098, 2/2

Justine Erholme, first among equals under the Clergy, and representative of Archmage Erick Flatt’s interests in the city of Candlepoint, was having a bad day. All of her days had been bad, but some more than most. This was closer to the second type, and considering her experienced life, that was saying something.

In a shadow-filled room at the edge of the Farms, which was a name that she knew angered Erick something fierce, Justine sat with three other firsts, each of whom represented other aspects of Candlepoint’s continued existence. The meeting right now was not the full count, but it was good enough to discuss the major problem at hand.

Days ago, there had been more voices in this room, but they were gone now; silenced by The Problem.

Mephistopheles, wearing an outrageous blue-feathered ensemble, said, “Master Bulgan killed another Archmage representative today. The woman for Syllea: Britha, I think? I barely knew her.” He said, “Right in front of me, he did it. Ripped Britha apart and scattered the remains on my customers.” He continued, “Three adventurers tried to kill Bulgan for that action. They failed, of course. Everyone left the Garrison after that. Some of them will be back tomorrow, but some of them won’t. And that is a problem. If Bulgan keeps this up, our numbers will drop and stay in the gutter. And then everything is lost.” He laughed at the air, saying. “But you know! I expected to be dead long before now, so I’m having trouble caring.” He looked to the next man, saying, “Why don’t you stop pretending to be a mere shadeling and do something about the man?”

Slip, the Captain of the Guard, just shook his head. His black horns glinted in the shadow filled room, along with his shaved, black scalp. His skin was the color of night. Everything about the man was the color of darkness, except for his eyes. His eyes were radiant pools of bright white. He said, “I cannot. He would kill me.”

In the previous days and weeks of knowing the man, ever since meeting him in Candlepoint, Justine had always known the man was a total liar. He was certainly a Shade, slumming it in Candlepoint, or whatever it was you could call what he was doing. Justine had long given up trying to understand his thoughts. For all his looks and power —And oh yes, he had power! Justine had seen him kill two automatons before and get away with it, while Bulgan was watching!— he never acted like a Shade. He acted like a nobody. A normal shadeling. A perfectly professional Captain of the Guard.

Justine held her tongue, though. She wasn’t about to openly announce what everyone was thinking. She might have been the only one still with that much sanity left, though.

“I’m tired of pretending!” Mephistopheles barked a laugh, then said, “You are a liar, Slip! But whatever!”

Slip just scrunched his face, and said nothing.

The third person in the room cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her. Zaraanka Checharin was a rather voluptuous woman of human stock who always wore clothes just this side of scandalous. She was the current matron of the pleasure houses of Candlepoint, but she was not always thus. Before she became the contact point for the Headmaster, she was a rather normal shadeling. Power had corrupted her, though; of that, Justine was sure.

Zaraanka said, “What is the big deal. There is nothing wrong with our lots in life, and there is nothing wrong with Candlepoint. We are here at the pleasure of our betters, and that is all there is to it. If you don’t wish for the spotlight then go and die, and let someone else take your space.”

Mephistopheles grinned at her, saying, “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To run everything in the city? Instead of just the paths between the legs of the beaten and the damned?” He declared, “You overreach, Zaraanka! I may be losing it, but I will be damned and beaten before I let you have power over me. If you wish to take my Garrison, then you must plan better than you have, and are!”

Slip went, “Hmmph.”

Zaraanka said, “It is a miracle of Melemizargo that you have survived as long as you have, you flamboyant man. Go die, and spare us all your fashion sense.”

Justine tried to get the conversation back on track. “Has anyone seen a way past this trial Melemizargo has given us? Mephistopheles? Has your entreaty to Fallopolis failed?”

