Finale

FINALE

Time After Time

Dorsey entered Mirror Lake in silence—a lonesome silhouette cloaked in starlight, heavy boots pounding the dust. The shops he passed were closed, but wide-eyed spirits were etched beside each window, their vigilant gazes smeared with ash to blind them to the passing of night traders.

Cult symbols of animals hung from wooden poles, their sharp claws and fangs picked out with red dust. On these streets, the darkness was not an intruder to be denied by bolted doors alone.

On the western side of town, just one path of ancient stone wended its way toward the Republic of Veil'driel, out of the Commonwealth. It was very rarely used. On the other side, dirt roads sank and squelched breathlessly into the peat, just as they had since long before Dorsey was born.

Whenever the locals’ ambition sufficed to scythe the grass and rake the dirt, the passage of night wiped away their efforts more surely than death itself.

Squelch, squelch.

It was like the sound of some lonely, ambitious man slowly going mad.

Only the night traders – and Dorsey – walked this road with spotless boots. His destination was a livelier place, livelier, that is, than the two handfuls of grave dirt he saw on either side of the thoroughfare.

An inn: The Faraway Cry.

On winter nights like this one, an outland tavern was good enough to huddle in for warmth, even for travelers accustomed to better. None of them seemed to notice that the hearths were never hot enough. That the halos of light were short and all the shadows were far too long—

But there was one thing even a blind man could see:

In that tavern, all the clichés were true.

Right about now, deals of every kind would be flowing in whispers through the taproom. Bards would strum their lyres and pretty girls would flit from one table to the next. By dawn, whatever happened would be lost to the locals, simple men with petty lives. They would never think on the strange glances, strange accents, and even stranger tastes betrayed by passing foreigners.

Dorsey was counting on that.

“You’re seven minutes late,” a voice said behind him. “I’ve slit men’s throats for less.” The young assassin stopped in his tracks, turning beneath a flickering roadside lantern that rattled on its post in the wind. “And what have I told you about wearing that god-damned hood?”

“It’s cold,” Dorsey said, smirk hidden in the black of his cowl.

The shadows seemed to melt away from the man who had spoken, but only just so, leaving him ensconced in darkness. The leathers he wore were dark—dark as his eyes, which peered, hard and disapproving, into Dorsey’s own. Only the curve of his jaw was outlined by light, revealing stubble there, and giving a hint of broad, weathered arms crossed.

“Lose it. Now.” As Dorsey reached up to pull it back, the man stepped into full light. “You wanna kill this son of a bitch or try to recruit his ass into a cult?” A hum emanated from his throat, which had felt the touch of too much tobacco smoke. “Come on.”

Dorsey stepped from the island of lantern-light to match his mentor’s stride into the shadowy sea beyond. As they walked, Donovan Kerrick kept watch ahead of them, his gaze always scanning the streets, the alleys, the windows and doors.

What is he looking for?

Was it all just a test?

Even after all these years, it was hard to know.

“What is it, Donovan?”

The master did not look back.

“You have not earned the right to use that name, greenhorn.” Donovan paused, considering a moment before setting off again. “I am still Kerrick to you until you prove yourself. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dorsey found himself growing tense, an electric feeling dancing all over his skin. A heavy mist lingered in the streets, broiling hot despite the chill of winter. Further in the distance, road-lanterns barely tickled the edge of his peripheral vision, each one glowing green.

Dorsey remembered what he’d read about the place ...

He peered down the alleys. Each one seemed a ragged gash in the night that swallowed up even the suggestion of light – glowing gazes looked back here and there, but they were only stray cats. The alleys were mad with them, infesting half-tended shrines.

“Yes, sir, what?”

That some old mad widow had released a pair of cats ...

Dorsey sunk his hands into the deep pockets of his cloak.

... And now, barely a generation since, anyone with sense prayed only to the cat-god.

“Yes, sir, Kerrick,” he said.

No one spoke of Mirror Lake anymore except to say this:

It’s a magical place.

The master assassin nodded, but said no more. The only sound was the odd screech of some far-off, nocturnal bird searching for a nest. Sometimes they would hear one take wing from the desiccated boughs of a tree bent low with frost. There was a lingering, sickly sweet smell; the last testament of dead fruit, withered on the vine when a storm had rolled up without warning.

