Corvis Eralith
I was working with the lamp fragments I had found in the Sea Den. Well, "working" was perhaps too large a word for what I was doing. I was not shaping or crafting or building anything.
I was simply... feeding them. Pouring myself into them and hoping they would eventually give something back. It was the same desperate hope that had driven me to the Red Gorge, to the Cravenite's poison, to the river that had swallowed me more times than I cared to count by now.
Right now I was seated behind my office's desk in the Unraveler's Company headquarters—Riverwine Racine, Bough of Riverside Yard, Grove of the Vedette.
The address had become a litany in my mind, a string of syllables I repeated to myself when the weight of everything pressed too close. These walls, this desk, this view of the Winetail River flowing past the window—they belonged to me, to Corvis Eralith, to the prince who had built something that might outlast him.
Across all the repetitions I had lived through, I had always taken the lamp crystals. Through many attempts, I had also understood how to "repair" them.
The process was not intuitive—nothing about the Djinn ever was—but it was consistent. I made pure mana flow from my body into the crystals, holding them together with my will, and soon they would react.
They would begin to vibrate, to hum, to try to meld back together into whatever shape they had once held.
It was a similar process to the Resets of the dungeons, but I had to supply the fuel for the Reset to happen: mana. Lots and lots of mana. I had already fed into these fragments the mana of the water-attuned crystals I had found in the Sea Den, draining them dry, reducing them to inert stone.
But the fragments had greedily absorbed all of it, and nothing seemed to have happened. They were hungry, these shards of whatever the Djinn had left behind. Hungry in a way that reminded me of the river, of the current that pulled at my soul every time I died.
They wanted something from me, and I did not know what it was.
And so I sat and fed mana into the crystals while absorbing mana from the ambient with Pseudo-Mana Rotation. The technique had become second nature over the years, as natural as breathing, but it was not enough. It was never enough.
The crystals drank faster than I could replenish, and I felt the drain in my bones, in my core.
A knock on the door shifted my attention to the entrance of my office.
"Enter," I said, and I was grateful for the interruption.
Grateful for something to break the monotony of feeding and waiting, feeding and waiting, feeding and waiting.
Albold Chaffer, first-born son of the current Lord and Lady of Sister House Chaffer and also member of the Dungeon Crawlers, stepped inside. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world.
"Corvis," he greeted, dispensing with the formalities that usually accompanied conversations with royalty.
Without much preamble, he asked his question. "Do you know where Finn is?"
I narrowed my eyes, curious about Albold's question. Through the years I had known him, the scion of House Chaffer had always been a rather private person. Shameless and bold, yes, but still private.
He never shared much of himself, despite the rather rebellious personality he displayed to the world. For him to seek out Finn—to track me through my disguise—meant something had changed.
"Finn?" I said, keeping my voice light, casual. "He is at home. In Darv."
Another reason why the identity of Finn Warend was so easy to maintain secret was that whatever question about him led to Elder Rahdeas taking care of it.
And Rahdeas was a merchant—convincing people through words was his way of life.
Albold clicked his tongue as he sat down on one of the seats in front of my desk. The chair creaked under him, and he leaned back, his arms crossed, his gaze somewhere to the left of my face.
"Any idea when he will be back?" Albold asked.
"The reason?" I asked back, though I already suspected.
"To go on another unraveling," Albold replied.
Right—for what other reason would he want to know where Finn was? He avoided eye contact, though, his gaze fixed on the window behind me, on the river flowing past.
"Me and... Auddyr... have been waiting for him. But seeing that he has not shown himself again, I thought of asking you, Corvis."
Me and Auddyr. The pause between the words was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. Something had shifted between them. Something had softened.
I had forgotten to update the situation of the Dungeon Crawlers. I was too preoccupied with Windsom and ended up forgetting that the Indrath was not the only problem in this world. My friends were also one.
"I can ask Elder Rahdeas for him," I said.
Albold shook his head. "No need for you to be disturbed, Corvis." He stood up, suddenly restless, his fingers drumming against the arm of the chair. "Where does Finn live? We are going to ask him personally."