Mephistopheles lost some of his brightness. “She has her domain, and it is not here. Thrice I asked and thrice I was rebuffed; I dare not ask again. If you are thinking of asking others, I don’t think it would work either. I was able to speak to the Toymaker.” He regretfully said, “The Shades of the Spire have spoken, and they do not care for us as individuals at all.” He added, “No adventurer is willing to stand up to Master Bulgan, either. The three that died today was the first action Bulgan has gotten that he hasn’t initiated himself, in over five days.”

“Regretful, but expected of the Spire, and of Fallopolis.” Justine turned to Zaraanka, asking, “Is the Headmaster still opposed?”

Zaraanka said, “He would lead the charge and kill us if we stepped out of line; his thinking has remained the same since the first day I met him. He will not change for anyone.” She added, “But, if you wanted to enact that final resort, some of us could make it out of sight and out of mind before the Sun Descends. That option will always remain.”

Slip spoke up. “This is the plan I am for. Running and hiding. Some of us would make it.”

Justine said, “And ninety nine percent of us would die. No. That is the Last Resort, and it is not lightly named. It is only to be used when the armies of the world are at our doorsteps.”

Zaraanka said, “We’re going to die either way. Ninety percent here or there, does not matter, though I think we would have a better chance if we do it while the armies are still on the other sides of the world.”

Justine said, “Erick would scan for us, and we would be found. The only way to escape is to join in those armies, and pretend to be other people. It will be difficult, but you know this is the only way.”

Zaraanka said, “Killing Erick would make this thing a whole lot easier.”

“Do you want Melemizargo to fall upon us!?” Mephistopheles asked. “The Headmaster is one thing, but we cannot upset Mel’s plans.”

“Underground, then?” Zaraanka offered.

Slip said, “Melemizargo would instantly spot us. That is also a failure of a plan.”

“Then you come up with something!” Zaraanka demanded.

“We could run and hide in the ocean, pretending to be fish.” Slip said, “Half of us would make it to the waters. A further 25 percent would die to beasts down there, but we could make it work. A full quarter of us might run and survive.”

Justine, Mephistopheles, and Zaraanka, all looked at the man like he had suddenly turned into a fish, right then and there.

“… What?” said Zaraanka. “NO! I am not a fish!”

Mephistopheles laughed.

Justine said, “We’re not ready for such a plan, anyway. Most of us are still sitting in hovels, starving.” She said, “What we need, is a different Shade in charge. Someone to allow us to flourish without the world looking to stomp us back down.” She breathed deep. And then, against all propriety, she looked to Slip.

Everyone looked to Slip.

Slip looked away.

Justine’s words dripped with venom, “Fine.” Justine looked to Mephistopheles. “Here is our only other option: I need to find a way to get a message to Erick. We need him to go after Bulgan, without following through on his threat to end us all. Then, perhaps, if the Problem were solved, I could get Erick to support us again.”

Mephistopheles said, “This will kill you, Justine. Bulgan will know if a message gets out to your archmage. Melemizargo has Erick in his eyes, more than most.”

Justine breathed deep. She said, “I know. I am counting on that.”

Zaraanka asked, “What are you planning? I might be able to steer the Headmaster toward something small.” She added, “Or away from something. I can never quite tell the outcome of the words spoken to that man.”

“The plan?” Justine sighed, and smiled. She said, “I have no plan but to die for those yet to come. Maybe one life, honestly given, will be enough.”

Zaraanka scowled, saying, “So eager for death! Just die then!”

Slip said, “Death for a cause is a fine way to go.”

Everyone scowled at Slip.

The Shade-in-hiding had the audacity to look ashamed.

Justine said, “I would prefer not—”

The wall of the room vibrated.

There was no official adjourning of the meeting. Everyone fled at the same time, taking to the shadows; gone.

If the four of them had perhaps been inside a real room, then it would have been possible for the interloper to catch them, but they were not in a real room, and never had been. The vibrating of the walls was not of the interloping variety, anyway. Something had happened back in the real world.

