Dolce

[Zadown]

Sky was dark blue, loaning parts of its deep hue to color the houses and trees of Jugatt. The fragrance of late spring hung in the blue air - lightly baked earth, scents of early flowers, the taints any bigger human settlement, faint traces of wood smoke. Night had not really begun yet but day was truly over, its heat dissipating. Most big trader noble houses shone with excessive light, some even having lanterns outside as a display of wealth. Light seen through both colored and transparent glass, warm colors of yellow and orange and red that made the evening's soft blue seem like night's earliest black in contrast.

 

This part of the town was peaceful, most of the noises you could hear faraway echoes from the lower city. Those moving about did so with no hurry and no obvious dread, even if servants carried cudgels and noblemen curved swords. Gravel crunched under boots, men laughed at each other's witty remarks, a swift argument was nearly as quickly made up and forgotten. The taverns and theatres were lower on the slope, those catering to the richer crowd creating a barrier of sorts between the noble quarters and the wilder parts of lower city where the hoi polloi had its fun and where those visiting the city from the farmlands nearby stayed.

 

A lone figure walked upwards on the stone stairs against the flow of nobles and their sons going downward to enjoy their evening out, some rare larger groups consisting of mostly women with a few men and servants for their protection obviously heading towards the more reputable theatres. He wore the attire of a priest, a wide-brimmed white hat that hid his eyes and thin, pale grey robes over black shirt and trousers. In his left hand he held a smooth, short staff of white wood. Nobody paid much attention to him, even if it was rare to see their kind out this late. Trade was the business of the nobles after all, the mystiques of creation and afterlife that of the priests, and there was no real overlap, just as it should be.

 

The priest made his way past the cheaper merchant houses, those still aspiring to be real nobles but who had enough money to be allowed to live up here, his step steady and course unwavering. He turned left, not going into the heart of the neighborhood where the oldest, most respectable and established noble houses stood tall as castles, passed a few more of the two-storeyed buildings before he paused. Before him stood an oddity, a squat tower surrounded by rectangle houses to every direction, a servant removing the two flags flying on its roof for the night. Here the waking night was even more silent, the servant and him the only two people visible. He watched the servant removing the flags a moment, then started walking towards the front door. The servant called to him loudly from the roof with polite refusal in his voice.

 

"Sir! The lord of the house is on a caravan trip, and the lady will not see a priest!"

 

A nod seemed to mean the priest had heard the words, but he did not turn away, knocked the front door loudly instead. The servant issued one last protesting "Sir!" before starting to descent slowly, taking great care not to let the flags fall from his grip, but was too late to reach the ground before the door opened. A maid peered outside, a quizzical look on her young face that was not dispelled by the unexpected sight of a priest at the door. A priest who took off his hat revealing a face ruined by an unlikely amount of battle scars and grinned, showing teeth that were too white.

 

"The Lady of the house will see me now."

 

"O .. of course, sir."

 

The words of heavy speech had reached the ears of the servant hurrying towards the door with the flags of the house as well, and he stood still as the Dreamer stepped in following the slightly shaken maid. The maid turned left in the hall, opened a door and lead the planewalker upwards to the living room. Jankiize was already standing up, staring at the door with a taunt, serious posture. In front of her on the small table lay an unfinished piece of needlework, her elder daughter standing next to her mother with a stare that was too wise for her obviously few years, almost a copy of her mother's. The effect was slightly spoiled by a wooden doll she was holding. A crystal pendant glittered in the lantern light on her neck, the same light falling softly on the paintings that adorned the walls, on the two large maps that had been filled with notes and best trade routes. The maid curtsied and left in a hurry before a word was spoken. When she was out of view, Jankiize relaxed slightly and spoke softly in Ancient Chaman, a language of magic only she and the Dreamer understood here.

 

"You are still scaring my servants, I see."

 

"It is better to scare them than for me to lose my temper, don't you think, Little Princess?"

 

The little child frowned and turned to face her mother, who smiled at her daughter and switched back to the local language. Her smile did not fade when she regarded the scarred giant standing at the doorway.

 

"Yes, of course, uncle Dreamer. Welcome back."

 

"Thank ye, m'lady, an' greetings, th' Li'tl'st Princess."

 

"Ah, but she isn't, not the smallest one - Jannal is sleeping in her crib. Say hi to uncle Dreamer, Mendra."

