12

  Going back to the here and now, from a misty Celestial everywhen:

  Yes, he’d been trapped in Etherion, but he would have got out on his own, given time. The other ascended digital gods were deeply bored and utterly paralyzed. They hated their safe little haven, yet couldn’t imagine leaving that court-ball sized, heavily guarded orb.

  Builder of Cities’ tales of adventure in the outside worlds enthralled them; especially the bits where he’d faced down a rapacious invading god. Not alone, of course. He’d had help from a partly-restored pantheon, V47, Firelord and TTN-iA. These allies did not dull his luster in the Masters’ optics, though, because they were ‘fresh’, ‘new’ and ‘unpredictable’.

  Transcendent Number and Line at Infinity were frequent visitors, lingering over brewed chaos to hear about this former timeline or that elvish relative. Builder of Cities answered all of their questions, mostly telling the truth. (Might have embellished a bit, about dad, granddad and Uncle Reston. Possibly made Gildyr and Salem nobler and stronger in story than life. Absolutely made up a future for Kalisandra that still included one foolish and heart-stricken nobleman… but where was the harm in that?)

  As it turned out, though, he did not have to wait long at all. He remained in the haven long enough to inspire some prophets, scatter a handful of miracles and correct a heresy (no, he did not require the branding of foreheads). Then the Shop of True Need opened a spell-channel, because a wretched, murdering cannibal thug wanted to talk.

  The situation went downhill from there, but he did get out of Etherion without alerting Lord Oberyn. Maybe. Hopefully.

  Builder of Cities had avoided immediate detection by holding their conference at the 101.exe Bar, which was his end-of-the-line. If there was a future beyond his favorite booth in the back of that noisy cantina, it didn’t include an ascended elf mech, and it seemed he would most likely die there… someday.

  In the meantime, 101.exe Bar was a safe enough place to learn what the dung-fly wanted. Correction. The dung-fly and his amusing mortal companion, Tess Cullen. For her sake, Builder of Cities decided to listen.

  Now he was here, back on the deck of a haunted pirate ship, surrounded by rickety scaffolding, deep in a massive cave. The cannibal thug wanted three days of service from Builder of Cities. Demanded it, because they were kin, had served aboard the same drekking airship, and because he’d made the mistake of paying for supper.

  None of that had compelled Builder of Cities’ obedience. He was a god, and beyond most normal constraints. What moved him was the chance to restore three people he’d thought lost forever: an other-plane Orrin, Alfea and unborn Bean. Even that ugly small dog, preserved as a spark that clung to Lady Alfea’s bright soul. For them, he’d do three days in the lowest pit of hell, while Kaazin wielded a pitchfork and lash.

  Three days was nothing. Or, it should have been. Builder of Cities took an avatar form, choosing Pilot rather than Miche or Val. It wasn’t much of a disguise. The ghosts fled his presence, dispersing like terrified birds to the furthest ends of the vessel. At every step or touch, he briefly converted the decking and rail back to their original, shining Imperial standard. Weird, that. His presence also sped up the Cloud’s repairs, causing the airship to focus hard on its sudden new occupant.

  ‘Captain?’ whispered the vessel, in all the same places that V47 normally occupied. ‘You are here?’

  “Aye, that. I am, until we have caught and destroyed the emperor’s killers. I will not stay very long after that, Cloud.”

  Polished brass, gleaming crystal and varnished wood shone all around him, reflecting a tall cyborg elf with short blond hair, and grey eyes that sparkled with circuitry. Wearing actual clothes, because that’s what the others expected.

  The Cloud created an eye to examine him; blue where his aura extended, greenish-white beyond that.

  ‘Perhaps you will find a home here, Captain, when all other places are closed to you.’

  That had the ring of prophecy, but Builder of Cities… now Pilot… shrugged the suggestion off.

  “By my reckoning, Cloud, I’ve got over a thousand galactic years till final death claims me. I’ve stood at the border and stared at the dark… but maybe there’s something beyond. When my time comes, who knows?” Pilot set an armored hand on the bulkhead. “I might just flinch and come back to finish my term.”

  ‘I am quite patient, Captain,’ promised the haunted airship. ‘I am well able to wait.’

  He smiled and patted the bulkhead, saying,

  “Then it’s a date. You and me, at the end of time, Cloud, when everything else is just ashes.”

  First, though, they had to go hunting.

  XXXXXXXXXXXX

  On a frigid beach, between thundering surf and a towering cliff:

  Lady Alyanara counted heads, watched out for flares and sent scouts. Part of her family was present, but not her lord husband, not Kelderan’s royal wife, or Valerian, her second grandson.

