Prologue: The Clock Turns

I start my story at the beginning, as all such tales should be. I, as the Historian of this world, am diligently seeking to disclose the true events of that time of which so many legends and tales, some half-true, some blatantly exaggerated, have already been told. My name is not unknown here, but few think of me save in passing. Yet am I content, letting the world pass me by while I stand back and watch – and record. Therefore, I, Miyel, Historian of the World (called by some the Historian of the gods) have taken up quill and parchment to tell this tale.

It begins in a world separate from that in which I make my home: a world where the things that seem commonplace in Kjeikur have been forgotten, where the Old Music is silenced, where the trees and the rivers have lost their voices, where steel and cold iron subjugate the green land. In the center of that world lies a place recognized by its inhabitants as ancient, unknowingly old. Once a world similar to ours, it has diverged from ours in the weaving of time. Yet that one place has remained in the mists of time, in the recesses of their memories. The place is the omphalos; the world in which the saving of both our worlds began has a very simple name. It is called . . . Earth.

A. D. 2251: the Pleides system

The spaceship U.P.E.S.S. Orion’s Belt was awaiting instructions from mission control. Having spent the last three years in Astra, all of the human crew were eager to return to Solar after their next assignment. The whole trireme buzzed with anticipation, the Qilos having caught the mood of the humans, enthusiastically awaiting their chance to see the famed Ancient Earth. The plasma screens flickered almost constantly with the flurry of messages being passed forth among the dimensional computers.

Captain Lewys Toris paced nervously around the flight deck, oblivious to the excitement around him. It was not just the impatience to take a furlough from the sky that caused his edginess. The ACOUT, the Ancient Council of United Terrae, always held the last mission of any campaign under the tightest security. Before he had left Cadet, he had been warned that there was a slight chance that he might not return from his final mission. There were precedents. Just twenty years ago, Lt. Col. Davre Hashlin, along with a crew of fifty humans and twenty-four Qilan engineers had gone missing in Sector 46-P of the Freedom Quadrant, near the Kekrev. It was rumored that the Council had sent him on a top-secret mission into uncharted territory, a rumor bitterly denied by the entire Council.

Toris shook his head. Now was not the time or place to be thinking about that. He had just finished effecting an extremely delicate trade commission between Solar and Ganeda, speaking with all the authority of the Council, even returning with a Ganedan ambassador. Surely, they would not waste such a valuable asset. He turned and headed to the portal. It was high time he ate something edible.

Walking down the hallway, Kjeik tried not to stop and stare in amazement at the things he encountered. It was amazing how advanced these da’lerdac – no, he must remember to think in English, these humans – were. Hard to believe that only two hundred years ago, they had not even explored their entire solar system. And now they were working together with those creatures that called themselves Qilos, from Andromeda, no less. Speaking of which, the Qilos set his hair on edge. Those – things – on their faces, if they could be called faces. He shuddered. At least he had heard that the lifeforms on Earth were similar to those in his homeland. He fervently hoped that there were not equivalents to some, though. A memory surfaced in his mind:

High in his castle, he could hear the guttural cries of the Usgees, and the screams of his kin as they shed each other’s blood. He cursed the Shadowmancer for the atrocities that had been commonplace since that foul wizard had drilled through into the Otherworld, loosing the Usgees and all the other Shadowspawn. But they would have been easily dealt with had something else not broken through the breach. The Ancient One. Ten years of war, ten years of slaughter, and the Armies of the Sun were driven back to Lake Ibn. He had led the charge himself to break through, knowing it was the end. The Elves were cut down like wheat. Only a remnant survived. Yet at the last, the Aari’el came, and bound the Enemy. Yet there was still fighting, for the Usgees and the demons were still free. And now, some of the Elves had sworn to the Shadow. Again, the final battle would lie at the Ibn, now a desert. He put on his mail, and went down to face his doom.

Kjeik shook his head. Sometimes memories of that time just popped into his head. He barely remembered dying, or his resultant reforming and commission. Yet, that was why he was here. All he knew, all he needed to know was that he had to get someone on this ship to his world, to save it. He would never question one of the Voices. Now, where was the Control Room?