 

Mendra took another look at the Dreamer before suddenly acting more in accordance with her age and tried to hide behind Jankiize's skirt. The planewalker shrugged and nonchalantly tossed his wide-brimmed hat into Astral, took a few steps further in. He turned to examine the vast maps hanging on both sides, covering those parts of the walls that were free of paintings and old, expired trade agreements.

 

"Ye travelled t' any of these places yet, m'lady?"

 

Jankiize gave up trying to usher her daughter forward.

 

"I have been busy here, uncle. Reading through the tomes you have sent, and with both Mendra and Jannal ... there hasn't been an opportunity to travel much. The locals think women should stay at home, too."

 

Eyes narrowed, their blue darkening, scars crawling across the Dreamer's frowning face.

 

"An' ye acquiesce, just like that, even if ye still think in terms o' 'locals' an' 'ye' instead of 'us'? Do th' locals think all women should do needlework, too?"

 

"And you should save me again from my cruel fate, uncle?"

 

She was amused, so used to the planewalker's outbursts and threatening looks during these storms she could easily let them blow past her and dissipate instead of giving them more fuel by rising her own voice. Her tone softened the sharpest edge as soon as she spoke, continued almost like talking to a petulant child.

 

"I find it helps me to relax after spending too much time with the tiny sigils and obscure theories engraved all over the thick pages of your books. You can't save me from needlework, and you can't change this world into something that you would see as a paradise for us mortals, especially not when you spend here a few days every few years."

 

She bent down and carefully detached Mendra's fingers from her hem, pushed the little girl gently to stand between them.

 

"Now, remember what I have taught you and greet my foster father properly."

 

After much feet shuffling and attempts at hiding behind her mother again, Mendra finally managed to look at the Dreamer long enough to mutter an inaudible "hi". A grin tore his face in half, green eyes paling.

 

"Why, 'ello m'lady Mandra o' th' House Jalar. 'Tis a pleasure t' meet ya, aye."

 

The snarling accent and mauled face, towering height and shifting eyes staring at her were a bit too much, and the little girl ran away to the next room, bawling like a little baby. The Dreamer watched her go, emerald green still swirling in his eyes, torn lips slanted in a smile.

 

"Guess yer servants aren't th' only ones I scare."

[Zadown]

A comfortable silence hung around the room like a warm blanket, punctuated by the lazy crackle of fire in the fireplace and the muffled, ordinary sounds of a house filled with servants. The Dreamer looked around. Maid had brought them tea and pastries, the children had been carried off to pester servants instead of them. The room was almost the same as it had been the last time and he turned his attention to Jankiize, who was watching him silently, sipping her tea. Her attire reminded him of spirit-raiser's robes, the style different than what he had seen the local noblewomen wear. The elegant earrings of polished wood and jade, her narrow eyes and blond hair would have each marked her a stranger as well.

 

Traders are tolerant of weird customs and strange people, thankfully. Most places suitable for humans to live would have tried her as a witch by now, or tried to make her join some guild of occultists. Perhaps I should have taken her to Anvil, but that plane swirls with too many turbulent destinies to be safe.

 

"You seem thoughtful."

 

"Whenever I end up reflectin' on my past deeds, th' amount o' past I have drags me under."

 

His tone was light, eyes verdant. To Jankiize's surprise he lifted the teacup set in front of him by the servant and took a tiny sip. He grimaced and placed the cup down with care.

 

"How are you? I hardly know what has happened to you since the end of the war. You did hint at the war being in a calmer stage the last time, but it is hard for even me to gauge such things unless you tell me how things really are."

 

The Dreamer nodded curtly.

 

"'Twas a short calm, ya, but there are new swirling disturbances afoot. Not sure if I am needed, or welcome, this time. I 'ave meddled more in th' last thirty years than many an Ascendant in a lifetime. Per'aps whatever influence th' Fates loaned me t' alter th' Multiversum to a direction they wish for it 'as been used up, an' what's left is just a scarr'd warrior. An' ye? Ye look fine, at th' least."

 

His gaze was penetrating, chilly, and Jankiize couldn't help squirming slightly like a pinned down butterfly. She had no secrets of the kind that could have angered or disappointed the planewalker, but knowing he saw far more than any mortal was still an uncomfortable feeling, like she had been naked.