“We’re being watched,” Kerrick said. He paused before adding, “I’d wager my soul on it.”

Across the road, a suspended sign carved with the words Victor’s Arms & Wares creaked as it blew in the wind. The proprietor's wide, wooden smile was rotted from rain. Wind chimes jingled on the edge of Dorsey’s hearing from somewhere deep in the night.

“You’re sure?”

Kerrick raised his hand, commanding quiet.

“I just said I’d wager my soul, greenhorn.”

In a flash, Dorsey’s weapons were out:

Single-shot crossbows, one in each hand.

“I don't see anything,” he confessed in a whisper.

Donovan pointed off the road.

Dorsey turned in that direction, but the voice came from behind them.

“Take heed, Sir Donovan Kerrick, Lord of His Majesty’s Assassins ...”

Cygnus.

Dorsey shot a glance to his mentor.

“It’s behind us!” he shouted, spinning to face the threat. “... and it spoke your title! In public!”

“Heel your puppy!” hissed the scratchy voice.

Kerrick turned toward his apprentice.

“Turn around and shut your mouth, boy! It’s an Overshadow. Voice comes from wherever they want.” He grabbed Dorsey’s shoulder, crushing it like a vise as he spun him. “I just told you where it is.”

“But it ..." Dorsey stuttered, stunned. "It said your ..."

“Quiet!” Kerrick growled, then he motioned around. “This look like a crowded market to you?”

“Does the fool think himself wise?” Up and down the tone went, like an echo – the last word, a stab. “Woe be it to that would-be knight of the night who deigns shout so loud,” it said. “His world of false pride betrays a tower of ignorance. Kerrick, are you losing your touch?”

Kerrick turned away from Dorsey, staring into the darkness.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not leave his apprenticeship to a glorified party magician. Deliver your message and be gone.”

The reply drifted in from far down the road.

“As you wish.”

Donovan closed his eyes briefly. Dorsey knew that, even fleeting, it was a bad sign.

The master continued in a carefully level tone.

“You can dispense with the theatrics,” he said. “We know where you are.”

The whisper was far closer, a trace of amusement in it:

“Are you certain?”

Dorsey took a firing stance, aiming at the blackness ahead.

“Fairly,” Donovan said.

There was a pause.

The message came from where Dorsey’s crossbows were trained.

“By order of His Majesty, Graham Bryce III of the Adamant Gaze, the elimination of Tyrus Minch is annulled.”

Dorsey heard the tightening of gloves as his mentor balled his hands into fists.

“Why?” Donovan asked through clenched teeth.

A rattling noise followed, and Dorsey first thought of the snakes he had been taught to capture and hold in his youth. But no, the Overshadow was clearing its throat; and that was the sound of the wind over bleached bones.

They could make a staff appear out of thin air, Dorsey knew—

“New evidence has been brought to light, clearing Mr. Minch of association with The Blades.”

The kiss of barbed wire across your back in an instant, flaying your skin so it would never heal.

“And who discovered this ... evidence?”

Whatever you did, when you heard one, you weren’t to look.

Close enough to make their ears ring, the voice boomed: “That is not your concern!”

Or it—

Dorsey was jerked from his thoughts by the echoing shout. It should have been enough to bring everyone in the community running, their heaviest tools in hand. But in the wake of it, there was nothing but the crowing of restless birds and the occasional answering wail of the cats.

Dorsey released the safety catch on his weapons with two simultaneous clicks.

“His High Eminence, First Marshal Neville Katic!”

“Katic is a backstabbing politician! I don’t trust him as far as I can spit!”

The Overshadow did not hesitate.

“YOU do not have to, assassin! My message is delivered! Further action in this matter will be punished without warning or mercy to the fullest extent of Sindell law! His Majesty’s eyes are always upon you, Donovan. Do not ever forget it.”

There was no sign the Overshadow was gone, but Dorsey was suddenly aware of the sounds of night slowly filling the well of silence it left behind. When Donovan turned away, Dorsey followed his lead, carefully hooking the crossbows back to his belt.

“Well,” Dorsey said. “Looks like we won’t be on that first name basis just yet.”

“No?” Kerrick curved his lips into a razor thin smile, withdrawing a rolled cigarette from beneath his cloak. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he said, lighting it. “Always knew you’d lack the stones.”