Toris stepped through the gateway onto the flight deck. Surprisingly, the room was empty. He walked forward to the display screens. Apparently, all of the pilots were on their off-shift.

“I am afraid we are the only ones up here, da’lerdac.”

Toris whirled around. Approaching him was the ambassador from Ganeda. What was his name again? Jek, Jik… No, Kjeik, that was it. He relaxed when Kjeik took a chair.

“Sit, sit, human. I don’t bite,” Kjeik said, while grinning to show all of his many sharply pointed teeth. Everything about him seemed pointed, from his ears to his dark, tilted eyes. Even his fingers were unusually long and thin. Yet he seemed vaguely familiar, like something Lewys had seen in a picture. In a book, maybe? He shook his head slightly to get rid of those thoughts, and sat down.

“What are you doing here? I had expected you to be keeping to your rooms, the way you reacted to the Qilos when you boarded.” Now why would the Ganedan make him think of children?

“Oh, I was just surprised. I have never seen other cognitive lifeforms besides humanoids in this galaxy,” Kjeik said in that funny, slurring way of his. “Have you ever, in your own world?”

“Well, no, I suppose not. But-” Toris began. Kjeik stood up in a flash, and his hand darted out and hit a button. Immediately the lights went out, and the plasma interface shut down.

“What are you doing?,” Toris shouted.

“Saving both our worlds,” came the reply. “Do not worry about your crew. We are the only creatures aboard. I sent all of the others back to Ganeda. The coordinates have been entered. Only you must come, and only you would survive. You are the life of the Light. You are the Chosen One. Ahh, the Light, the blessed Light.” With each word, Kjeik’s voice faded, until the last was barely a whisper.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Toris shouted, to no avail. He was alone, in the dark.

The Castle of the Air; Laquo, G.C. 481

The old man sat up in his bed, gasping. He had Seen again. It was time. He got up from his cot in the corner of the room, and went to the door. Poking his head out, he looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. Grumbling under his breath, he went back inside and dressed. The finely woven wool of his robe was a dark green, almost black, and there were vines embroidered in gold on the sleeves and around the high collar. Not too lavish for the task, yet rich enough to provide no offense to his expected visitors. He pinned a golden sunburst to the front of the collar, and put on a scarlet cloak with a matching sunburst embroidered on the back. The cloak of the Legion of the Sun. Many memories were attached to that cloak, not all of them pleasant. There had been a time when the Legion was revered throughout all lands, but that was many years ago. Now, the Legion was broken, shattered beyond all recovery. They had been betrayed at the last, by the very ones they protected, sacrificed to the Shadow by petty, ambitious men. He was the only one still alive who even remembered the days of the Covenant.

He swept out of his room, and headed down the corridor to the Great Hall, still reminiscing. There were times he barely remembered coming to this place. He still had the ACOUT uniform, buried in the bottom of his wardrobe. Many years had passed since then. If he were to return, he would have been dead for nine hundred years in his own solar system, if time had passed the same way there as it had here. The only other person who had come with him was at the Court of the Seven Suns, trying to convince Eawin, King of Asrael, not to attack Thraese. Fool man with his fool dreams of empire! No one had conquered the world since Artos Pendraug, five hundred years ago, and his empire had fallen apart before his death, yet fool men, and no few women, still dreamed of repeating his feat.

Davre Hashlin - that was his name, though none here could pronounce it, with their abominably slurred accents. It had been centuries since he had adopted the name Dovyre Haaslyn, but he sometimes still thought of himself as a lieutenant colonel in UCAP, the United Council Air Patrol. And tonight, he would be doing something lost to his world for millennia. It was not until he came here that he discovered that he could channel, the ability these people had to affect their surroundings with elemental forces. They all had it to some degree or another, but he was strong in all five powers, apparently something unusual in a human. Possibly, it was because the ability had been lost in his world, and once he had entered this world, his latent power had been magnified. Another unknown ability had also surfaced. He was a Seer. Whether that was from here, or somewhere else, he could not say.

He entered the Great Hall, and channeled the fireplace alight. He sat on the throne on the dais. It was a relic from the golden days of the Legion, when the Commander-General of the Legion was as powerful as a king. The great golden sunburst inlaid in the sandstone floor was worn from the feet of petitioners, though few had come in the last hundred years. The whole room spoke of ancient and faded glory. The tapestries depicted battles won and lost a thousand years ago. His face was in several of the tapestries.

