“Elwydd, we believe. As to the world, we come from neither the High, Middle, nor Lower Plane…but instead from—you might call it—the Outer Plane, from a world named Vadaria.”
Jinnarin was astonished. “You mean, there’re more than three Planes?”
“Of course,” snapped Alamar. “Everyone knows that.”
Jinnarin felt her face flush with anger, yet she held
her retort. At last she managed to say, “Well,
I
didn’t know it.”
The elder drew his knapsack up into his lap, looping the strap over his shoulder. “Pysk, there are more Planes than any of us realize, yet most are unknown to us, for to go between there must be a fair match from world to world. Why, look here, only on the island of Rwn is there a known crossing between Mithgar and the Mage world of Vadaria. Only on Rwn.”
Alamar stood and said brusquely, “Let us be on our way.”
Jinnarin whistled Rux to her side and mounted up. As they set out once again, Jinnarin returned to her original thread: “Alamar, it seems to me that if a god never answers, then He just doesn’t care.”
“Think, child,” responded Alamar. “Perhaps a god who doesn’t answer is a god who cares the most.”
“How can that be? I mean, you have yet to explain why it would be evil for the gods to answer those who spoke to them.”
“Child, I did not say that it would
be
evil; what I said was that perhaps it would
lead
to the ultimate evil.
“Heed me, if in every instance you were in distress or doubt you called upon your god to aid you, and if that god answered and resolved your woe, then I ask you, what would happen to your initiative? Why struggle when there is no need? Your god will see to all. Yet, would that not lead to your god controlling every aspect of your life? And if that happened, then what would be the challenge of living?
“Let me ask you this as well: if your god was not benevolent but instead were a selfish, jealous god, then would you have Him control every aspect of your life? And heed, even were He a beneficient, loving god, still, would you give up your free will for the generous life He would afford you? Would you surrender your very being in order to live in the comfort of a golden prison? And if you did surrender your very being, then what would be left of you? What would you have become?”
Jinnarin shook her head. “All this merely from speaking to a god and receiving a reply?”
“Mayhap, Jinnarin. Mayhap. For who knows where events will lead, given even an innocent start?”
“I find it difficult to believe that they will lead to the ultimate evil, Alamar.”
“Then let me ask you this, Jinnarin: what is the nature of evil?”
Jinnarin’s mouth dropped open. “Why, Alamar,
everyone
knows that.”
“Oh? Is that so? Well then, Pysk, tell me.”
“Evil is bad,” responded Jinnarin.
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Alamar. “To say that evil is bad is the same as saying evil is evil. Or good is good. Or tall is tall. And to define a thing in terms of itself is the sheerest of folly.”
Jinnarin bristled at Alamar’s remarks, yet at the same time she realized the truth of his words. She rode along in silence for a while, at last saying, “This is not an easy question, is it.” Her statement was a declaration, not a query. “Even though I believe I know evil when I see it, still, to say what it is, to define it, well…”
Again the Pysk fell silent, contemplating. Rux padded along, easily keeping pace with the Mage, the elder plodding slowly. Once again it was Jinnarin who broke the quiet. “How can it be that something I had always thought so simple could be so complex upon reflection? Everything that I can think of has exceptions, exemptions, times when evil in one thing is virtue in another. Like, say, killing: Farrix killed a boar to save your life, but he would not kill a boar just to have done so, just for pleasure.…There is no easy answer, is there, Alamar?”
The elder grunted in affirmation, then added, “The nature of evil has been pondered for millennia, and you are right, Jinnarin, there is no
easy
answer…but there
is
an answer, though even it is hedged about with qualifications.”
“Don’t tell me what it is, Alamar. Let
me
ponder some more.”
Alamar looked down at the Pysk in surprise, a glint of admiration in his sharp gaze.
On toward the lights of Kairn they went, the city drawing closer. At last they came in among dwellings, and Jinnarin and Rux slipped into the shadows, where
darkness seemed to gather about the Pysk and fox, cloaking them, and even Mage eyes were hard pressed to spot them in the gloom. The road they followed continued westerly, paralleling the river, and alongside these stony banks they trod, passing before rows of buildings, crossing side streets now and then, some cobbled, others not. And all along the way they encountered people, hurrying to and fro or strolling in leisure or lounging. Yet, though many of these glanced at Alamar or stepped aside to let him pass, none seemed to see Jinnarin or the fox cloaked in shadow flitting through shadow—it was as if the two were invisible to ordinary eyes, though now and again, Alamar could make them out.