"Oh," I said, and I felt the lie forming on my tongue, smooth as water, practiced as a prayer. "He lives in Burim. But he could also be with his great-uncle in Vildorial. However I am sure he is going to visit Zestier soon, though. After all, he is the leader of the Dungeon Crawlers."
"There are no leaders in our party, Corvis," Albold said. "Only your family is worthy of the honor and burden of authority."
"Well, I have not put a rule stating a leader must be named," I said, shrugging my shoulders. I played the part of the one who did not know anything about the inner workings of the Dungeon Crawlers, despite me being the one who had named the party, formed it, and been its first member.
But that was Finn Warend, not Corvis Eralith.
"What is that beaked crystal you have in your hands, anyway?" Albold asked, looking at the lamp fragments in my hands.
They were now perfectly welded together, the cracks sealed, the surface smooth. I had been so focused on the conversation that I had not noticed when the process finished.
Finally, I rejoiced inwardly. This "relic" had taken more mana than what would be needed for a mage to go from the dark to the light stage of the red mana core.
"An object a party of Unravelers retrieved and gifted me," I lied, and the words came easily.
Now that Albold too could see this lamp, it meant something worked. The crystals were no longer invisible to ordinary eyes. Whatever barrier had hidden them from view had fallen.
"Neat," Albold said, and I heard the dismissal in his voice. He was not interested in relics or artifacts.
"I will make sure we are just as productive, Corvis," Albold said, and with that, he stood up, gave me a curt bow, and left my office.
The door closed behind him, and the silence that followed was heavy, pressing, full of everything I had not said.
I saw Berna's head peek over my shoulder as she looked down at the lamp, curious. Her green eyes reflected the faint light that pulsed from within the crystals, and through our bond, I felt her wonder, her uncertainty, her quiet trust that I would explain eventually.
"Let's see what the Ancient Mages have in store for me," I said.
I supplied a large surge of mana inside the lamp.
'Peace. Peace to you, Oh Justiciar.' The voice resonated inside my skull—not heard, not exactly, but felt.
It was a male voice, old as a Watchful Willow and calm as the Winetail in spring, and it spoke with an accent that was not the common tongue of Dicathen, the Sapinese speech that was similar to a standard English accent, not the guttural consonants of dwarven speech typical of Scottish accents, and not even the cadence of elven.
From the blue lamp in my hands, a weak light flared within. It pulsed like a heartbeat, or like something that had been waiting for a very long time and was finally waking.
'I present myself to you. My name is Avicenna. Avicenna Artira of Ramdad.' The voice paused, and I felt something shift within it—wonder, perhaps, or gratitude, maybe the particular sorrow of someone who had been alone for so long that the act of speaking felt like a miracle.
'A great pleasure it is to have been reawakened, although in such a state of being and in such an age for Pax Coronata. And a great honor it is to be speaking with you, albeit, again, in such a state I find myself in. Trapped within this Vaultlamp, where my consciousness has stayed dormant since the age my people were annihilated.'
Pax Coronata. The words echoed in my mind, and I turned them over, searching for meaning. Then it clicked—Pax Coronata. That was what the Djinn called this world.
The planet of TBATE, of Arthur's story, of my life. The name felt strange on my tongue, even in my thoughts, but it fit. It was the name of a people who had seen the world differently, who had understood it differently, who had called it something that meant peace.
"Are you an Ancient Mage?" I asked. I did not say the word Djinn. Even though if Windsom or any other Asura was listening, the outcome would be the same, still saying that word aloud felt like rushing too much.
Like stepping off a cliff before checking if there was ground beneath.
'Ancient Mage?' The voice from the lamp echoed in my head with curiosity and wonder.
Berna moved closer and sniffed the lamp, her nose brushing against the smooth surface of the crystals, but she did nothing else. For a voice talking in my head, I would have expected a more energetic reaction from my bond. But Berna simply sat back, her green eyes fixed on the lamp, her tail sweeping the floor behind her.
