Wherein the tide breaks (ch. 12)

 “The Shaman of Devona had never been liked. The people of Devona liked him least of all. So much they disliked him that they begged the spirits and the shades and the first sun to send them deliverance, to send them peace. As had always been the case, the prayers and requests that were spoken to the wind were heard first by the Shaman, who would in turn speak to the stones and the storms who would in turn convey the prayers, as well as they could remember them, to the spirits and the shades and the first sun. The Shaman wanted nothing but the best for the people of Devona, and naturally, believed they needed the best Shaman they could get. So the people of Devona prayed and prayed, and the Shaman only wished they’d pray for something that’d do them any good.”

Excerpt from the tales of suspect origin, Jennept’s archive of northern stories.

The guard had diligently surveyed and observed the cell of the two foreign agents for almost two months. The guards had been less diligent. There had been standing orders to quiet and censor any discussion between the two. This had been flaunted nearly instantly, and since the origin of the order was unclear a fuss wasn’t made.

What had been made clear was that fraternization with the prisoners was an offense and a danger. This had taken longer to flaunt. Nevertheless, one was bound to break eventually. That this one was the enigmatic and well-connected Felton came as a surprise only to those who knew of Felton for his enigma and his connections.

What had never been banned or even discouraged was discussion between the guards sent to oversee the prisoners. And since the two were far away from any other prisoners or such events of interest, any guards lucky enough to get joint duty in the dim basement would invariably turn their attention to each other and would sink deep into conversation on any topic they so fancied.

“Crass and dull, the whole lot of them! A waste of the amphitheater, and a wasted evening on top of it! And I told captain, I told him ‘Captain if you let that troupe of traveling monkeys in here again, I’ll burn something down!’ and wouldn’t you know, it seems Captain listened!”

Chy doubted the captain was truly swayed by whatever this junior officer had to say, but he was zealous, and he was serious. Opal thought this surprising and unfitting, but Chy thought it only natural that the dumbest would be the most blindly loyal. For all her supposed knowledge, Chy found Opal rather naïve at times.

“And now we have a monkey here in the cage! But monkeys are meant for the circus, not cages. Even if they’re not very entertaining, better out than in!”

Chy supposed this constituted mild disagreement. Glancing at Opal, her eyes gleaming with interest from beneath a jungle of hair overgrown and mangy, Chy knew he was in for a lecture once the two guards left. Despite himself, Chy found himself eagerly awaiting whatever Opal had to say.

“Oh, she’ll be out soon enough. Just as soon as we’re all out! Drink to that, no?”

Chy was yet unaware that although the guards were allowed to converse in general, there was one topic which was strictly out of bounds. Opal, far the keener between the two had long since figured it out and could barely contain the joy of the knowledge.

“Yeah sure, drink to it, drink to that and anything else that makes you worry.”

Evening came, and the two were left alone. There were days they spent in quiet meditation, and days they spent in fervent discussion, on occasion even ensnaring one of their captors into the fold of the debate. Today would not be such a day, as an old creaky man came to replace his two younger colleagues. Prickly from the long imprisonment, Chy had begun complaining about his captors in more and more open terms.

“Disgusting people all of them. If the Pontiac’s not seeing their promised destruction right now, then the Pontiac is nothing at all.”

Opal was unsure whether to take issue with Chy’s peculiar phrasing, and ultimately decided that the two’s collective sanity straddled a fine enough line as things stood.

“Then I suppose that must be what the Pontiac is seeing right now. But that’s just another thing we’ll all know in due time, right? Back to stories, yesterday we were deep in ‘Basalt’s journey’. Anything relevant from today that applies to it?”

Chy wondered at the insinuation that anything had happened in the past day. The only event to speak of was the guards and their conversation, so he supposed he’d have to relate Basalt’s journey to that. The chances seemed slim.

“There are two main structures running through Basalt’s journey. The hero of the village, and the child mature. Our two villains of today… misty pasts they said nothing of any structure at all!”

Despite the failing, Opal smiled at his exasperation. He was sure that he’d bash one of their heads in if she kept responding so incongruously.