A rapid knock on the door broke his bitter reverie. “Come in,” he called out. A servant entered the room carefully, encumbered with a heavy chest. He set the chest down at his master’s feet, and bowed respectfully.

“Here are the things you desired, Master Haaslyn.”

Davre nodded in grim approval. Rising from his chair, he dismissed the servant. Once he had departed, the old man wove sixteen chairs from Air and Fire, and arranged them in a semicircle before the dais. After he moved the chest to the foot of the stairs, he went over to a niche in the wall and pulled out a small fox-fur bag. Returning to the dais, he sat back down on the throne.

Just when he had settled, the doors to the Hall slammed open, and a continuous stream of phenomena filled the room. First, a strong breeze, full of the scent of salt, blew through the room. The calls of seagulls hung in the air. Just as the breeze died down, the sound of trumpets blowing the battle-charge resounded in the silence, and the tramping of armies echoed from the walls. The roar of thunder next filled the old man’s ears, simultaneously arriving with a sense of peaceful rest and the scent of trees in bloom. The aroma of wine and the laughter of children arose, followed by the flowing melodies of a harp. The song of nightingales and the cacophony of a smithy came after the gentle dripping of rain. The warm, musty smell of old books was drowned out by the heady fragrance of roses. Finally, a hunting horn sounded, and the song of the stars died away.

Standing in front of him were fifteen figures of vaguely human semblance, robed and crowned like the kings and queens of old. They bowed to him, as to an equal, and sat in some order of rank, though Davre did not know if they assumed any. A sixteenth figure, hooded and cloaked, slid out of the shadows in the corner and took the last seat. The Aari’el waited courteously for Davre to speak.

He cleared his throat. “So, you have come.”

The Aari’el to the far left rumbled. That was the only word to describe the noise, like an earthquake or a peal of thunder. It was a few seconds before Davre realized he was chuckling. Kieltar was a giant of a figure, swathed in all shades of blue and his crown was studded with sapphires. Pearls and thread-of-gold covered his coat. “Yes, son of man, we have come, as the Bargain stated.” Kieltar was not one to forget promises.

“Why have you called us, Ser’drewdi?” Davre started at the name. Too many years since he had been Battle Leader, too many forgotten memories. Hertië was a tall woman robed in pale green, with a shawl the color of beech leaves, and a green stone dangled from a fine silver chain in her golden hair. Her voice was low and musical, and there was a sound of laughter in her question. She laughed again at Davre’s reaction.

He threw open the lid of the chest. Inside, ten gems glittered. He pulled them out, and arranged them in a row on the Dais. “I need your help with this task. The grace of the Aari’el must imbue these if they are to aid the one who will save us all. All the power of mortals, even if we had the lost strength of the Twenty, could not empower these gems enough. Only you, in whom dwell the essence of the Light, have the ability. Will you aid me in this?”

The Aari’el discussed heatedly amongst themselves. Davre closed his eyes again, and waited. To speak now would only make things worse. They would have to decide of themselves, or it would be worthless. For many minutes, there seemed to be two equally divided factions. The one in favor of helping, headed by Moyra and Hertië, almost came to blows with the other faction, headed by Khierai. When the shadowy figure stood up and raised his hand, all conversation stopped. Jonmûl threw back the hood of his cloak, and spoke in his sonorous voice:

“Hear, Voices of the Light. In my dreams, I have seen two futures. In one, we did this deed, and all of our hopes came to pass. In the other, we refused. At the last in that second, we alone were not strong enough to oppose the Accursèd One, for he had called all to himself. The Nine had been annihilated, and the earth made into a wilderness not fit for even the Fallen. I now leave you to your decision. Which would you have? For me, I stand on the side of the mortals.”

He walked over to Davre’s side. The rest, silently considering his words, sat down again. After a few minutes, Hertië sprang to her feet. “I stand with them.” She walked over to join Jonmûl. Barely a second later, Moyra, Treyir, Wraego, Frea’je, Niyr and Loradi, the original faction for helping, joined her. “We also stand,” they chorused. Kieltar stood, nodding his agreement slowly. Derwid rose gracefully, pulling up Derwi as well. “My brother and I will stand until the last.” Jeroté looked around, and rose with a sigh. “I also stand, though I do not believe this is the best way.”