Donovan turned and started down the road towards the tavern.

His apprentice was motionless.

“The mission is over, Kerrick. An Overshadow speaks for the king.”

Kerrick kept walking.

“Kerrick!” Dorsey tried again, but his mentor didn’t stop until: “Donovan, please!”

Kerrick turned his head to the side. The coral glow of his cigarette splashed his features as he took a long drag. His expression, revealed in that instant, was blank. He could have interpreted the silence to mean Dorsey had walked away. Somehow, he knew he had not.

Could not.

“You have always had the mind of a cutthroat, Dorsey, but never the heart of one.” Kerrick bowed his head to the ground. He was walking again. “Get out of Mirror Lake and don’t look back. If you don’t go now, you might never leave.”

Dorsey’s heart hammered, and yet, he felt calm.

He followed his master.

The Faraway Cry was waiting.

FOLDER

Ciridian  (13+) Between heroes and legends ... lies the strength to change history. #2190408 by Dan Hiestand

Screaming, obnoxious laughter came through the blinding light that Jace shielded his eyes against. There was the strange, yet all-at-once evident scent of stale ale, and the ambient rhythm of cluttered conversation: a stark and startling difference from the grim night he had just been standing in.

Relic was gone, even before he could make out the scene, Jace could sense that much. Amidst the laughter, the first few notes of a drinking song would drift up before the chorus collapsed into disarray, each man crowing his own version of the lyrics.

A few more blinks, a little more time, and the surroundings came into focus.

Jace's eyes adjusted and his senses grew more attuned.

Then, as if on cue, the instant he felt a little more settled, a little more focused, a familiar man entered what could now be identified as a tavern. The tavern itself was familiar, but not as familiar as the man.

He was a tall man, movements brisk with a gentle awareness of his own strength. He was younger. He looked the way he did when Jace had first met him almost a decade earlier, during the Harvest Festival in Fairlawn City.

He was Cedwyn Knight, and he took hold of the door carefully, so it wouldn't rattle in the wind long after he sat down at a table. A storm was coming, and it fought him on the threshold for a while, but he waited patiently. His boots were dry. They left no prints when he crossed the floor.


"I’m looking for a friend of mine," Cedwyn told the barmaid. It took a long moment before she looked at him, expression blank. "Her name is Hazel Lien." Glancing down, rubbing thumb and forefinger together, he added: "When he's in a good mood, Lord Kerrick. Tall, dark ... older fella. You see him?"

"Can't say I have," she said, smile a little strained.

"I guess you'd know if you had." He suddenly realized she was waiting for something. He ordered. "Lumen ... err ... Orinel Lin is fine. Yeah. What's the news around here?" I’m a single malt man myself, but I highly doubt you have that here.

"Nothing ever happens in Mirror Lake, mister," she said, and left in a flutter.

But something had happened. He could tell by the way her smile was stretched thin, even though there was nobody else there to pester her. Afternoons here were ruled by the mists and the cats and the grunts of hard labor that could be heard from anywhere.

All of that and something unspoken besides.

The weight of unspoken words was the heaviest.

While she busied herself by the bar, Cedwyn watched. There was something about her — not just the lustrous red hair or the blush of youth this place couldn't snuff out. The way she lingered at the drink cabinets; the long looks she gave everything, like she was really paying attention.

Then he saw what he was hoping for.

She stopped. Bit her lip ...

There was definitely more to this girl than met the eye.

He wondered what was on her mind.

She set his glass down with a clink; even gave a deft little curtsey this time. As he glanced down with an appreciative smile, he noticed flecks of reddish polish dappled her nails, as if they'd been picked at in a nervous habit.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

She could hardly say she didn't, could she?

"Sure," she said. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"Czernina?" he asked, and seeing her weird look, clarified: "Blood soup."

It was a test. He was trying to see if she would know the Mazhiran name.

If she did, she was smart enough to pretend that she didn't.

"I'm sorry," she said. "The butcher didn't make his deliveries ..."

She trailed off.

"What do you have?"

"Potatoes," she admitted with a sigh. "Every day ..."

"... potatoes," Cedwyn concluded. It was not surprising. "What happened to him?" Her green gaze was shaded by her lashes as she looked down. "You can tell me," he said, and his smile flicked a few degrees warmer.