Justine came to herself. Cloudy skies stretched across the roof of the world, bringing shadows and sanity to this bright part of the day. She looked down at her hands, and at the magic flowing through them, into the rich, black soil she had been preparing. Her brown working dress fluttered in the gentle wind. According to all appearances, she had never stopped working. But something had disturbed her hidden séance.

Not one meter in front of her, the mana pulsed, ripped white, then settled back into place.

She paused. She looked up.

A tree had [Teleport]ed into Candlepoint. It was gnarled and old, and faintly glowed. It had not been here, and then it was. Where once was sky, now were fruits, hanging from thick branches, with greenery all throughout. Red fruits, yellow fruits, orange and white fruits. Justine stared up at the unexpected arrival, mostly at a loss for words.

Some words did come, though.

She uttered, “What the shit?”

And then she backed up very fast, flitting through shadows to stand a good twenty meters away, only coming out of the half-light when she was the edge of the fields of the new Farm expansion. If there was one thing she learned in her long life, it was to never stand next to unknowns for too long. There were worse things than death, after all, and Justine had experienced more than her fair share.

The tree, if it was just a tree, didn’t seem to care that every single worker had vacated the field. It just grew there, like it had been planted in some other age, and Candlepoint had grown up all around its gnarled form. Candlepoint hadn’t, though; Candlepoint was here, first. Right?

 

– – – –

 

Reality floated beyond Erick’s closed eyelids. He was trapped in a sea of darkness that was tangible in parts, but always shifting when it wasn’t watched.

His butt was cold and numb, though. That sensation was perhaps the most annoying of this dark, unknown land. For some reason, Erick’s memories went backward, to a simpler, difficult time, when he drank every night and woke up happy to do it all again the next day. But he hadn’t gotten piss drunk since Jane came along into his life. So why was his bottom wet?

His face moved into a smile, as he remembered cleaning up little Jane, of wiping her tiny little baby butt as she giggled and laughed, and when she was all clean he would tickle her mercilessly, and then they’d both go down for a nap. He wasn’t able to do that very often, but he remembered those times every now and then. The memory always brought a joy to his day.

He opened his eyes to see a bluescaled face, and bright, worried eyes.

Erick said, “Hey, Poi.”

Poi leaned him up against a wall inside the house, his lower half sprawled across the wet floor. He was soaking wet, for some reason, and so was Poi. Ophiel jumped on Erick’s stomach, lightly, as Erick glanced around. He was in the back room, near the doorway to the backyard. Looking over, Erick saw the backyard, just past the open door. Two lemon trees grew from the dark soil, while a light rain fell across the land.

“Welcome back, sir.” Poi said, “Maybe it’s time to purchase some rods of [Greater Treat Wounds].”

Erick laughed, then winced, then said, “But they cost a hundred thousand gold!”

Poi tapped Erick with the rod again, releasing a burst of healing, as he said, “You make million-gold artifacts every day.”

“… Maybe I am being unreasonable.” Erick winced, but it was an easier wince, this time. He breathed, and his lungs filled with air as he relaxed. He held his hand up.

Poi stepped back and lifted Erick to his feet, as Ophiel flitted up onto Erick’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” Erick looked out to the experimental garden. “Any idea where the myriad citrus went?”

“We’ll either hear about it, or we won’t.”

“Ha! … Yeah.” Erick looked at the torn up garden; the price for gaining [Teleport Tree]. He said, “I hope it’s okay.” He added, “I’m reasonably sure I did not make a magical plant. But…”

Poi repeated, “We’ll either hear about it, or we won’t.” He added, “If you’re concerned, a trip to Atunir’s temple in the Interfaith Church might do you some good?”

Erick thought for a long moment. He said, “No need to go that far.”

 

– – – –

 

Under a dark sky, in a land made for shadows, there was a field made for farming, and a tree upon that field. The tree was not grown here, though it looked at home; it just appeared, not five minutes ago.