“There was no structure… yes, exactly, and why? Because it was real! They just sat down and let the winds of fancy blow their thoughts every which way. No one sat down and planned the beats, the underlying logic, the…”

Chy had already tuned her out. He’d heard some variation of this speech what felt like two hundred times, though in truth it was probably only a couple dozen. He glanced at the old man guarding their cell and wondered if he’d be any good as a topic of conversation. If not, they’d have to resort to yet another evening of storytelling and prophecies. He rather liked those evenings, and yet he felt they should be spaced out, if only to keep them somewhat fresh.

The guard was already asleep, which filled Chy with a hollow dismay he feared to describe. But the future comes when you seize it, as the Rangers always said. The thought of a Ranger saying failed to disgust him.

“We need to move Opal. Where’s the stick I’ve been whittling away? We can probably get his keys with the curved bit I just carved. Think he can work as a hostage? Doesn’t look too high up, but there’s a whole world of seniority politicking going on here, and don’t deny it. He probably owes and is owed rather a lot just by his age, so don’t tell me he’s not valuable.”

Opal stood from her dishevelment and held the stick aloft. In a moment of horrific realization, Chy realized exactly what Opal was planning to do.

“It is the right time! Don’t spew some nonsense about it being too easy or too childish to work! These people aren’t geniuses, and they make mistakes, what’s so hard to believe that after two months watching us be nothing but passive prisoners, they’ve become complacent? I’ll bet the whole place is complacent, top to bottom. If they see us running, they’ll think it odd enough to chalk up to their drunken visions!”

There was a fire in Chy, the same fire that carried him to Tellyphill in the first place, the same fire that carried him to the dungeon without realizing what was going on until it was too late. And Opal was a bucket of water, ready to extinguish even the smallest flicker of action. And yet she deigned to explain herself.

“Running away now does nothing. Running away never does unless it’s the solution being pointed towards. And neither of us have any problems with running away, no? We both ran, from our houses, our homes, our gods. So don’t tell me this fits a structure because we haven’t learned our lesson yet!”

“No! That’s ridiculous! I’m not going to rot a minute longer! I’m sick of it Opal! Let me out! Reputation and diplomacy and lessons be damned let me into the sun and let me at the devils that inhabit this city!”

The old eyes of the guard shot open at the surprisingly emotional outburst. He looked the two grubby, disheveled, withering figures up and down. Chy was not in the least self-conscious. Opal was, though she could not place the thing she was ashamed of.

Without saying a word, the guard stood from his chair and climbed the overgrown stone stairs to the courtyard. Moonlight shone through the door at the top, briefly illuminating the dimly lit cell below. He sighed and muttered something under his breath. Chy made out not a word, though Opal would swear he’d referred to ‘the things we do for our saviors’ before shutting the door.

Only faint candlelight remained. Chy could barely make out the features of the cell, could barely see the stick held high in Opal’s hands. They remained that way for a bit. Then Chy shouted, then Chy screamed, then Opal cried and screamed too, and neither was too sure what they were crying about exactly.

Felton was far from tears, but that was only because he was far from any emotion in particular. Not that he was cold or detached, just far from any one emotion. He paced the northern trenches relentlessly, noting spots that needed more work, possible flaws in the defenses, and above all visualizing the possibilities and futures that could come from that dreadful day he knew was to come. He was just imagining a particularly nasty volley of arrows, probably cursed, or poisoned with some exotic northern growth, when old Hick appeared. He was shambling determinedly in Felton’s direction, in such a manner that would disquiet those unfamiliar with him.

“Ho, Hick. No duties for tonight?”

Hick stood a distance from Felton, the moonlight molding his figure against the dim lights of Tellyphill. Felton glanced from Hick back to the darkened plains and realized with some dismay just how dim the light from Tellyphill really was: his vision had barely been affected at all from the glance towards the city. There was a time, perhaps even a time in his memory, that the lights of Tellyphill would blind and obscure the night sky.

Remembering some of the things he’d heard from Opal, it occurred to him that Tellyphill’s destruction could be seen as karma for her hubris. He contemplated the idea while simultaneously knowing it was nonsense. The hubris of the night, the foolishness that lost the empire, and the oblivion now facing them were separated by culprit and by time. It’d teach no one any lesson to be punished for something a century past, at least not a very constructive one. And he knew how much Opal liked constructive lessons.