That was all the encouragement she needed; she dropped to the side of the table, leaning her elbows on it, and a bright grin matched his even as she said: "They had to take him away. He slaughtered every pig on the Minch farm. Did it so fast it scared off the cats— they're all gone."

"Yeah ..." Cedwyn said slowly, contemplatively. "Cats are like that. They can see things coming that only exist in potential." He paused. "So, what's wrong with a few slaughtered pigs?"

"Well, the thing is ..." She looked to the side an instant. "No one asked him to slaughter a thing."

"Ooooh ... that's rough. The nearest big farms around here are ..."

"Out in Fairlawn, sir," she said politely. "It'll be another week before anything changes." She bit her lip again, nervous. "When you asked for, well, blood, well ... word is that's how they found him. Licking up the very blood out of a newborn calf." She shivered. "I don't believe it."

"I understand," Cedwyn soothed. "Blood's an acquired taste." Her eyes widened; she couldn't tell if he was joking. "I want you to have this, he said, and unfolded his hand. Until then, she hadn't realized he'd been holding on tight to the charm at the end of his necklace; when he released it, it glittered as bright as the sun in a shade of green she'd only ever seen in the mirror.

"What? I-I ... I'm honored, sir, but we've just met ..."

"Name's Cedwyn," he said. "And it's not an engagement present ... I found it on my way here on the Fairlawn Thoroughfare. Figure it must've been dropped by a trader ... so if you hold on to it, they're bound to come back for it. You can keep a secret, right?"

"I'm Hazel ... and ... thank you." She was gazing at it steadily, intently, with something far deeper than simple greed. "It's jade," she breathed, and he nodded to concede the point.

"Do you know what the Luna Scarlet Monks say about jade?"

Finally, her gaze rose to meet his in a silent question.

"Its polish represents purity; its hardness, intellect; its angles, justice; its sound, music; its colors, loyalty; its flaws, sincerity; its brightness, hope; its simplicity, temperance; its value ... truth."

"We don't have many of those things here," she said mournfully.

She looked down to see him press the necklace into her hand.

"You do now. And for as long as you need it."

Cedwyn's eyes closed against a sudden, stabbing pain in the temples, one that burned starched green lights into his vision. Images flooded his mind, unbidden, of her life if she remained in this place. Next year, maybe even as soon as next month ...

"Cedwyn? Are you okay?"

It would happen slowly, but sure enough, just as night follows day, this place would hunt her. It would slip into her daydreams and rot them. Her physical beauty, that would stay; but this place would build walls in front of the world she dreamed of and take everything else she had—

He felt her hand on his, but couldn't respond.

Maybe her father would break his leg and it wouldn't mend; maybe her mother would go mad.

Her words were nothing but a muzzy burble around him now.

Whatever happened, it wouldn't touch her until it absolutely had to. But sure enough, week after week, month after month, and year after year, it would show her that she was helpless to leave.

Cedwyn's eyelids floated open gently.

"I'm sorry. I'll be fine ... just hungry, that's all. Bad headache."

"I can go fetch the healer."

Helpless to leave.

Helpless to change.

Helpless to grow.

Forever.

"You stay away from him," Cedwyn said, the words out of his mouth before he ever formed them in his mind. A wan smile softened it, but not by much. He raised the Orinel Lin, sniffed it gently, and took a little swallow as if to prove he was okay.

He was not.

The vision wouldn't leave him.

Potatoes ... every day, potatoes.

She stood up gently, and he imagined how beautiful and wide and deep she could be—

If she ever got out.

"There is no greater obstacle to the Gods than time," he whispered; and though the words seemed grim, they made him smile in private recollection. When he opened his eyes, they were bright again. Timing is everything. "Are you sure," he said as if sharing another secret. "Really sure there's no other news?"

"Well ..." She glanced to the door as if expecting another visitor. When none came, she went on. "There was this one boy. Dark hair, gray eyes ... real handsome ..." For an instant, she let herself be embarrassed; but at Cedwyn's knowing look, she was emboldened to continue. "He came in with an older guy and we all thought he'd passed out drunk ..." Now her voice dropped to a whisper once more. "But he was actually dead, and no one's seen the boy since."