Loradi counted the number standing up. “I believe that is a majority. The will of the Aari’el has been revealed; so let it be done. If any would not aid, he is free to leave.” No one moved.

Loradi turned to Davre. “We have decided. Let it begin.”

Davre pointed to the line of gems, listing off their names. “Pathteller, Foolblinder, Serpenttongue, Swordbender, Earth­speaker, Gracesaver, Fatetwister, Wisestone, Bravemaker, and Heartsoother.”

Jonmûl looked askance at Davre. “There is another, mortal. You have kept it for many years. It is time for it to be released to the world.”

Davre sighed, and opened the bag. After laying the last gem in front of the others, he stepped back as the Aari’el formed a circle. The Aari’el began to chant in a language that Davre, in all his years of study, had never heard. Inside the circle, a point of light began to glow. It grew brighter, and expanded, eventually filling the circle. The chanting grew louder as the light grew even brighter. Then, when Davre thought he would be blinded if the light grew any brighter, the chants turned into a song, wordless and otherworldly. The light changed color from white to gold. The last note hung ringing in the air. The Aari’el broke the circle. They stood by the table, mostly in groups of two, each group in front of one of the ten jewels.

Loradi spoke. “Are you all by your respective gems?”

The rest nodded. Again, they chanted in that unknown tongue, but Davre could tell that it was different. He was well aware of the worthlessness of trying to describe the difference in his poor tongue, but he could tell it was there. There was a sort of lightness and lilt to this music compared to that of the other song. They finished to a bright flash of light, and turned to Davre.

“It is finished. We will take these gems and scatter them to the ends of the earth,” Jonmûl said. Turning to his companions, he continued. “Give them to those people fitting for their use, and tell them the verses.”

The other Aari’el bowed and vanished with the chest. Jonmûl took Davre’s hand, and placed the last gem in his hand. He closed Davre’s hand, bowed, and vanished. Davre opened his hand, and stared at the jewel. It was a large, perfect diamond, carved into a star, with the figure of an eye in the center.

Using the gem as a paperweight, he wrote a few more lines on the scroll. Finally, he rolled the scroll up, and sighed in weariness. He picked the star up again and put it back into the bag. He was getting too old for this. Davre wove a door, and stepped through into sunlight. He would not relocate again, not if the world depended on it; he was too old to be forced into this sort of thing. He grumbled to himself the whole way to Talya. By the Light, he hated being old. The last time he had been regent, he had hated the court. All the scheming and backstabbing made him sick. And they called it a game. Ha! Now, if he could keep Edoarde’s head on his shoulders until the child grew into his crown, he would retire and, by the Light, he fervently hoped it would be true, die in peace. Maybe he could use the influence of Talya to keep that fool Eawin from his fool dreams. The Light blind all fools who wore crowns! And those who followed them, for good measure!

The Royal Library, Talmian, Tolnod; Zaresvo, G.C. 786

Julier, the head librarian, was on his triennial inventory taking. The junior aides knew better than to interrupt him; most of them left, and went into the city to “enjoy” themselves, drinking, maybe tipping a serving girl or two, gambling away their meager earnings. It was looked forward to by almost every one of them. Daen shook his head. Idiots, the lot of them. The city was full of thieves and toughs who would itch to relieve them of their “burdensome” purses, and needed little encouragement to do it. He, on the other hand, wanted to explore the subterranean reaches of the archives. He was sure that there were interesting books down there; old ones that had not been read in centuries. Making sure that Julier was busy on one of the upper levels, Daen slipped silently down the stairs.

Now, which door was the one he wanted? He tried the left one. The knob turned, and he peeked inside. Just a storeroom, but he filed away the contents inside. Some of them looked interesting. As always, he wondered at the rules that dictated no librarian not of the third rank or higher could use the archives. What were they meant to hide? He opened the door on the right, and headed down the hallway.

