“Good point. Unfortunately, that’s not a little. That water goes on for a thousand miles.”
“No. The southern tip of Orfland is just a few miles out. It’s low and swampy. We’ll have to swing around it to reach the true open sea.” The man who had been Asgrimmur Grimmsson walked into the surf. “The way is out there. You’ll have to take your chances.” He began to melt. And expand. He turned into a whale of modest size, twenty-three feet from fluke to snoot. Februaren walked into the water up to his waist. He got soaked by the little breakers rolling in.
Slimy skin. He could not mount up. The Instrumentality took pity and grew handholds. Once he was astride its shoulders a sort of saddle formed beneath him.
“Excellent. Just don’t sound.”
The whale swam circles where the gateway ought to be. It could sense the Realm of the Gods. Somewhere.
The Ninth Unknown felt it out there, too. But the way was closed.
The whale grew a grotesque caricature of a blind-eyed face in front of its blowhole. The mouth produced spectral sounds. “This is the place. But the Aelen Kofer have blocked the way.”
Who could blame the dwarves? Nothing good came from outside. And the affliction of tyrannical gods had been resolved inside.
“How fine have your descriptions been? Did you exaggerate anything to make the Realm of the Gods sound more glorious, more dangerous, or more exciting?”
The whale did not respond for so long that Februaren began to fear that it might refuse.
But, then, “The bridge. The rainbow bridge. It broke. I did not report that.” After an exchange prolonged by the whale’s slow replies, Cloven Februaren concluded that Asgrimmur Grimmsson had been at pains to accurately describe the private universe of his boyhood gods. And began to suspect that ascension had changed the man’s brain in ways not immediately obvious. Those might be characteristic of many other Instrumentalities.
Dealing with the ascendant reminded Februaren of the difficulties of raising a mildly autistic child. Which he had done, in the long ago. A son, Muno’s uncle Auchion. Love, training, and sorcery had allowed Auchion to live a normal, if truncated, adult life.
“Wouldn’t that be some shit?” the old man asked the salty air. “If the gods were autistic?”
It would explain a good many puzzles.
“Wait here,” Februaren told the whale.
“How long?”
Not where was he going, nor how could he get there from the middle of the water, but the most basic, literal question.
“For as long as it takes to open the way. Eat if you get hungry.” He saw seals at play in the distance. There must be land of some sort nearby.
Was the whale the kind that ate seals?
“But stay close.”
Asgrimmur Grimmsson’s reports were so detailed the Ninth Unknown managed to build a fine, if colorless, picture inside his head. Hand in hand with terror he took hold of the hidden strings of the Construct and stepped into what might turn out to be eternity. He could not know if it was possible to slip into the other world until he tried. He could not know-granted success breaking in-if he could get back out if he could find no means of opening the way from within.
Cloven Februaren was two hundred years old. More or less. He had taken risks before. But never quite so blindly, betting against such unpredictable odds.
He took the first step still wondering what secret need compelled him to engage in such blatant folly.
There was the sense of walking through starless, frozen night that accompanied every romance with the Construct. Then he was awash in a silvery light.
The Aelen Kofer must have scrubbed out all the color before they went away.
Cloven Februaren found himself inelegantly sprawled on a stone quayside, facing a mountain. A harbor lay behind him. One lone ship rode alongside the quay. It could have been a ship of legend. But even the legendary suffered from neglect.
That whole world had suffered from neglect.
Where were the Aelen Kofer? He had expected dwarves-though the ascendant thought those might have sailed away in the golden barge of the gods. But what ship, then, moldered at quayside?
“Should have paid more attention to my mythology studies,” Februaren grumbled. The dwarves had not been seen in the human world. Ergo, they must have stolen away into another of the realities to which this world was connected.
Were there not several such overlapping realms involved in the northern cycle? The land of the giants, the world underground, a frozen land of the dead, somewhere where elves ran rampant?
What did it matter? He was here. He was alone. He had to go on from there.
He needed to open the way. It did not look like there was a lot of food lying around. The contents of his knapsack would not last.
Sweet irony. To starve to death in heaven.
The old man looked up the mountain. The Great Sky Fortress up top was a ghost almost completely hidden by clouds. The rainbow bridge was partially visible below, showing hints of the only color around.
The bridge was broken.
Sufficient to the hour that problem. The trial of the moment was to open the way for the return of this world’s doom, Asgrimmur Grimmsson. A notion that birthed a grim smile.
Awakenings, revenances, most always featured the return of old evils thoroughly dedicated to the pursuit of greater evil. Not the correction of good deeds gone rotten. 10. Alten Weinberg: Sisters As often as she dared without sparking the Imperial wrath, Princess Helspeth begged leave to return to Plemenza. Telling Katrin, honestly, “I want to get away from the politics.” Making it sound general. Avoiding specifics because it was the specific that terrified her.
Katrin married was worse than Katrin the virgin. This shrew hated the world because, it seemed, she had chosen her husband so poorly. And could not admit her error.
Jaime had lost interest as soon as it was clear that he would never become Emperor himself. Though for some time he did perform his duty in an effort to create an heir.
More often he lay with some woman of the court. Or with a dusky little mistress he kept in an apartment not far from the Palace.
Alten Weinberg eventually lost its appeal. Jaime returned to Castauriga.
His argument for going was sound. He was king, there. His kingdom was being pressed by its neighbors. Had Peter of Navaya not been distracted by grander ambitions he might have gobbled Castauriga already.
And there were stirrings in Arnhand, aimed at the Connec. That could pull in the Chaldarean Episcopal princes of Direcia. None of them wanted a stronger Anne of Menand behind them.
The politics Helspeth wanted to escape were those of religious factions. Most of the nobility would not accept Katrin’s accommodation with the Patriarchy. They wanted to put forward the Princess Apparent as their banner in the struggle to bring back yesterday.
Helspeth would have no part of sedition. And made that plain to anyone who came to her with a scheme.
Katrin adamantly refused to let Helspeth leave the capital. She did not want the Princess Apparent in residence where she could not be closely watched.
There was a huge strain between the sisters. Helspeth was terrified she could end up imprisoned again. Or worse. And had reason to fear. For Katrin’s advisers suggested extreme measures regularly.
The gathering storm broke when Katrin announced that she was expecting. Again.
She had become pregnant almost immediately after her wedding. That child spontaneously aborted in the sixth week. The days following had been hard. No one knew what to expect. Katrin flew into rages with no apparent provocation. The rages fled as quickly. She became deeply remorseful, countermanding draconian orders issued while she was angry. The court adapted by pretending to pursue her cruel directives while hoping she would change