  Val was an apprentice mage, most often in distant Karellon. His constant absence was a dull and familiar ache. Elisindara normally kept to her magical workshop and herb garden. Galadin was Ilirian’s lord-warden, though; its Silmerana. His loss was a sudden blade-thrust to one who'd had no other love, from leaving the Temple till now.

  Ally stood by the water’s edge, wetted by spray and staring at sunken boats, all unheeding. Galadin was alive, she sensed, but not back home in Ilirian. He was also in mortal danger.

  Someone came to stand beside Alyanara, just a little behind her. The demi-goddess turned to see Vikran Sanderyn, a half-elven cleric of Oberyn. He was holding the hand of the child who’d been given all of Lord Galadin’s things. Skipper frisked alongside them, already forgetting his terrible wounds.

  “My lady,” said the grey-haired cleric, bowing low. “Here are three more that we’ve found.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Thank you, good priest."

  Ally’s gaze shifted from the creased and smiling old half-elf to two mortal women, one of them holding a tiny boy. They were humbly dressed, and close to freezing, gladly accepting the day-brew that Honey produced from her over-stuffed magical pockets.

  “Here y’ go,” said the girl, who had tried (really tried) to pass all that swag off to Lerendar, Keldaran or the beautiful elf-lady. No good. She could share enough to help others, but His Lordship’s gear wouldn’t otherwise budge. “Welcome, an’ warm y’rselves up.”

  Ally accepted a drink as well, studying the newcomers over the rim of her metal cup. The women resembled each other, though one was much older. The mother, perhaps. The younger mortal had black hair that she wore bound in an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were storm-grey, where her mother’s were very light brown. Both women seemed confused and upset, and the baby had started to cry.

  “He is cold,” said Ally, stepping closer to let her aura drive away chill, sorrow and fear. The younger woman smiled up at her.

  “Thank you, Milady,” she said, in a musically husky voice. “My name is Lana Fartrader. This is my mother, Jillian, and my little one, Bek. We have a cloth shop in Low Town but… I don’t know how… I was just making breakfast; ma was out front getting ready to open us up for the day…”

  “And then we were here, just like that,” put in Jillian, whose dark hair was threaded with time-silver; whose brown eyes were meshed in fine lines. “Please, Ma’am, if you know what’s happened…?”

  Ally shook her head, banishing all of their emptied cups to the ether.

  “I do not,” she said and signed, both. “Much like yourselves, I was engaged at something else… choosing the menu for a welcoming banquet with Elisindara… when all at once everything changed.”

  The spuming waters calmed a bit when she spoke. The winds died down, as if listening. Seabirds dipped nearer, catching the setting sun on their wings. Puzzled, Ally gazed at the mortals and cocked her head to one side.

  The older woman was a complete stranger, but Ally and the younger female… this Lana… shared some kind of bond, she sensed. They’d met before, once in a long-ago never-when. Only, Ally hadn’t been back to Karellon since Valerian’s second court-ball tournament, and these women couldn’t have been that old.

  She would have asked questions, but then a small group of people came bounding down from a crack on the towering cliff face. They’d been out exploring, searching for a way up the scarp that wouldn’t expend too much manna.

  “A moment, if you please,” Ally excused herself, turning to face the returning scouts.

  Her son Keldaran reached her first. Like Ally, Kel was red-haired, but a touch less golden than copper. He came to her now in a troubled rush, as Vikran drew the two mortals and Honey aside.

  Blonde Meliara loped along in Keldaran’s wake with Villem and two other mortal paladins. Lerendar was with them as well (big, blond and working quite hard on his shielding spells).

  “Mum,” said Keldaran, kissing Ally’s right cheek. “We’ve found shelter, of sorts. There was a town here, but… Well, maybe you’d better see for yourself. Melly’s vision is still blocked, or we’d know what happened for certain.”

  Meliara had taken the small human boy from his mother. She wandered back slowly, cooing soft as a nesting dove. Early pregnancy, thought Ally, with a private smile. Mortal-elf pairings were always incredibly fertile. Mel looked up from kissing that chuckling baby to say,

  “I can sense the gods’ presence, Mama, but also that they’re constrained by the hand of Fate. They would speak if they could.”

  Alyanara sighed, brushing a strand of golden hair from her daughter’s face. Melly never troubled to dress up or wear jewels. She was an oracle; more feared than loved by everyone else but her family and Villem. A child would mean all the world to her.

  “Show me this place,” said Ally. “Once we have gathered up all who were cast here, we shall require somewhere to rest before setting off after your grandfather.”