Justine stood away from the questionable growth, on the other side of the field. She said, “I would rip it up and throw it away. But…”

Justine, and many other farmers, watched, as two intrepid young men decided to test the tree’s worth. One of them poked it with a finger. Nothing happened. The first man rushed away, having gotten in his test and gotten away without incident. The other man poked the tree with a sword. It was a light touch, but it scratched the surface, and though the bark was deep, the tree did not like this. A bright flash pulsed from the trunk, sending the man and his sword sailing away, into the soft dirt. His sword landed beside his head, point down, stuck in the soil, almost as if the tree wanted to say ‘I could have ended you, but I chose otherwise.’

The sword was left behind as the man scrambled away to the edge of the field, to wait with all the rest who had gathered since the appearance of the anomaly.

Valok, the redscaled man who had proven himself as himself, and who had been gifted with this plot of land because of his newfound stability, said, “We can put some stones around it.”

Justine frowned. “That doesn’t seem like a good solution.”

Valok pointed up at the tree, at the myriad of fruits growing from the boughs. He said, “That’s a lemon. The green one looks like a lime, but it is not. I know my citrus, and those are unknowns. This tree is either a gift from Erick, or something else is going on there.”

Justine perked up. “What!” She saw the tree in a whole new light. “Oh!” And then she lost that light, muttering, “Oh.” Whatever she was looking at, would surely elicit a response from Bulgan. It would be violent, and swift, and someone would die.

Or maybe not?

No. That was wishful thinking. Justine steeled herself for what was sure to come. She asked, “What sort of gift do you think it could be?” She looked up. “I don’t see Ophiel, and no one reported the [Familiar]. But he’s been experimenting with Spatial magics, so… [Teleport Tree]? For what reason?”

“I don’t know about any of that.” Valok said, “But that Myriad Citrus is a magical plant. It’s almost a [Tree of Light], but not. It’s something different. Stuff has obviously happened since I’ve been away from Spur, but I don’t think Erick is the type to accidentally make a magical plant. Not after what he saw happen to Odaali, with the Daydropper.” He added, “So this would have had to have been made on purpose, to fulfill a function.”

“He’s an archmage, Valok.” Justine was not sure of anything, right now, but she had more than enough history and contact with more than enough archmages to draw at least one conclusion between every single one. “They make accidental shit up all the time. That one more than most, and just to see if he can.”

Valok hummed, then nodded, adding, “True. I could be wrong.”

“But you’re right about the Daydropper scare.” Justine thought. She said, “I doubt he would make a plant like that, though.” She declared, “Only one way to find out!” She walked forward, across the turned soil, toward the mysterious tree.

Valok asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get me a fruit.”

Valok called out, “Lemons are sour!”

Justine smiled, but did not reply. She stared ahead at the seven-fruit tree. Knowing she was about to die was a rather liberating thought. Death by intentional poison or bad fruit or incoming Bulgan, wherever the man might be, it was all rather preferable to what was possible, and the tortures she had experienced long before today. This, right here, might be a way to get a message to Erick, right now, or soon enough.

She walked up to the tree, and said, “Hello.”

The tree did nothing.

She asked, “I would like a sweet fruit, if you have one.”

The tree did nothing.

Justine turned back, calling out, “Any suggestions?”

Valok, standing amid the other farmers, called out, “Yellows and greens are sour!”

Justine turned back to the Myriad Citrus, feeling that she should have paid more attention to the fruits and vegetables Erick had created, but the man had created a lot, and what he created was already being passed around the world through a thousand different vectors. The adoption of the potato by the Greensoil Republic was surely more important than whatever these citruses got up to; no one even cared about lemons. But maybe Justine should have cared.

She looked upon seven different options, up in those branches. Pale yellow, orange, white, yellow, red, bright green, and blue. Each of the fruits were slightly differently shaped and sized. Now, if these colors were the normal Stat colors, then Justine might have had somewhere to start her guess. But they were not.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

White was the color of Erick’s magic? Might as well start there.