They passed by a bridge crossing the river, the lantern-lit span supported by pontoons floating on the water. In the near distance downstream, Jinnarin could see an island mid river, several towers rising up. And toward this place she and Rux and Alamar made their way, the Mage walking in the light of street lanterns. Pysk and fox slinking in shadow. As they came opposite the northernmost tip of the isle, they arrived at last at the dock of a ferry, three Men lounging on the torchlit quay.
Alamar stepped upon the stone pier. “Ferrymaster, I would go across.”
One of the Men stood, gesturing the others to their feet. “It’ll be a copper, sir.”
Alamar fished a coin from his purse and paid, and stepped to the raft, the trio of Men boarding as well.
As the trio took hold of the pull rope spanning the river from this quay to that, a small cluster of shadow darted aboard to stand behind the Mage at the rear of the ferry.
Facing the opposite way, none of the Men noticed.
“With a
Huh!
and a
Huh!
and a
Huh!
and a…” chanted the ferrymaster, all the Men hauling, pulling the rope threading through ring standards fixed fore and aft, the ferry slowly floating across, haled by muscle alone. A short while later the raft clunked against the island quay, and,
“Hoy!”
shouted a ferryman as a shadow darted past and was gone.
“Wot wos that?”
The Men milled about, craning their necks, trying to see. Alamar hobbled slowly past and ashore, the ferrymen
respectfully touching the brims of their caps as he trod by, making his way toward the towers ahead, crew voices following after:
“Oi say ‘e’s a Maige ’n’ ‘at wos ‘is
familiar
.”
“That as may be, but wot
wos
it?”
“Nothin’ natural, ’n’ you can take my word on’t.”
“A
shadow-cat
, Oi’d call it, six legs ’n’ all, wi’ drippin’ fangs ’n’…”
Upon hearing these words Jinnarin smiled to herself and watched as Alamar approached, the Mage casting about, trying to discover her and Rux’s whereabouts there beneath a bush. As he was about to pass her by, “Here we are,” she softly said, urging Rux forward.
Startled, Alamar glared at her. But then his face took on a look of mystified curiosity. “Someday, Pysk, you are going to have to tell me just how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Why, gather shadows to yourself.”
“Oh, that’s easy, Alamar, although I don’t know exactly how it’s done.”
“Eh? You don’t?”
“Well, it’s something I’ve always been able to do. All of my Folk can do so. We are born to it. It’s rather like—oh, I don’t know—like—”
“Like the flight of birds,” interjected the Mage.
“Exactly so, Alamar. It is the nature of birds to fly. It is the nature of my Kind to gather shadow. Whether or not someone else can learn to do so, I cannot say, just as I cannot say whether someone not a bird can ever learn to fly.”
“Ha!”
barked Alamar. “
That
trick has been mastered by some of us.”
“You can
fly
?” Jinnarin was amazed.
“Oh, I did not say that
I
could fly,” responded Alamar, “but I do say that I have many tricks up these old sleeves of mine.”
Onward they walked toward the towers, lantern lit against starry skies. As they approached, Jinnarin could see that there were six of them: five widely spaced apart, forming a pentagram, the sixth in the center. “Where are we headed?” she asked.
“To the middle tower. There we find the library.”
“What are the other towers?”
“The various colleges,” answered Alamar, pointing to each of the spires, and naming them: “Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Aethyr.”
“And the sixth?”
“I already told you,” snapped Alamar, “the library.”
“Well there’s no need to bite my head off,” shot back Jinnarin, “I just thought it might have some exotic name like the others.”
“Hmph!”
grunted Alamar.
Now Mage, Pysk, and fox came among lesser buildings and wended their way through. “And these, Alamar. What are these?”
“Dwellings,” answered the elder. “Storage. Food. Other mundanities.”
Now and again the trio would stop to let a distant stranger cross their path. And twice Jinnarin and Rux took to deep shadows and hid when two groups of passersby approached, each person among them absently murmuring greetings to Alamar but not stopping their own discussions to talk with the eld Mage.
