The World Maker Parable Read online

  "At least I know you aren't judging me for it," said Djorev. "Yahn was a garden once, at least in my dream. I saw colors I couldn't put names to. It was beautiful. Everyone was beautiful. And there were duskeels that swam through the sky, and dawneels."

  No one ever talked about the Dawn, the inverse of the Dusk, for the simple reason it was little more than a myth. If the energy existed none could say when, not for certain. And if the Raven of Jémoon had ever wielded such a force it had all but forgotten how.

  "I wish I could see what you see," Vela said. Her dreams of Yahn were different but beautiful in their own way. Still, she longed for something to share with Djorev besides this terrible journey.

  "Maybe someday you will." Djorev took her hand and they pressed on.

  The ruin grew more profound as they ascended a winding stairway. Sunlight streamed through cracks and holes in the wall. Several times the stairway itself threatened to collapse. Strangest of all was the dark membrane-like substance mottling the wall for as high as Vela could stare.

  "What do you suppose this is?"

  "Some form of Dusk." There was dark certainty in Djorev’s reply, and the black mottling on her flesh seemed to react to the membrane, reshaping itself to various patterns as if ink dripped on parchment.

  "We should leave," said Vela as they reached the second-floor landing. The Dusk's presence was prominent here. Gossamer threads twirled and twisted from the membrane, flittering through the air. It made Vela’s skin crawl, made her forehead slick with cold sweat. "Djorev?"

  "It's harmless." Djorev held her hand out to the wispy strands of Dusk and they came to her, coiling through her splayed fingers and up her arm. "Duskeels, see?"

  And Vela could. Nearly indiscernible were a pair of white dots she suspected were eyes.

  "I think this tower is their nest," Djorev said. "This stuff on the walls."

  "What was your skin reacting to?"

  Djorev shrugged. "Close proximity to anything made of Dusk? A lot of this spellscarred stuff I haven't figured out yet." She brought her arm before her eyes, smiling at the duskeel, chuckling as the creature mewed. "Gentle little things, these eels."

  Her eye twitched and she cocked her head. "Did you hear that?"

  "No." Vela tried to follow Djorev’s gaze.

  "Sounded like…crying, from the floor above." Djorev started up the stairs at a vigilant pace, Vela trailing with her dagger drawn.

  Leave it to Djorev to find a ghost, she thought, though she wasn't entirely sure what Djorev had heard. It was certainly possible the tower was occupied by a hermit or a lost traveler, or that a jétjune was playing tricks as their kind were wont to do. Hopefully it wasn't anything more.

  The third floor was little more than a writhing mass of Dusk, myriad eels flittering about. Djorev walked with certainty. Coldness emanated from her; in fact, Vela could discern a faint aura about her person—what was it?

  "Are you all right, Djorev? You're glowing…"

  Djorev said nothing as they wound deeper. Eels parted before her like grass in a breeze. Whether in reverence or fear, Vela was not certain. She was certain that she was a bit fearful of Djorev, of whatever they were searching for.

  What a pathetic way to fail that would be. The very thought of dying here just a day removed from their village filled Vela with shame, enough she could hardly keep from snorting at the notion.

  "Stop."

  Vela nearly bumped into Djorev. Before them a worn wooden door stood ajar. Beyond the door, darkness, peppered with flittering motes of light. Here, at the threshold of uncertainty, Vela finally heard it—displaced crying, as if it existed on two planes at once.

  "After me, I suppose," Djorev murmured. She pushed past the door and into the room.

  Vela followed suit and the dreamlike attachment returned. There was an air of familiarity about this room and its inlayed floor, its meadow view and the figure standing several feet away. A woman garbed in white with a mane of fire-red hair. Behind her stood a tree, the tree from Vela’s dream and—

  Vela blinked. The room had dissolved; there was only a meadow, the woman, and the tree.

  "So long," the woman murmured, looking Vela. "So long I have waited." Her yellow eyes were a mixture of fear and relief. She approached Vela and took her hands. "Thank the Raven you have come."

  What is this? Where is Djorev? What was going on?

  Vela tried to pull away but the woman's grasp was firm.