Cedwyn sat back to consider—

Slowly, but certainly, he realized what had been bothering him all along. What was clawing at his mind, desperate for the chance to get in, and was even now pounding on his skull. The smell of rust; the savor of blood. It was all over this place, as fresh as the gossip.

"Is that so ..." he said slowly, as evenly as he could. "Tell me everything you remember."

FOLDER

Ciridian  (13+) Between heroes and legends ... lies the strength to change history. #2190408 by Dan Hiestand

They’re out and walking to the edge of Mirror Lake.

Dorsey didn’t realize how much he was sweating until the cold air hit him.

Even in the icy grip of midnight, he was tempted to shed his cloak as he reached the edge of town. His mind was steady, silent. His hands itched; he wanted to look down, but forced himself not to. He’d doubled back three times to cover his tracks – it was, at last, time to go.

There was too much time to think. So, he thought nothing.
He had come to a stop, almost without realizing, at the start of the western road leading toward the Republic of Veil’driel. The one very rarely used. Even as the thought formed, a scratchy whisper emanated from the last line of shacks behind him.

“You have done well. At last, the old fool is dead.”

The Overshadow had not spoken this loudly before, ever: He knew it’d probably tried to attract his attention several times now without success. What did it feel like to simply be ignored?

The thought was laughable, but Dorsey didn’t respond; didn’t even look to the sound. After a time, he bowed his head and turned slightly to catch the thing in his peripheral vision. It was still a good way down the road, perhaps fifty paces distant from the sound of its voice.

Had it waited here, or had it followed him all this way?

Don’t look, or it takes you, he found himself thinking.

But that, of course, was just propaganda.

“That old fool probably saved Sindell a thousand times,” Dorsey said.

“And yet, in the end, he was killing innocents.”

“That changes nothing.”

“But it does, young pup ... oh, but it does.” Dorsey felt the thing draw closer. The wind sounded different where it passed, even though its form was no heavier than fog. It was only two paces behind—it’d slipped across the distance as fast as thought.

Dorsey kept his eyes relaxed, widening his peripheral vision as far as it would go.

“When a man’s dedication is twisted to obsession, madness always follows, and the penance is all he is. All he has been.” The words sluiced down from the rooftops in every direction, like boiling water. “His deeds are washed from history.”

Dorsey did not respond.

“He becomes nothing!”

And now, at last, Dorsey sighed.

“You really do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

The world was cold, the river of time turning to solid ice as it waited for a choice. The boy’s own frosty breath came in heavy spurts that lingered in the air. In the keen sight of an assassin, he could make out faces in each puff before they faded away.

Dorsey slowed his breath and did not move until he could see the traces the Overshadow left.

“Not all of you need that fate, young pup. You are not the crass killer he was.”

Like a green—

“Perhaps you, unlike he, will understand your limitations.”

Dorsey turned suddenly—daring to look deep into the blackness of its cowl.

“What limitations?”

The Overshadow recoiled.

“War is on the wind, oh second prince,” it answered, and its words felt far less otherworldly. Indeed, it sounded petty. “You can be borne up on it ... or down.”

Dorsey took a slow step forward.

“What war?”

The Overshadow’s black-on-black eyes glittered venomous purple.

“A civil war, young pup.”

Another step closer.

“Stop. Calling me that.”

“First, Sindell and Veil’driel fought over it. Now, the child-state will fight for its independence in turn. It’s only a matter of time. Too much freedom becomes, itself, a form of madness. Those who cannot use it wisely will find only a new prison of their own devising.”

Even so close, Dorsey was careful not to waver. In a blink, the Overshadow could disappear into the night. In the time it would take him to focus his eyes again, it could walk across Mirror Lake.

Maybe literally.

“Why are you telling me this? Why do you think I would care?”

“Because the king ... your father ... is no fool, young ...”

Dorsey raised his eyebrows.

The Overshadow paused, started again.

“He has guessed your mind, and in exchange for your eventual return, His Majesty deigns release you—temporarily—from your oaths. It is sure to start in Sandia, this insurrection ... The conflict the Grassland Campaign began all those years ago. The conflict that remains unfinished. The conflict that will never finish, no matter how many times, or in however many ways ... it is fought.”

Dorsey whipped the sides of his cloak back.