 

"It could be worse. Mendra and Jannal are both healthy, beautiful children, and what I understand from Melenar, business is doing well enough. Though some, especially those living nearby, do not trade with him ..."

 

"Because yer th' Witch o' Jalar, aye?"

 

"Yes."

 

"'Tis yer price for livin' here an' being what ye are."

 

He looked around, more as a gesture than anything else.

 

"Seems still a price ye can pay, ya?"

 

"Of course, uncle."

 

"An' would ye defend this place, without me?"

 

She finished her tea and took a pastry, ate a piece of it over a lifted ceramic plate.

 

"Unlike you, I can't run or hide. I still have nightmares of what happened to the Thakelmians, and older nightmares of the defense of Arkstâd, but if I could do things differently I'd still defend the things worth defending, and suffer the nightmares. The locals may not all like me, and some of them may fear me, but I'd still defend them to defend my home."

 

"With a blade, m'lady?"

 

His silver eyes gleamed with mischief.

[Zadown]

"Ye still fit into it, ya."

 

"It feels a bit constricting, actually."

 

Jankiize tugged at the edges of the practice armor without much effect. Her hair was tied to a bun, the bone-reinforced armor and the wooden sword both modelled after gear the male members of her family had used for centuries. No metal, yet she still looked a lot like she had done during the time she had been called Lady of Bronze, the martial attire bringing out something stern and commanding in her. Years had barely touched her face, the scars almost invisible under a tan and her body exceptionally fit for somebody who spent most of her time with books and children, a mistress of a household with better things to do than practice the physical arts. The Dreamer wore his cream-white robes, an identical wooden sword held loosely in his right hand. His eyes were blue, almost human.

 

Around them were glaring white walls, below a floor of the same unreal material. There was no ceiling, just a roiling view to the blue planar Astral. No breeze stirred in the room, the air sterile and without temperature or a scent.

 

"This gives ye unfair advantage, m'lady. I 'ave t' concentrate to keep this room stable, no trivial feat this deep in th' planar space."

 

She laughed then, first time he had seen that happen in a long, long time. Her ready stance was a combination of relaxed old expertise and unease brought by continued negligence, the wooden sword wavering once or twice before she stilled its blade.

 

"Yes, I'm sure you are completely defenceless against this housewife now, Scourge."

 

"Ha!"

 

He launched an attack, running with the flow of time in a way that left his motions slightly slower than normal, the opposite of what he usually did in any serious battle. His forms were perfect but dreamy, easy to see, his strength restrained. Jankiize deflected the blow, then hesitated. She had always been better at defending herself than attacking, lacking the ferocious (or deadly cold) killer instinct most immortals were accustomed to. A faint smile and the Dreamer tried out an old, unorthodox attack that he would not have dared to try in any fight against another immortal armed with a real blade. Another parry, but an awkward one - it pushed her backwards, disrupting her rhythm. He relented and did one of the most simple textbook attacks, was satisfied by the textbook parry and a riposte, at last. Something in the flows of the Astral distracted him then. It was easier to let old reflexes guide his blade than stabilize the practice room floating deep inside the bowels of another plane. With eyes flashing yellow, sword a blur, he forcefully disarmed Jankiize and touched her chest lightly with the blunt tip of the blade. She rubbed her hands, face unreadable.

 

"As I said, 'tis hard work t' maintain this spell. Ye sure we can't do this anywhere in the Prime?"

 

"That'd be sure to shred whatever respect I still hold in Jugatt. Your last visit destroyed most of it, no matter if we did save them then."

 

"What do ye think'll happen when they realize yer not agin' much any more, m'lady? Think ye can 'andle that one?"

 

He tapped the floor made of raw magic, thin as a thought, with his sword twice as he spoke. Their old signal to continue the sparring, and she reacted to it half out of old habits, picked up her blade and took another ready stance, this time more quickly.

 

"I wasn't sure if you'd notice. I guess nothing much of that nature gets by you."

 

She sighed, flexed her wrists and took few tiny sideways steps to find the best possible stance.

 

"It's hard to say. Considering there's no real magic here, the locals are really relaxed about these matters. I'm sure you looked into it before setting me down here, after the war and what happened right afterwards."