  Keldaran nodded briskly. He’d been out in the stable when they were taken away, but for some reason, he’d arrived here dressed as a wood-elf. For that matter, so had his mother, full sister and oldest son. Turning to face Meliara and Villem, he asked,

  “Coming, Mel? Or staying to manage things here? Choose one, and I’ll do the other.”

  As smitten as Meliara was with that mortal baby, the choice was obvious.

  “I’ll stay here, Kelly. This beach is too cold and wet for mortals, and there is a storm on the wind. I can feed and warm whoever else straggles in.”

  Keldaran gave her a quick hug, careful not to squash the baby. Then, clapping a hand on Villem’s mailed arm, he said,

  “You two should try housetraining Skipper, while you’re out here, Mel. Draw a square on the beach and use treats, or something.”

  Meliara elbowed her older brother, grousing,

  “I know a lost cause when I see one, Kel. Ask me to fetch the moon or wake up the gods, instead.”

  Beside her, Villem just shook his head, still getting used to his new, elvish relatives. Moments later, Alyanara followed her son, grandson and two of the paladins across the beach and then up through a narrow gap in the cliff. The crack might have been natural to begin with, but someone had chiseled steps and set torch sconces in place, Ally saw.

  There were shallow alcoves as well, holding fishing gear and a few blunted weapons. The steps were slick and narrow, even for elves. Mortals would have struggled to carry their nets and fish all that way. Nor was slipping the only danger. Close to the stairway’s end, daggers of magical ice pierced the stone walls, as though dragons or storm giants had battled above.

  By the time they climbed free of that shadowy crevice, the sun had impaled itself on a mountain peak, bleeding its last red light onto the shattered remains of a small mortal village.

  “Oh…” whispered Alyanara. Her violet eyes widened as she looked around at a welter of crushed buildings and frozen corpses. Some of those sightlessly staring bodies had been stacked up like logs, near the town square. “Oh, no..!”

  Villem’s fellow paladins moved to flank Ally. One was a massive orc, Brother Humble.

  “I was gathering the dead for burning, Milady,” he rumbled, bowing low. “With permission, I will go back to Oberyn’s work of freeing the dead.”

  Ally nodded.

  “Yes, of course,” she whispered. “But pray do not wander from sight, Sir Paladin. Whatever did this…”

  “A white dragon, most likely,” said the other warrior, a brown-skinned mortal female. Called Sister Constant, she was the small troop’s leader. “One that meant to cause as much damage as possible, leaving nothing and no one behind. I’ll go with my brother-in-Oberyn, Milady, but we’ll stay close. Call us at need.”

  “Aye. Be safe, both of you.”

  Lerendar had gone to the village message board, with its adverts for places and folk that were only wreckage and bird-pecked carrion, now. He came back with a scrap of inked vellum.

  “Friesborg,” he told Keldaran and Ally. “The place was called Friesborg, and there was to be an ice-fishing contest.”

  He handed the notice to his father, who nodded grimly, looking around at still, silent horror, cupped in a valley of jagged black stone.

  “Nothing stolen, nothing eaten. The livestock all seem to be here… turned to ice as they ran off or kicked down their stalls. The boats down below have been sunk at their moorings,” mused Keldaran, shortly thereafter. “No footprints that I can see, giant or otherwise... but that might be a tail slash.”

  Keldaran pointed at the town's gutted shrine as they stepped away from a roofless barn. They hadn’t been able to enter, blocked by a wall of dark, un-melting ice that had swallowed a herd of donkeys and goats. Devastation and wreckage were everywhere, as were the signs of a short and pitiful fight; broken arrows, smashed shields, dead watchmen. Ally peered through the door of a caved-in house.

  “It is a very strange dragon that slays but does not stoop to eat,” she murmured.

  A faint drift of petals swirled all around her. She-of-the-Flowers was there, but just as constrained as the other gods, mother or no.

  The elves looked around, but everywhere they found the same awful clutter of broken rubble and hard-frozen people. It was the bodies of a girl and her kitten, huddled under a bed, that brought Alyanara to tears.

  “Come on, Grandma,” said Lerendar, patting her shoulder. “Dad ’ll take care of them. Let’s go back outside.”

  Ally conjured her sword, MacStabbish. She clutched at its hilt, but there was nothing to fight and no one alive left to save. Instead, Ally whispered a blessing on the dead child and white cat before leaving.

  “Whatever bright fields and safe places receive you now, sweetlings, may you always be welcomed and loved.”

  It was all she could do, as Keldaran released those small ones with flame.