“My father has guessed wrong,” he said slowly. “I want no part of that.”

“Then you will return to Zarponda at once!”

“Nah.” Dorsey made no gesture, gave no indication to what he was thinking, but the Overshadow read it in him.

Perhaps it was as simple as knowing just where they were standing.

“Veil’driel?”

For an instant, Dorsey – and perhaps the Overshadow, too – heard something astonishing: Genuine surprise.

Yet, Dorsey acknowledged it with only a slight smirk. A gesture which the other, no matter its true nature, should not have perceived—for indeed, it was still behind him, exactly one pace away and just off to his right.

The air around it tasted green.

“They will kill you if they find out who you are, and they WILL!”

Just that quickly, anything human in it was extinguished.

Its barbed wire staff materialized in its hand—

The stench of rust and the savor of blood threatened to overpower him.

Time unfroze for Dorsey Trent.

The Overshadow hadn’t heard him draw Kerrick’s sword.

“What do you—”

There was no time for those words to stir the air.

In the creature’s last instant, it and Dorsey stood face to face, inches apart; the cowl was bent down toward him, eyes like a will-o-the-wisp. In the depths of those eyes, the youth could see all the pains that were withheld for him on the path he would soon take.

Then, at last, the body began to crumple.

The Overshadow’s other hand reached into the darkness as it fell and Dorsey slid artfully back.

Crunch, the body collapsed on the gravel and then began to bend upwards, its spine curving as it jigged like a puppet on an unseen string. The sword was buried hilt-deep into its abdomen, and Dorsey crouched, entertaining for an instant the idea that it might somehow strike again.

Its knees bent backwards, something inside preparing it to spring whether its body would or not.

Dorsey straightened his back to dodge—

All around him, the stray cats of Mirror Lake started to howl.

The lights in the creature’s eyes ticked out, and it crashed to the ground with a final gurgle like the rattle of a brooding snake. But the sound didn’t yield: It grew and grew, until it was coming from every corner of the town. It broke through every street, every hidden alley, every musty garret and broken marriage-bed until its echoes resounded across the whole earth.

The Overshadow’s cloak and cowl collapsed on the ground—

Dorsey had only an instant to see the gnarled human hands— Eyes that were as round and white as glass—

And then nothing; an image and its afterimage splitting apart.

Only the faintest smear of soot left the impression the Overshadow had ever been. The same stuff stood out as thick as rust on Donovan Kerrick’s blade as Dorsey retrieved it from the ground. As he began walking, though, the coating broke apart – brittle as paper.

Then, silence.

Not quite silence.

There was a muted hiss, the wind reclaiming its voice.

Dorsey pulled his hood back over his head as the cold passed over him.

He left Mirror Lake, a lonesome silhouette cloaked in starlight, heavy boots pounding the dust. West across the Ezru Plains, toward the Republic of Veil’driel.



The sun is coming up at the end.

Jace tells Hazel that down that road to Ciridian he found his soul mate and purpose. I have a feeling you’re about to find the same thing.

Hazel: Do you want me to tell him you said hello?

Relic suddenly says: “Hello.”

They have an exchange.

Hazel turns around and looks behind her. The sun is coming up over Mirror Lake, the shops are opening, and Jace is gone. Relic is the Constable.

Switch to Lornda Manor with Jace and Isabelle’s twins. Cedwyn and ?

Combine all Mirror Lake material.

FOLDER

Ciridian  (13+) Between heroes and legends ... lies the strength to change history. #2190408 by Dan Hiestand

Then in Lornda Manor.

Paladin Hall

Staircase

Interaction with Isabelle who is meeting with the tribes.

Charles asks if he should have dinner prepared.

Communion Vault with picture being the Iraq thing outside Mazhira.

Then the walk to the fountain.

Jace puts Cerwyn’s zippo down and says “close enough.”

Walks to the head and disappears into our world.

Jace Mets hat on backwards after taking off his gray hat.

Description of hat: The Mets' cap, worn at home and on the road, is blue with an orange interlocking "NY" crest on the front panel, and an orange button on top of the crown.

Disappears in a flash of white light. Like a straw made of light. Leads into prelude of “Helix”.

FOLDER

Ciridian  (13+) Between heroes and legends ... lies the strength to change history. #2190408 by Dan Hiestand