 

He nodded, tapped the floor one more time and attacked, slightly faster this time. The wooden blades met and met yet again, the noise along with Jankiize's heavy breathing the only sound in the floating room. She tried to execute a similar disarm the Dreamer had used earlier, but he gripped his sword too hard and her own sword was flung away. The years seemed to melt away between them, even if it had been over half a decade since they last time had done this. To him, of course, it was not a long time at all, and to her this practicing with swords had been a long-standing ritual with roots deep in her childhood. She expected the next gesture, felt oddly happy when the Dreamer's sideways nod confirmed it had been his fault for using too big a portion of his excessive strength. Jankiize's two taps on the floor with her retrieved blade told him she was ready again and attacking this time.

 

A parry and a push forward instead of the riposte she had been expecting brought him right next to her, so close she could feel the heat he always radiated. He touched the tip of her nose lightly with his left hand while their blades were locked, his old way of telling her to watch getting too entangled with a stronger opponent. They disengaged, Jankiize brushing her nose absently with her sleeve.

 

"Ye 'aven't forgotten all that much, for a mortal. O' course, any opponent ye wouldn't be able t' best with yer magic would most likely laugh at yer swordsmanship, m'lady."

 

"Very comforting."

 

"Ah, but 'twasn't a slight on yer skills with a blade, just a praise of yer grasp o' th' Art."

 

She dropped the ready stance, letting her sword dangle on her side.

 

"I'm not sure if I am as good in that as you think. It's hard, relying only on books and what you told me ages ago."

 

He lifted his blade to lean on his shoulder, point upwards, shrugged.

 

"I could get ya a teacher, I'm sure. Ye an' yer children. Th' blood of mages flows strongly in them, despite their father."

 

"They are far too young still! Perhaps in ten years..."

 

"Ye know how my time flows, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua. Ten years, a blink o' an eye, they are not all that different t' one o' us. An' ye'll notice th' same once yer children are older an' not marking th' flow o' time for ya any more. Would ye want a teacher, a mortal one? Or possibly two..."

 

His voice faded and he drew a card from his robes, glared at it before putting it back.

 

"Ya, two."

 

"You have somebody in mind already even before talking to me about this at all? Gods, sometimes I wish you'd stop arranging my life!"

 

The Dreamer did not rise to the bait, merely grinned and tapped the floor twice with his swords.

 

"Th' gods 'ave nothin' to do with either me or th' teachers, Li'tl' Princess."

 

This time he rushed forward with speed that was barely mortal.

[Zadown]

Heavy towers of impressive tomes obscured most of the table nearest to the window. They cast long shadows on the floor and the walls, the room illuminated by a number of steady globes of light levitating near the ceiling. Another, smaller table had only a few books covering it, but most of them were open, exposing their intricate innards to the outside world. Their text varied from meticulous through overly ornamental to the scribblings of somebody seen and done too much, or perhaps occupying a rotten body, noting down his life's work before surrendering order and sanity to the embrace of undeath. No matter what the text was like, the diagrams, glyphs and runes in the illustrations were done with whatever clarity and exactitude the author could muster. There were few things more useless than a magic circle done slightly wrong. Jankiize sat at the table, a furrow of concentration on her brow, writing notes on expensive vellum. She had no jewelry and her evening robe was simple, the time late enough for such breaches of usual noble dress code. The Dreamer stood near, a series of blue glowing runes next to him, their form subtly different than in the pictures of the top-most book.

 

"Th' runes in this 'Felder's Compendium of Warding' are usable, ya, but his obsessions concernin' circles made 'im give them suboptimal, too round shapes. O' course, th' shapes alone mean li'tl', but that's no excuse t' fail at that in a way ye have t' compensate elsewhere, in raw power or articulation, or in preparation time."

 

The frown smoothed itself from Jankiize's face as she finished transcribing the illusionary runes hanging in the empty air. She placed the quill carefully down to not mess up the finished notes. When she spoke, her question was tentative.

 

"Yet you mutter most of your spells, sometimes making the words nigh unintelligible."

 

"Ya. An' do ye always walk in a way that would be found in th' grimoires o' walking, should there be such books? Once ye master a skill, ye can look back an' ignore a number of those rules yer teachers, be they authors or actual acquintances of yers, have taught ye."

 

"Do you think I ever will? Master all this?"