'I suppose "Ancient Mages" is how your people call my people, Justiciar,' Avicenna added soon after, and I heard something in his voice that might have been sadness, or resignation, or the particular patience of someone who had now learnt their entire civilization has been reduced to a footnote.
'So yes, that is correct. I am an Ancient Mage, just as you said. However, my people went by the name of Djinn—or "peaceseekers," as others have wrongly translated our name. But for your information, which I sincerely hope will interest you, Djinn means "Of Calm Currents."'
"You speak a lot," I said, and the words came out sharper than I intended.
The lamp in my hands was warm now, pulsing with that weak, steady light, and inside it was a mind that had been alive when the Djinn walked the world, when the Asuras had not yet burned their cities.
'Oh, my apologies, Justiciar.' Avicenna's reply came with a tired, old chuckle—very similar to one Grandpa could have made, albeit lacking Grandpa's playfulness.
There was no mischief in this voice, no hidden joke, no teasing warmth. Just the weariness of something that had been waiting for far too long.
'It has been so long since I have spoken. Since I have had the pleasure of seeking or sharing knowledge—something as important as eating, or breathing, for my people—that I did not consider this might be overwhelming to you. Once again, my apologies.'
"No need to apologize," I said, shaking my head, clearing the fog that had settled there. There would be time for wonder later. Right now, I needed answers. "So... you are a remnant?"
'Remnant.' Avicenna turned the word over in his mind, tasting it, testing it. 'An apt name for what I am. Truly, truly an apt name. Yes, this Vaultlamp you have acquired and repaired—which I am grateful for beyond what words the Asuran language can convey—contains a remnant of what I once was.'
So he was just like Ji-Ae from the novel, or the other Djinn Remnants who had guided Arthur through the Relictombs. This was incredible. I was speaking with a Djinn. And if he was a Remnant, he must have been a very, very remarkable Djinn.
Ji-Ae had single-handedly made most of Agrona's plans possible. If Avicenna had even a fragment of her intellect, her knowledge, her understanding of aether and Fate and the things that lay beneath reality...
"Vaultlamp?" I asked, the words tumbling out of me. "What is it?"
'Ahh, what a beautiful question, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice carried a hint of gratefulness mixed with excitement, the particular joy of a teacher who had been asked something worth answering.
'I will answer to the best of my capabilities. A Vaultlamp is an artifact built by my people to surpass the limitations of our minds and bodies. Thanks to them, we are able to let a remnant of ourselves—our consciousnesses—not be taken by the currents.'
"Taken by the currents?!" I exclaimed, louder than I intended. The words tore out of me, raw and desperate, because I knew what he meant. "You mean the river?! That river? The river of time?"
'River of time?' Avicenna's voice was thoughtful now, considering. 'Is that how your people call it, Justiciar? An interesting name. And yes. I mean that. My people called it the Truce-Waters, where souls go after they die. Or at least where they are meant to go.'
"What do you mean by only your consciousness?" I asked, pressing forward. "You seem to be very much here, even if inside a lamp. A Vaultlamp. Sorry."
'Good observation. I have explained myself poorly.' Avicenna's voice was patient, unhurried. 'In this state of mine, I cannot see, nor touch, nor smell, nor hear anything as someone would normally do. For that reason, I am talking to you in your mind, Justiciar. And the reason I can interact with you, and only you, at all, is because of who you are.'
Right. In the novel, Arthur had been able to go through the ruins in the Relictombs and interact with the Djinn Remnants only because he had Djinn ancestry, thanks to Alice Leywin.
Probably these Vaultlamps had similar safeguards.
They were designed to avoid the Insight accumulated by Djinnkind falling into the wrong hands—like the Relictombs with their entire anti-Asuran systems.
Avicenna was not speaking to me because I was clever, or because I had repaired his lamp. He was speaking to me because I had been... chosen.
"So you don't know where we are?" I asked.
