grass and ruins the last few days; this was a welcome change of pace. Or would have been if not for the myriad bones protruding from and hanging from the trees. "Fuck."

  Hang-Dead Forest had never been Varésh's favorite locale but that was something he was going to have to stomach if he wanted to reach Mirkvahíl. Her song had grown increasingly louder the last day or so, to the point it had become a low and constant ringing in his ears. Varésh sighed; reluctantly he took the path at a measured pace, conjuring a tiny mote of illum to guide his way. It had been a long time since last he had come to Hang-Dead Forest, longer yet since this place had been free of its ever-present darkness.

  "Why the fuck…" Varésh didn't need to finish the question to know the answer. The lust for power and the idea of utopia pushed people to barbarism, to nationalistic atrocities. "How could we have ever thought it was right?"

  He stopped before a trio of skeletons hanging from a lower branch. One of the skeletons was far smaller than the other two, not yet fully developed. Varésh swallowed the bile rising in his throat and cursed himself a thousand times over.

  I have to fix this, he thought.

  "You have to do a lot of things," his shadow twin whispered. "There is much to be done to achieve even a modicum of hope to right your wrongs, Varésh Lúm-talé."

  Varésh's upper lip curled. You are the most back and forth monstrosity I have ever had the misfortune of conversing with. Which is it—do you want me to succeed or do you want me to fail? It seems to me you would find more joy in the latter.

  "On the contrary. Nothing would please me more than to see Harthe spared your idiocy," his shadow twin said. "You will learn the truth of things in time, that much is known, but as your Sonja said: the way ahead is arduous."

  And I suppose part of the experience of failure is dealing with my demons, guilt, and manifested falsities, thought Varésh. All of which you seem to exacerbate.

  "I must do something to pass the time in here," his shadow twin hissed. "I have seen your every thought and dream a thousand times over. There is little else I can do but goad you on your way, Varésh Lúm-talé. For what it is worth, this is as much a learning experience for me as it is for you."

  Varésh said nothing as he continued through Hang-Dead Forest.

  "Do you remember when you hung me here?"

  The voice pulled Varésh from a long and meandering recollection about Sonja. He looked about, spied her luminescent silhouette in a clearing several yards ahead. He swallowed, choking back tears as the memory took like a flame to paper.

  "How could I forget?"

  He had dreamt it every night in the years since Sonja's violent end. Since he had murdered her for having differing beliefs. It was penance for his actions, but not penance enough. Nothing would ever be punishment enough for what he had done to his wife.

  "You could have stopped this all, Vare," Sonja lamented. She danced away from him, winding through the trees like a leaf on a breeze. Varésh gave chase. "You could have been great. We could have been such keepers of this planet…"

  Varésh came to a sliding halt as Sonja vanished.

  "But you could never deny your father," the trees taunted in her voice.

  "Always had to prove yourself."

  "Always had to fuck things up—didn't you?"

  "Didn't you?"

  Didn't you?

  DIDN'T YOU?

  Sonja manifested in a burst of shadow, a grating shriek erupting from elongated jowls, eyes like wan full moons. She swiped at him with taloned fingers and it was all Varésh could do to avoid her fury. He stumbled backward, nearly tripped over his own feet as he shaped his illum mote into a thin, radiant blade. Sonja hissed at its warmth; its light revealed the utter ruin of her countenance, peeling flesh and all.

  "Celestials…" Varésh whimpered, feebly but successfully deflecting another enraged swipe, "what have I done?"

  “Look at me,” Sonja snarled. “Look at me, Varésh. look upon the manifestation of your lies. You are a fool if you think finding Mirkvahíl can remedy this. You are a fool if you believe the lie you have sold yourself. Some things are simply set in stone.”

  "I can redeem myself," Varésh said, brushing away his tears. "I can. I must, Sonja."

  She struck again; this time the blow landed with force. Talons raked across Varésh's face and he fell to the ground in a daze. His blood was warm against his flesh, soothing as Hang-Dead Forest spun in and out of focus, as the specter of his beloved Sonja knelt and tugged u
pon his spirit. Her mirkúr wormed its way to the center of his chest, of his mind and he saw light.

  Varésh blinked and the world was still. He stood before a lake. Its surface collected starlight as a net would fish. It was beautiful and it made him feel at peace.

  "This isn't right," he murmured, the image of Sonja's ruined corpse fresh in his mind. He had been in Hang-Dead Forest. Then he had seen a light far brighter than anything before him now. Sunlight? Moonlight?

  “That is a very astute observation.”

  Varésh watched the lake manifest his shadow twin. There was something different about it this time, something more…whole and realized. The storm-gray eyes, the sharpness of its jawline, and…

  "Shit."

  The midnight, feathered wings he had seen so many times before. As they burst forth from his shadow twin's back so too did they sprout from Varésh, pushing through his flesh and procuring a shriek, completing his lie.

  “You wear me sadly,” said Alerion. “Like a cutthroat does a crown achieved by spilling blood.” He smirked at Varésh's discomfort. “I told you clarity would come to you soon enough. And worry not—all is yet to be revealed.”

  Varésh had a long memory but none of this registered. How had he come to wear Alerion's guise? What had happened to Alerion?

  "Is this another trick?" he asked. "What is this place? Why am I here?"

  “No, not a trick,” Alerion said. “I am not so cruel as that. I am not so cruel as you, Varésh Lúm-talé. As you are wont to ravage lives, I am sworn to save them—that is what I have done for you. Saved you from the product of your arrogance.”

  "Sonja."

  “She is just one of many bent by death, by the touch of wild mirkúr,” Alerion said. “A rusalk. A once preventable monstrosity now numbering in the hundreds of thousands.” Alerion shook his head and heaved a sigh. “Power is fool's gold, Varésh. Do you see now what it does? The ruin of this world and its people is the very same that fate will deliver unto Indris, unto your father and your people.”