 

There was no real hunger in her look or words. The Dreamer started to smile, an answer forged of dry wit ready, then paused and looked around in the room. The numerous books, their combined value far higher than everything else in the household, had truly taken over. Their weight, all in all, would have crushed any one mount, all the information combined in them smashed most minds that would have tried to comprehend it all.

 

"No. Not master, m'lady, an' of that I am glad, for th' leash such masters are connect'd to the flows o' magic with goes both ways. This world o' yers irritates me, like an itch on my soul - th' ambient magic is weak here, yet fully powerful enough for me t' do what I can, for us t' study it here."

 

His eyes alighted, like two rising moons, a rare sight. A tiny gesture extinguished the runes floating next to him.

 

"Ye'll never Ascend, unless some great change corrupts ye far beyond my vision, Lady Jankiize."

 

She sighed in relief before even thinking about the matter consciously. Few mortals had had the opportunity to see what the existence of an immortal was like, and even her close to seventeen years of growing up and later working alongside the Dreamer as his Grail Carrier was but a passing episode in his long life, not enough to show her even half of his secrets. Still, she had seen the weight of both his history and his future crushing on him, both extending far beyond any horizon she could yet imagine.

 

"But ye'll find th' longevity o' Adepts o' th' Art, if not by yerself then with my help. 'Tis not an unshakeable prophecy - I remember ye do not want me t' read th' cards Fates deal ye beforehand, so who knows what'll happen? Neverth'less, I'd expect ye to be alive t' see yer grandchildren's children, ya."

 

"That doesn't sound like a bad goal to work towards."

[Zadown]

A single memory, frozen in time:

 

Sun shining through the trembling leaves of a tree, the rays in turns soothing green and irritating, glaring white. Sounds of a pet dog barking at something, distant and muted by the hedges, by the rustling sound of leaves shaken by a breeze. The scarred planewalker sits on the dry lawn that could use some rain. She knows his cream-colored robes will not be dirty when he stands up, yet another tiny gap between him and them, the lowly mortals. Her child, the younger, next to her in a wooden portable crib, the older in front of the Dreamer, stares with fascination at the wooden doll between them, the doll walking around on its own power. Dreamer's eyes are pale green like spring leaves, his scars diminished whenever a direct ray of sunlight eliminates all shadows from his face, a slanted grin twisting it. Mandra's face is hard to read, but whatever message is on it, it does not contain a word of fear.

 

A heavy tome on her own lap, a book instead of either of her children, the changing light playing havoc on the tiny script, her attention elsewhere in any case. Its leather covers are warm, as is sun's fleeting touch on her hands. Her light robes are perfect for the weather, not hot, not cold, and she knows there is a tiny smile on her own face even if nobody really watches her, a smile for herself.

 

Somewhere beyond this their servants and beyond still, travelling with his trusted men, his husband. But this is here and now, and she knows then she will remember this moment, no matter what happens, bad or good, boring or exciting. She knows will store it right next to whatever other memories she has of both her children and uncle Dreamer, a semi-precious stone with its own warm, friendly glow.

 

Her smile grows a little wider and she leans back, closes her eyes to bask in the sunlight.

[Zadown]

"I'll be off, then."

 

She nodded. It was early afternoon, so Jankiize was wearing her usual household attire, formal even in its alien cut, the pieces of her ornate earrings rotating gently around each other. He was in his cream-white robes, their color immaculate no matter what he did or where he sat.

 

"You'll come back with the teachers?"

 

"Ya, once I've convinc'd them that their fate lies in this direction."

 

He narrowed his own eyes when he mentioned fate and glanced away, like remembering something unpleasant.

 

"Ah, ya, therein could lie a problem, aye. I've seem t' have lost my charm."

 

Jankiize almost laughed aloud at that before she noticed the Dreamer looked sullen instead of sarcastic. She eclipsed her wide smile with her hand instead, knew it would not work as well as with humans.

 

"Well, I hope their contract will be easier on them than mine was."

 

He shrugged.

 

"Not many mortals have one o' us as a patron. Th' price may 'ave been bitter, ya, but ye can't claim 't has been all bad, m'lady Jankiize."

 

A seriousness in his tone, and she felt bad about breaching the subject, especially now that he was leaving. She lowered her hand and bowed as a farewell.

 

"No, not all bad, uncle. Fatespeed."

 

A brief nod and he was gone.