Justine lifted her hand up toward the nearest white fruit. She touched it, and the tree let it go. She fumbled the fruit for half a second before securing her grip. And then she breathed again. That had been a tense moment. The tree seemed to be watching her, as old growth forests sometimes surveyed their domains. If she had dropped this white fruit, that could have been bad.

… If she picked wrong, and she died, that would definitely be bad. But knowing she was about to die anyway was rather freeing. This event had happened right in front of her, and there was a connection to Erick, and Bulgan was already eager to kill her. So, what happened from here was a foregone conclusion.

Candlepoint would be okay without her. She had made sure of that, long before today. She had guided people to self sufficiency and raised the dretches from full darkness. She had secured rain for Candlepoint, and that was huge.

Honestly, she should have died long before today.

Justine smiled. She sniffed the fruit.

It smelled sour. For sure. A hundred percent a sour fruit. She had picked wrong, but that was okay. She would try it, anyway. With a fingernail, she dug into the flesh— Oh. Right. Citrus has rinds. This is how this works. Ah. Good. Discard that. Segmented fruit? Yes, it comes apart easily enough. Seeds inside. Justine’s fingers did not fumble in this peeling. Not a single segment broke. But as she held up a segment and lightly pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, this fruit seemed more like a juicing fruit than an eating fruit; it was very squishy.

This was okay. She had done rougher things in Ar’Kendrithyst, and had tasted nastier things back when she was alive and working as an alchemist.

She downed a segment of the fruit.

Yup. Sour.

Justine’s face contorted as she tasted, and swallowed more than chewed. When it was down, and her mouth tasted of sour sunshine, Justine laughed to herself. It wasn’t bad, actually. Kinda refreshing. A real kick to it, too. She popped the seed out of the second segment and had another—

The tree moved a bough downward, revealing to Justine a full assortment of fruits. Justine smiled again, and happily picked the six other options, transferring them to the front pocket of her farmer’s dress. She tucked the peeled white fruit back into some of its peel, and began smelling each of the other fruits. All of them smelled sour, but the orange and red ones smelled good. Ooh, she wanted to try the red one, for sure.

She looked to the tree, and said, “Thank you.”

The tree was more than a simple tree, but it said nothing. Had it been, perhaps, an attempt at an Arbor? And then gifted to Candlepoint? If that’s what this was, it was an odd choice. Justine turned to rejoin the farmers. She stopped, once again thrown from her normal course of events. She was a girl who rode a boat too far out to sea, only to find that storm on the horizon came to harbor much faster than it had any right to come.

For Bulgan stood at the edge of the field, his dark countenance full of malevolent light. The farmers were gone, but one remained; Valok, his neck and face pressed into the dirt by Bulgan’s booted foot. Valok did not struggle, but Justine saw him hold his hands in fists, also pressed down into the dirt. To struggle was to die, right now; Justine had taught him well.

The Shade asked, “What have you got there, little Justine?”

Privately, Justine was rather sure of Melemizargo’s plan for Candlepoint, though she had never been fully aware of any such plan. This bully of a former man, standing before her, was obviously set up to fall. To be taken down by someone greater than himself, and in doing so, lead the shadelings to a proper place in society. For Bulgan had to be an example of all that was wrong with the Clergy. Melemizargo must have wanted the Clergy to be cleansed by Bulgan’s bloody, painful passing.

Hopefully this much was true! But it was hard to say.

Her Dark God was not an easy, loving God. He did not grant [Cleanse], to ease the burdens of daily life. He did not grant Spatial magic, either, for exploring the world was meant to strengthen one’s self, and hone one’s power; people were meant to tame the world, not hop around, ignoring the monsters all around them.

Too many gifts bred weakness, and Melemizargo did not suffer weakness in his presence, for he made fools of all he could, including those who knew him best. Justine knew these facts more than most.

Hopefully, today, the fool would be Bulgan.