“Duties? An old sack of bone like me doesn’t have any duties. I have privileges, and status, and connections. Why would someone like me have duties?”

Felton thought this attitude highly unfitting for the dignified Hick, the mentor, the teacher. But hard times could make even hard men bitter. They stood together in silence for a moment, contemplating the dark beyond them and the dark behind them. The sounds of strange night creatures permeated the air, their chirps and whistles and low whines a warning of the dangers lurking. A warning yes, but also an alluring siren for all who’s soul felt just a bit out of place in the stones and the ancient systems of lights that traced the city’s nervous system. Was Felton such an estranged soul? Was Hick? Felton couldn’t tell. In time, the old man spoke once more, the quiet weariness now tinged with contemplation.

“None of our duties have been pleasant for a while Felton. We’re all corpses serving a corpse.”

“The Captain’s not dead yet. The spirit of the valley beats in his heart still.”

Hick sighed, folding in on himself. As the darkness pressed upon him, he seemed to compress, to shrink. Strangely, Felton didn’t feel the need to do the same. He stood tall and proud in his contemplation. And Hick spoke once more.

“There are so many little things to be upset about. There have been so many lives, so many minds, so many souls given for the shield. And it’s all… come to this. It’s so pathetic.”

Felton thought he knew what Hick was thinking and why but would not form the words himself. He resolutely stared into the dark. The wind picked up, but as cloaks had been abandoned with the cessation of Pontiac control, the moment was not as dramatic as could be hoped.

“Five hundred years of empire. A century of decline, then death at the hand of a sell sword.”

Hick spat the words with venom, not the resigned moroseness Felton had expected. This was not what he’d expected of this link to that glorious past.

“It doesn’t have to be death. Illdo and his followers, they have plans. Captain isn’t all powerful. We should run, shouldn’t we?”

“Illdo doesn’t have followers, he has sycophants. He has the lazy and the drunk and the cowardly lining up for treason at the final hour. Spineless, all of it.”

Felton let the words hang in the air for just a moment. The wind picked up once more, blowing them away and bringing the thought to its obvious conclusion. Felton spoke aloud, not a trace of irony or sarcasm tinging the sardonic words:

“Tellyphill’s shield would know of treason, wouldn’t it? The first city they called us. For centuries, as holy as Pontiac’s point itself.”

Hick was silent. Whether out of shame for his generation or out of disdain for the judgement of the younger man, Felton never could tell. In truth, it didn’t matter.

“Why is he even here? Why now when death is at our doorstep? History is laughing at us. The children of the conqueror, the children of the comet. They’ll find a marsh monkey and a preacher of the delusion and then they’ll just go on marching until they’ve burned the Khazar too, won’t they? And what’ll they think of Tellyphill? ‘Here were weak men’ they’ll tell themselves. ‘Here were cowards’ they’ll say.”

Felton had lost the old man’s line of thought somewhere, and now could not fathom what he could possibly be getting at. Left without recourse, he mused openly:

“We should let them out. It’s only right. And who knows. Miracles happen only when you prepare yourself for miracles.”

A smile graced Hick’s lips, the first one in a long time. Felton suspected it might be the last such moment of mischief left in the old man.

“If that girl is as dedicated to stories and structures and whatnot as she claims she is, they’re already gone. Should’ve been gone for an hour by now.”

Felton turned to stare Hick in the eyes, hope and horror creeping through him as he struggled to find the words.

“I mean, it’s only natural, isn’t it? They’ve been alone in there for over an hour. And would you look at that, my keys are gone. I wonder where they could be?”

Hick laughed. Felton smiled. Far away, Opal smiled. Not so far away, Chy grimaced and shook.

“But wars are not won by generals alone. They are not games of skill between commanders. They are the height of a nation, the height of a people. If the people will it, the war will not end, only quiet.” – Memories of a warring Khazar, postscript.

There are so many little stories to tell and so many big ones too. There’s something to say for every little story, but it’s not always as poignant as could be hoped. Sometimes, the only message is that the world is cruel and random. Back then, it was not the case, no matter what they felt: they stood at the precipice, and thought they had fallen.