Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

27

His map updated and Miche physically healed. His shadow was with him again, and he was nearly ready to leave the shrine. He placed the Spring Stone into the water, first, cupped in the palm of his hand. Was rewarded with the brief, flickering image of a lithe and beautiful ghost. Then it was just a stone again; opal in color, about the size of a sparrow's egg, and slightly warm to the touch.

The shrine goddess, watching, said,

"Her place is not here. Nor… I think… very easy to reach. I have no sense of location. Just distance, far beyond our land's shrunken borders. More nodes awakened may provide us with greater resolution, though."

He nodded, tucking the stone back into its magical pocket; rotated forward, within easy reach. Thought of something else, then.

"The she-orc," he said, as he made for the shrine's repaired hatch.

The guardian spirit shuddered slightly.

"Such aberrations are best not spoken of, Miche. They are nothing but twisted and poisoned reflections of elves, created by darkness, in jealous mockery."

Well… maybe so, but Marget was still out there waiting, and he'd promised to find her a suitable victim. Mate, rather. On a sudden hunch, he said,

"Coming into this place, Goddess, I saw what appeared to be me, ducking low as if trying to hide. Can you alter the flow of time between this spring and the world, so that I leave here before I have entered?"

The goddess was still for a moment. Then,

"Yes. With two shrines active, it is now possible to move the entrance in space and time, both. But, only to a spring that you've already visited, or to a moment recently past."

"How recent?" he demanded, a sudden edge to his voice. His sword, knives and fishing spear rotated reflexively forward in their other-plane pockets. Ready.

The goddess just gave him an uneasy headshake, explaining,

"Within your memory, Miche, but it is never wise to try changing the past. You are yourself. Here, now… because of all you experienced then."

The elf lowered his head, pale hair concealing deep pain and humiliation.

"So, there is nothing to be done?" he asked softly. "No way to make… make what happened… hurt less?"

She reached out with a glowing and filmy hand, touching the top of his bowed head. And, just like that, something changed. Not… He didn't forget. It all just iced over, somehow. Still in there, but distant. Locked away in a bottle, as if it had happened to somebody else.

"Be at peace, Misheta," she murmured. "For as long as you need the assistance. When you've grown stronger, you may remove the barrier yourself."

A thing that he'd never do, ever. Reaching up, the very last elf in all that lost realm took her slim hand in his own. Kissed it, sending a warm flush of sparks flaring all through her hovering form.

"I have not words enough to thank you, Goddess, but I can vow to find and awaken all of your shrines."

And if it killed him, he'd just resurrect through the force of his vow. Doomed to keep trying, until it was done.

"Whatever the cost, I will do this," he promised.

The goddess squeezed his hand, then released it.

"You have placed a terrible fate on yourself, Miche. We hear your vow and are grateful, but leave you this out: that you may recant the promise, by rejecting each broken spring-node, aloud."

Wouldn't happen. So witness Firelord (still safe inside him) and Nameless (who just didn't care). His promise would stand.

Afterward, Miche left the cleared chamber, retracing his steps through a repaired and orderly rail-tunnel. For the first time, he noticed a row of glass panels. They were set in the passage walls, every ten yards or so. The panels were dark, with a lone, flashing white dot at the very top. Waiting, he thought. For what, he had no idea.

Unlike the brightly tiled chamber and tunnel, the entrance was still just a heap of broken pour-stone and steel. Camouflage, possibly, or maybe because he meant to step into his own recent past.

Well, he'd spotted himself, and remembered that startling moment quite vividly, so that's where he went. Emerged back into late evening twilight, with himself and Marget standing nearby. A gentle breeze blew his way, not theirs, bearing with it the powerful scent of orc, recent fire and Nameless's musk.

Miche ducked quickly aside, as that earlier self turned his way. There was a moment of shock and recognition. Of thoughts blending together, but Miche-now pulled loose, doing his best to seem no threat at all.

Miche-then frowned slightly. Took the hint, though, and didn't come looking. He watched himself make some final comment to Marget, then enter the damaged shrine. Gave it a long ten-count before stepping out of the shadows, silent as only a skulking elf could be.

Marget had been standing with her legs braced apart, arms folded across her chest, waiting. Seeing Miche, she turned to face him, hand moving up to the hilt of her left back-sheathed sword.

"You return very soon, Old One," growled the orc, red eyes flaring like embers. "What is amiss?"

The elf shook his head.

"Nothing. I have been inside, fought a corrupted guardian and restored the shrine. It can be used to move a little in place and time, though, now that there's more than one spring. I just… left before I went in, to get us sooner away."

Marget's scowl deepened. She was not a complex thinker, he was beginning to learn.

"You left before you went in," she repeated suspiciously, still clenching the sword hilt.

"Yes," he agreed, carefully showing just peace, and not steel.

"That is magic. Sorcery with time," she accused.

"Yes… in a way. Not my magic, just a thing I can make use of, as seemed right to do, now... Which advantage we are wasting by standing here, talking. It would be wise to move on, Marget."

"With you still inside there?!" demanded the outraged orc, thrusting forward her shaggy-maned head.

Didn't laugh… didn't laugh… didn't laugh… Barely.

"I'm… quite well. Truly. There were some close bits, but I made it through safely, Marget. My oath on it." (Also, his safe-and-sound presence, which was pretty tough to refute.)

She rumbled like a griffin, stomping closer to snuff at the elf. Marget snorted like a horse would do and… almost… he reached up to scratch her ears. Did not; converting the gesture to shoving that forest of dark braids away from his face.

"If we go in," she grunted, "we can help other-you in the battle."

Miche sighed.

"So thought I, for a different reason, but I am told that changing the past is its own sort of risk. Now… I need time to look over the map and plan where to go next."

"We go to a free-people stronghold, Ardon."

She was back to trying out names, again. A good sign.

"Not Ardon, either," he corrected, adding, "I will search the map for signs of an orc stronghold, though. Your home is…?"

Marget shook her head, causing metal, unpolished gems and bone bits to rattle.

"Not home, any longer. The clan-leader's own son and his kin tried to best me, after putting an herb in my drink. I killed him instead of submitting, and now I wander in exile, fair game to all."

For once, she wasn't scowling; her tattooed face seeming haunted and sad. Reaching into a mage pocket, he pulled out a flask of honey-wine. Something important, from somewhere that mattered. Offered the bottle to Marget, saying,

"I was told that things can always get better, and… I can help watch your back and your rest-state, so that no one attacks unseen."

Marget accepted the drink and the offer, and that was a start. Afterward, needing a secure place for resting and plans, they left the shrine. Made their way up and across a tall hill to the tanglewood tree; tracing that softly beckoning lure.