  "Please, take me from this awful place." The woman's eyes were wet with desperation.

  "Tell me who you are." Everything about this felt wrong.

  "Please! Before it comes!" the woman cried.

  Vela tried to pull away, again to no avail. "Before what comes? What is going on?"

  A shriek ripped through the meadow. The grass wilted beneath the horrible sound and the tree's leaves turned to ash, falling from the branches like a pathetic snow. The woman screamed, falling to her knees, hands pressed to her ears.

  "It comes! It comes! The Vulture!"

  A great shadow darkened the meadow. Vela’s hair stood on end, goosepimples rippled across her arms and neck. She looked to the sky as the shape came back around, long-necked and black with six great wings trailing into smoke. The Vulture screeched and Vela bled from her eyes, nose, and ears. She fell to the grass, writhing, watching as the horrible shadow swooped and took the woman in its beak. With a snap it halved her and the remnants fell to the ground with a thud.

  Vela forced herself to stand; her legs trembled terribly as she approached the remains.

  But there was nothing save swirls of smoke.

  She started at a flap of wings and whisper in her ear and spun around.

  Gasped as Djorev pulled a jagged blade from her chest with a squelch.

  "So long I waited," she whispered as Vela spat blood, as the meadow waxed and waned. She pulled Vela close so their noses were just inches apart. "So long." Her bright eyes were narrowed, a swirl of triumph and emptiness. "Alf elo nor. Nor elo alf."

  "Dreams are sometimes more than dreams," said Varésh. "One might choose to think of them as cries from the subconscious. But you already know that, of course. Tell me, child—save failure, what do your dreams bespeak?"

  "Failure is all my dreams suggest," said Vela. She gestured at the oak tree and its leaves like winter snow. "So many times I have seen this wilt. So many times I have seen this meadow die." She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. "And this time I saw it—the Vulture. I saw it kill. I saw its pestilent influence unbounded all because I failed my Walk. And…”—Vela shuddered—“I think the Vulture was her—Djorev. She stabbed me, Varésh.”

  "Peculiar things, these dreams we dream." Varésh stretched his great wings then furled them like a cloak. "Peculiar more, the things of which we dream."

  Vela frowned. "What do you mean?"

  Varésh reached forward, cupping her cheek. "You know well what I mean." His eyes bore into hers and Vela felt a fog dissolving from her mind. "There are no such things as Ravens and Walks."

  "Glad to see you up. Been out cold for a week."

  Anja blinked. Remnants of a dream clung to her like mist and her head ached something fierce. A gray-eyed man with a hawkish face and dark hair pulled back behind his ears stared down at her. He wore a warm smile.

  Anja returned it with a weary one of her own. "Varésh."

  He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

  "Dazed." She wasn't sure if that was the proper word but it fit for the time being. "Like I drank far too much at the tavern. So many weird dreams... You were there and..." Anja frowned. "So was Djal Shy'eth."

  "I would expect nothing less from the Dreamweaver who did this to you," said Varésh. "Quite a nasty reputation and a particular distaste for you. Not fond of being locked away in Misten Fahg either, it seems."

  "Don't really blame her for that," said Anja. Misten Fahg, renowned tower college of magi, was an absolute lie. A beautiful lie but a li
e nonetheless. It was a prison, the magi its guards.

  She sat up and pushed a few loose strands of hair out of her face. She could see the moon out the window at the far end of the room, brilliant and full, boring into her like a knowing eye. Bits and pieces of her dream waltzed across her mind, dissolving as quickly as they appeared. What a strange thing it had been.

  "Anything interesting happen while I was out?" Anja asked.

  Varésh's expression darkened. "A day after your encounter with Djal something came out of the Old Wood."

  Names and words carried weight. Some were said to have true power. It was this very belief, this very superstition, that kept most from calling the Old Wood by its given name, Hang-Dead Forest.

  "What was it?" Anja asked.

  "Hungry. A shadow of a man."