The three came to the edge of a wide flagstone plaza in the center of which stood the library tower, and there they waited until all was clear. Then Jinnarin guided Rux to pad next to Alamar, the fox brushing up against the elder’s robe as across the ’spanse they went—a Mage with a shadow at his side.
At last they entered the building, Rux bearing Jinnarin darting through the archway and into the gloom within.
Inside, beyond the foyer, they came among stacks of books, the shelves arranged about a central area filled with tables and chairs, desks and benches, at which sat various people in study. Telling Jinnarin and Rux to wait among the stacks, Alamar went into the central area. Jinnarin dismounted but kept the fox close at hand. Now and again a chair would scrape, and someone would get up to find a book. At these times, if necessary, fox and Pysk would move back among the shadows, shifting from row to row to remain out of sight.
At last Alamar returned. “Up two floors,” he muttered, leading the way, Jinnarin again mounted on Rux.
Along a wall a stone stair led upward, and here the
elder paused, complaining, “They
would
have to put them on the upper floors.”
“Put what, Alamar?”
“The books we want,” he peevishly answered.
“Oh.”
Taking a deep breath, up the Mage trudged, stopping now and again to catch his wind. Rux, though, darted ahead, quickly covering the two flights, Jinnarin not wanting to dwell overlong upon the exposed staircase. Finally, Alamar came to the third floor landing and shuffled in among the stacks. Long he searched, at last finding the book he wanted, a large tome entitled
Maria Orbis Mithgarii
. “Aha! Now we shall see.”
Alamar made his way to a table and settled in a chair in the sparsely occupied central area. No sooner had he sat than a slender young raven-haired Woman—or was she an Elfess?—came through the stacks and stopped at his table side. “Alamar?”
The elder looked up at her, squinting his eyes. At last he said, “Drienne?”
She smiled, nodding. “How have you been, love?”
Alamar settled back in his chair. “Getting on, Dree. Getting on.”
“I can see.” She sat opposite from him. “Isn’t it about time you crossed over? You can’t have many castings left.”
Alamar sighed. “Aye, you have the right of that. It’s time I took my rest.
“But, Dree, what about you? Last I saw, you were tottering, too. But now—well look at you. The same as you were on Faro.”
She smiled again, her entire face lighting up. “The cottage in the woods. Alamar, I haven’t thought about that for…” Her hazel eyes fell into reflection, green flecks glinting. At last she said, “Would that we were there now. But not as you are, for I am certain that I would kill you.”
“Perhaps you would, Dree, but perhaps not. Regardless, dying in your arms would be worth it.”
“Why not go back to Vadaria, and when you return…well—”
“Tempting, as always, Dree. But I can’t go right now. I’ve something to do. Then I’ll go, and when I come
back we will hike to that cottage in the woods and mayhap not come out for years.”
Drienne smiled, her eyes lost in gentle memory. But then she sighed and came to herself once more. Of a sudden, as if searching, she looked under the table, then toward the stacks. “I thought I saw a fox with you. Surely you haven’t taken a fox as a familiar.”
“It’s just an acquaintance, Dree, following me about for the nonce.”
“Good. I shouldn’t think foxes would make good companions. Too feral. Not like cats—”
“Or owls,” interjected Alamar.
Drienne rolled her eyes at this. “As I was saying, not like cats and their comforting ways as well as their wild energy. And Alamar, I’ve told you before, you can’t cuddle with an owl.” She glanced at the tome. “What is it you are researching? Perhaps I can help.”
“Three things, Dree: a pale green sea, a black ship, a crystal castle.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“They’re elements of a dream.”
“Ah well, I can’t help you there. But if it were stars—”
“If it were stars, Dree, I think I could do it myself.”
Drienne nodded, then said, “Why not let Aylis—”
“She’s not on Rwn.”
“Oh. Well. All right. Regardless, perhaps I can help. What other books do you need? I’ll get them.”
Alamar fished a paper from his pocket. He peered at it a moment, then said, “See if you can find
De Castellis Singularibus
and
De Navibus Notis
.”
While Drienne searched, Alamar paged through the tome before him, pausing now and again to read, then moving on. Ere he had gone far, Drienne returned, bearing two more tomes. Alamar glanced across at her. “Look for a crystal castle or a black ship.”