'No. I do not.' Avicenna's voice was calm, untroubled by his ignorance. 'I only know I am speaking with you, Justiciar. But I do not know where you are, or how much time has passed since my consciousness drifted inside this Vaultlamp. I do not know how you look, nor anything else other than that I am speaking with you right now. That is my only knowledge of the present.'
"I see," I said, and the words felt small, inadequate. "Avicenna. Do you know something about Fate?"
Discovering more about Fate was my whole reason for having started the Unraveler's Company, for using the identity of Finn Warend again, for walking into dungeons and waking ancient ruins and dying over and over and over.
And Avicenna had already spoken about the river. He knew at least something more than me. That was already something.
'Fate. Fate, you say, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice was careful now, measured, as if he was walking through a field of something fragile. 'The Asuran name for the Ultimate Article of aether. Peace. I do know about Peace, Justiciar. But I do not know about Fate.'
I blinked. The words did not fit together. They slid against each other, refusing to lock into place. "I... I don't understand," I said.
'Let me rephrase it better, then.' Avicenna's tone shifted, becoming gentler, more patient.
'Aether, the bedrock of reality, can only be harnessed through Insight. Like mana in a limited way, but much greater than it.' Avicenna's voice was steady, calm. 'Fate—that was the way the Asuras envisioned the Highest Edict of aether, what we Djinn instead called Peace, the Ultimate Article.'
'Just as Insight varies from person to person, it also varies from culture to culture. But eventually, it all leads to the same end. Fate. Peace. They are the same thing, only gained through different Insights.'
I nodded, forgetting that he could not see me, and then said aloud, "I understand."
"Aevum, Vivum, and Spatium, you mean, right?"
'Exactly, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice carried a warmth now, the particular satisfaction of a teacher whose student had been paying attention. 'Those are the Edicts of aether. How the Asuras—especially the Dragons—understood it.'
"But I am not an Asura," I retorted.
'That is also right. But seeing the language we are communicating in is a simplified dialect of Asuran, I can only guess that the culture of your people has been heavily influenced by Epheotus.'
"That's true," I confirmed, and the words tasted like ash.
Dicathians, Alacryans—all the people, all the lessers, in this world spoke the same language because those who spoke a different one had been eliminated.
And those who came after—humans, dwarves, and elves—had been puppeteered by the Asuras since we became aware of ourselves.
Since Windsom had gifted the Lance Artifacts to the first rulers of the three races here in Dicathen, and Agrona had become the High Sovereign across the ocean in Alacrya.
I wondered: did Kezess do it so that no matter what, Dicathians would never be able to develop their own Insights over aether?
"Thank you," I said, pushing the thought aside. "I have one last question. Why do you call me Justiciar?"
'Oh, I presumed you knew, since you were capable of such a feat: repairing my Vaultlamp and bringing my consciousness back from the Truce-Waters.'
Avicenna's voice was soft now, almost reverent.
'The Justiciar is, in Djinnic culture and folklore, the guarantor of Peace: they who steward its course. They have always been a mythological figure—more of a symbol than anything else, truth be told. But you, Justiciar, you are quite real, I have to say.'
Justiciar. The word settled into my chest like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward.
Was that the reason the dungeons reacted to me the way they did? It must have been. Was that the reason Fate had given me REtrocurrent? Yes. That must have been it.
"I cannot thank you enough, Avicenna. Really," I said, and I meant it.
But my hand moved to my storage ring, and I retrieved the C-Pill—the Cravenite's core—holding it between my fingers.
Berna growled, her whole body tensing, the fur on her back standing up. She knew what I was about to do. She could feel it through the bond, feel the intention, the acceptance, the terrible, necessary choice. But like everytime she did not stop me.
"I will speak to you again," I said. "Thanks."
'The one who sh—' Avicenna's voice was the last thing I heard before the river claimed me.
No matter what, this information had to die with me. I would carry it back through the current, through the dark, through the drowning and the surfacing: through the terrible work of being the only one who knew.
I would bring Peace. Or I would die trying. Again and again and again.