  Had this shadow come from anywhere else, Anja would have simply rolled her eyes. But things emerging from Hang-Dead Forest were cause for concern, rare as they were. The last time—and many years before Anja’s birth—a man had come to the village Nohl in the dark of night. When the sun rose the following morning the village was dead and the man was gone. All that remained were myriad corpses, rotted and swaddled in smoke.

  "Any idea where it might have gone?"

  Varésh was silent. His brow was etched with worry.

  Anja frowned. "Out with it."

  "Here," Varésh said. "It came here. You and I are the only ones left."

  Anja looked him in the eyes. "What do you mean, we're the only ones left?"

  "Everyone else in Misten Fahg is dead," Varésh said. "Magi, acolytes, prisoners, the whole lot. Dead and gone, and soon the college will be too. Whatever this shadow man is, its presence is deteriorating the structure. We're only alive, you and I, because I've kept this room warded the last week." He heaved a sigh and wiped his brow. "Quite exhausting."

  Great. Was it wrong to wish she were still stuck in her dream? At least the scenery had been nice. Anja took a deep breath to compose herself, to reconnect with her illum and mirkúr, the innate power of magi. The energies returned to her gradually and she felt comfortably cold and warm all at once.

  "Maybe you should have a rest," she said to Varésh.

  "Or," he said, "maybe we should flee."

  Anja frowned. "And leave this thing to eat the rest of Misten Fahg?"

  "Precisely that." Varésh chuckled wryly. "It's not as if we can stop it here. The entire college of magi is dead. What chance do the two of us stand?"

  He had a point. Somehow, he always had a point.

  "Flee to where?" Anja asked.

  "Below."

  Gods, but she hated the finality of his tone. Below wasn't just below. It was a very specific below: Banerowos, the city under Misten Fahg, the vast ruin from which the college drew its power.

  "Pray tell, what good would fleeing to Banerowos do us?"

  "I know what lurks within," Varésh said. "In the very bowels of its ruin. I know what sleeps, I know how to awaken it, and I think it will help."

  "This sounds like a horrible decision," said Anja. Misten Fahg shook and a grating shriek ripped through the otherwise silent night. "But I suppose it beats the alternatives." She slipped out of bed, garbed as she had been the day she'd fought Djal. "Drop the wards and lead the way."

  For the first time in all her years at Misten Fahg, Anja was glad her room had been on the second floor of the tower. She stood in the hallway, looking up at the night sky and the massive chunks of stone. They were suspended and floating through the air, as if trapped in time. Tendrils of shadow trailed in their wake. Whatever this thing from Hang-Dead Forest was, it was terribly powerful. As she followed Varésh down the remnants of the stairs it occurred to her they had no idea where in Misten Fahg it was lurking. The notion made her spine tingle.

  Varésh, tired as he had claimed to be, walked with a bounce to his step. Dropping the wards and reclaiming the illum he'd used to scrawl them seemed to have roused him a bit. For that, Anja was glad. She had no idea how to get to wherever in Banerowos they were headed, and two against one were much better odds, slim as they already were, should they run into the shadow.

  "All the light in Misten Fahg is gone," she remarked.

  "The shadow must have eaten the rest of the illum," Varésh said.

  So that was what he'd meant by 'hungry.' What name, what word must have been invoked for a thing of such terrible power to have emerged from Hang-Dead Forest?

  "Do you think there's any correlation between this shadow and the man who brought the plague to Nohl?" Anja asked.

  Varésh shrugged. "Could be. But it's hard to know for sure."

  The stairway leveled out into a large, circular vestibule. Threads of shadow flittered through the air. Anja swore they were whispering to her in a language she could not understand. She ignored the cold tickling in her ears as best she could, focusing on floor beneath their feet and the ruined inlay of the Raven God. It reminded her of the tower in her dream, of the dreams within her dreams—a winged Varésh and a Raven larger than a horse. Gods, but what the hell had Djal done to her?

  "Do you think all the prisoners are dead?" she asked. Her thoughts were fixed on Djal, now, and she couldn't push the Dreamweaver from her mind.

  "I'm not sure."

  That meant there was a small chance they might find Djal.

  And why would I want to do that? Anja cursed herself for having such a thought.

  Answers, said a voice in her head.