He had always been insatiably curious. Before coming to the City to work in the Library, he had been paddled many times for his pranks. And not always by his mother. He could still remember the beating Master d’Leyr, the village mayor and innkeeper, gave him for putting foxtongue in the ale casks. How was he supposed to know that it would cause old Jaek Horwil to see ghosts whenever he turned his head? The old man was as gnarled as a root. As tough and as mean as one, too. He smiled, remembering the looks of terror on Master Horwil’s face. Then there was the time he told Gillie Llewlyn that all she needed to make her skin soft as a baby’s was to wash it with dragon’s-breath. He hadn’t been able to sit down for a week afterward, but the memory of Gillie’s face, splotched purple, still made him laugh whenever he saw her. It was after that that his father told him he would be apprenticed to Dar Fetwin, the village clerk. Two years later, he had been sent to the Library.

He turned left at the end of the corridor and stopped. In front of him was a huge door, carved with vines and leaves. A smaller door was next to it. There was an inscription above the smaller door. Gae’esmar se itya adovie hyestya, He’kepter. It was Saret, the language of the Elves. He had taught it to himself with old books in the Upper Rooms, but these forms seemed archaic. He could barely make out the meaning; it was something like “True wisdom finds knowledge, O Seeker.” Odd, but he supposed it made sense to the people who wrote it.

He opened the smaller door, and stepped into the largest room he had ever seen. It seemed as big as a palace, and every inch of it covered with shelves from floor to ceiling. There had to be something interesting here. He wandered through the shelves, occasionally picking up an old book, or a yellowed scroll. He was engrossed in one such scroll when he heard footsteps behind him.

He whirled around, excuses for being down here flashing through his mind. He stared at the intruder. It was a white-haired man whom he had never seen before. Strangely, Daen found he could put no age to those features. Yet the look in the man’s eye was kindly, almost grandfatherly. He smiled at Daen, and motioned for him to follow.

“It has been many years since one such as you came down to visit me,” the old man said. The twinkle in his eye spoke of enjoyable times when that had happened. “And now, one comes again. What is your name, child?”

Daen bristled at the word. “I am no child! I will be seventeen on my next naming day. My name is Daen Mallorien. Who are you?”

The old man smiled at the retort. “You may call me Miyel, if you so desire. And I am the keeper of these archives. Now, what would a young thing like you want down here in this dusty old place, when he could be up enjoying the fresh air and exploring the city?”

Daen looked up at him, wonderingly. Miyel, if that was his real name, seemed to be utterly serious in his question. It also occurred to him that the old man had never once questioned Daen’s right to be here. He found himself telling his new companion all about his search for something interesting. When Daen mentioned the inscription above the door, Miyel looked at him, hard. After scrutinizing him for a few minutes, Miyel nodded.

“Wait right here. I think I may have something for you.” Miyel swept down on of the aisles, and disappeared around a shelf. Daen watched him go before looking around him. In the process of their conversation, Miyel had led him to a sitting area. Daen sat down in one of the chairs, which molded itself to him. There was a pot of tea on a nearby table that whistled invitingly, but Daen was too intent to give it a second thought. A few minutes passed, and Miyel returned with a scroll in his wrinkled hands. He placed it next to the teapot, and poured two cups of tea.

“Would you like honey?” Miyel asked blithely. Daen shook his head. Miyel handed him a cup, and settled into the other chair. Miyel nodded at the scroll. “You can have that. It could use some time in the fresh air. and I do not doubt that you will not lack for adventure once you read it, though it may not be the kind you were thinking of. I hope you will know what to do with it, when the time comes. Will you find knowledge, Seeker?”

Daen looked up at that. Miyel gazed at him thoughtfully, and then rose to his feet. “You can find your way out. Just head straight that way,” he said, pointing to an aisle. “Use it well, and you may have a hand in something greater than you can imagine. Seek knowledge, and you will find true wisdom. The question is, what are you seeking?” With that, he turned and walked down another aisle, disappearing from view.

Daen snatched up the scroll, and ran the way Miyel had pointed. He did not stop running until he reached his room. Trembling from the exertion, he sat on his bed, and unrolled the scroll. The flowing hand was in Saret, of the same style as that above the door. His eyes widened as the realization of what he read dawned upon him:

Herein lie the last words of the seer Dovyri Haaslyn, and the Doom he Saw . . .