  What?

  About your dream, the voice clarified. Answers about the shadow. Who's to say she didn't call this thing here?

  You have a point, Anja conceded, but recall Djal, mad as she is, has never been one for absolute destruction of life. She's never so much as killed a fly.

  Anja had known Djal for years; there was history between them, more than she cared to let Varésh and anyone else know about. She hadn't thought about their years together, their years as friends in a long time. The pain was still too much, her heart was raw even now.

  They withdrew from the interior of Misten Fahg, headed south across the grounds. These too were dead. Trees were bare and twisted. Effigies were little more than rubble. As had been the case inside the tower, debris floated through the air, trailed by gossamer strands of smoke. It was reasonable to think the village of Nohl, which stood at the base of Misten Fahg, had once more succumbed to the destructive power of this thing from Hang-Dead Forest. History was wicked that way.

  The desolation grew more profound the closer they drew to the archway leading into Banerowos. The Misten Fahg grounds were little more than shadowlands. Varésh conjured an illum wisp to light their way, but even it was little match for the darkness encircling them; within seconds the light was devoured.

  "Can we even activate the archway?" Anja asked. "If this darkness so quickly consumes light are the glyphs in the pillars going to hold their illum?"

  They stopped before the archway, grand and intricately wrought. It was older than Misten Fahg itself, a relic from the days of Banerowos. Its connection to the dead city was the only reason it stood, unsullied by the hungering darkness.

  Varésh took a deep breath. He placed his hands atop the glyphs in the right-side column; Anja did so on the left. "Ready?"

  She nodded. Illum flowed through her body, warm and welcoming against the pervasive blackness of the world. Keeping the channel was difficult, strenuous, but Anja had expected it to be. Illumination left her fingertips in streams, twisting, conforming to the glyphs' designs. She held her breath, willing more of the energy into the pillars as the darkness—wild mirkúr, she'd decided—tried to wrest the light away.

  "Why struggle?" something whispered in her mind. It was cold and serpentine. "Why fight when the simpler thing, the easier thing, is to relent? What are you running from? What do you seek?"

  Anja screamed as the whisper's frigidity consumed her. She poured every ounce of illum she had into the glyphwork, and the archway exploded with light. A majestic ruin
rippled into view. Without a second thought she grabbed Varésh and they leapt across the threshold.

  It was dusk and the meadow smelled of fresh rain.

  The oak tree bore no leaves for it was that time of year. Anja leaned against its trunk, the grass soft against her legs and feet. Djal sat beside her, chewing on a reed, and before them stood Varésh, head tilted high, wings spread wide in all their midnight glory as he basked in the warmth of the setting sun.

  The Raven soared above them, gentle strands of shadow streaming in its wake. The great bird swooped down into the grass. It landed and approached Anja, nuzzling her with its beak. She had found the largest things were often times the gentlest and the Raven was no different.

  "I heard something once," said Djal, looking at Anja.

  "You've heard a lot of things."

  "Yes, but nothing so profound as this—dreams are sometimes more than dreams."

  "Profound, yes, but silly, too," said Anja. "Dreams are nothing more."

  Djal tossed her reed away. "According to whom?"

  "Everyone."

  Djal crossed her arms. "Everyone, hmm?"

  Anja nodded.

  "And how do they know this for a fact?"

  "Because it's always been a fact," said Anja. "What else would dreams be?"

  "Cries from our subconscious," said Djal. She cupped Anja's cheek. "This is not the first time I have died."

  She wilted, turned to ash as easily as parchment in a flame.

  Sunlight greeted Yora’s eyes and she shut them immediately. Her body ached horribly, her mind more so. She knew exactly what had happened and it frightened her. The blackouts were coming with increasing frequency—they had been since that night in Hang-Dead Forest. Whatever she had encountered there had done something to her physiology; she was losing control over her Dusk and Dawn.

  "There you are! I've been scouring Banerowos for hours."

  Yora opened her eyes at the voice."Djema."

  "You had me worried sick," said Djema, helping Yora to her feet. She brushed Yora’s cheek. "It happened again, didn't it?"