Corvis Eralith
"Finn, you have made it."
Elder Rahdeas greeted me as I entered his office at the Warend Trading Company in Vildorial.
The room was exactly as I remembered it from my first visit f—the same bookshelves heavy with tomes, the same artifacts casting their soft, sourceless light, the same window looking out over the Anvilrun and the endless, layered sprawl of the dwarven capital.
I was wearing the disguise of Finn Warend, which by now was almost a second skin. The makeup, the contact lenses, the subtle padding that gave my frame a stockier, dwarven silhouette.
Elder Rahdeas had asked me to come to Vildorial as Finn and had sent Olfred to ensure I was not seen by indiscreet eyes while I traveled. The Lance had met me at the portal, had guided me through the crowded streets without a word and had deposited me at the door of the Warend Trading Company.
"Great-uncle," I greeted the dwarven elder, taking a seat without asking permission. The chair was dwarf-sized, made for someone with shorter legs and broader hips, but I had learned to sit in it without awkwardness.
There was just me, Rahdeas, and Olfred in the room—the Lamce standing by the door, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on some middle distance that did not exist—but I still wanted to remain in character.
"I have called you here to tell you about something I am sure both of us will gain much from," Elder Rahdeas said.
His hands were intertwined on his desk, the rings on his fingers catching the light, and he looked at me with his one good eye. I wondered what had happened to his other one.
Maybe Olfred would tell me if I played my cards correctly. Not that I wanted to know about whatever trauma had caused Rahdeas to lose sight in one eye to manipulate him. But knowing more about the enigmatic dwarf was a priority.
If he betrayed Dicathen—and me with it—the consequences would be disastrous. The Unraveler's Company was doing incredibly well, its fame in Elenoir and Darv growing by the day.
Moreover, thanks to the opening of the Elven market to the dwarven people, Darv's economic dependency on Sapin was less daunting.
And the majority of those goods were managed by the Warend Trading Company.
"I am all ears, Elder," I said, breaking character for an instant.
"There is going to be a very important event for all of Darvish elite in five days' time," Elder Rahdeas said. "The Gem Banquet. That is its name. It is where the nobility of Darv and the most influential dwarves gather, meeting in the great Feasthall of Lodenhold—the palace of the Greysunders. But I am sure you know that."
"And I assume you would like me to participate, am I right?" I asked. Elder Rahdeas nodded. "I fail to see what use I would have attending there."
"You know what the greatest plague is that haunts the Greysunders family?" Elder Rahdeas asked. His voice was perfectly neutral, but I had spent enough time around him to hear the lingering hatred beneath it.
The name of the Darvish royal family tasted like poison in his mouth.
"Ehm..." I stuttered, not knowing what to say. Olfred not being loyal to them? I knew that was Rahdeas's strongest trump card, his greatest secret. But I could not say that I knew it so casually.
"The infertility of the current monarchs," Olfred answered for me.
"The Prince would have answered if you gave him time, child," Elder Rahdeas said to Olfred, and there was something in his voice that was that particular patience of a father who had long since accepted that his son would never learn to wait.
"Sorry, Father." Olfred immediately apologized, and I saw the flicker of something cross his face.
Infertility. Right. That was one of the promises Agrona had made to Dawsid Greysunders to have him betray Dicathen. Fertility. The ability to produce an heir, to continue his bloodline, to keep his family on the throne for another generation.
The Greysunders did lack an heir, but how was that important to me?
"King Dawsid's best years are far behind him," Elder Rahdeas said. "And if no child is born before the death of the king, then a royal family that has ruled for centuries could disappear."
He paused, letting the weight of that settle over me. A dynasty crumbling. A throne empty. A kingdom without a ruler.
"The Greysunders family has hosted a competition of sorts amongst the best of Darv's youth—the nobles and the rich." Another pause. "A competition to name a Throneholder. A temporary heir who would be adopted into the Greysunders royal family directly. What do you think about it, Finn?"
He smiled, but I did not see the smile as evil. Just... intrigued. Curious about what the future might hold if I accepted such a proposition. A competition to become a sort of regent for the title of heir, in case the Greysunders could not produce an heir themselves.
"Prince of the Elshire and maybe Throneholder of Darv," Olfred scoffed behind me. "Mage at five. Co-founder of the first organization to rival the Adventurer's Guild in decades. What else do you want? To become the herald of Mother Earth?"
Does being a pawn of Kezess Indrath count? I wanted to ask. And speaking of Dragons... I was sure Windsom Indrath would see this opportunity with interest too.
The Overseer of Dicathen was always looking for ways to advance his position in the Indrath court, to prove his usefulness to his master and I was just his latest tool for that.
If I played this correctly, if I became Throneholder of Darv, Windsom might see me in a slightly better light. And I needed all the advantages I could get.
"You planned for this too, when I became Finn Warend for the first time?" I asked Rahdeas.
"Exactly," the old dwarf said. "It was also my backup plan to gain legitimacy for the Unraveler's Company in case your parents would not let you support it."
"I see," I said, and the words felt heavy in my mouth.
He had been planning this for years.
"But Elder," I said, a new thought occurring to me, "is this the first edition of this 'competition' for Throneholder?"
Elder Rahdeas's expression became slightly darker. "No. It has already been held before. But the former winner... died in an accident."
I gulped subconsciously. The sound was audible in the quiet of the office.
"Died?" I echoed.
"I killed them," Olfred said, without any embellishment. His voice was flat, empty, the voice of someone reporting a fact that had no emotional weight for him.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"You should have let me speak, Olfred," Rahdeas said.
"It was I who committed that crime," Olfred said. "I will not lie about it."
His face did not show any sign of regret. Of course it did not. It was Rahdeas who must have ordered him to do it and if it came from the mouth of the dwarven elder, even the most heinous of crimes would seem like a walk in the park to Olfred.
"I will do it," I said, shaking away the intrusive thoughts.
If I made Finn Warend Throneholder of Darv, then the positives for Dicathen would be invaluable. Elder Rahdeas was a solved matter for all that was important to me. But the Greysunders were still a problem, with or without Agrona whispering in their ears.
A royal family that was hated by the people and disrespected by the nobility—a family that needed the power of the Lances to keep themselves from falling—was not a royal family I could permit Dicathen to have, with Alacrya's shadow over us and Epheotus pulling our strings.
A house divided against itself cannot stand. That was something I had been fighting against since I first decided to ignore my prejudice and approach Elder Rahdeas.
"That is very appreciated, Prince," Elder Rahdeas said, and I heard the satisfaction in his voice. "I can only guarantee that I have the best intentions for Darv and Dicathen."
But if the need arose, Darv would come first, right? I asked the question to no one in my head. If it came down to a choice between his kingdom and the continent, which would he choose? I did not know. I could not know.
"I have already planned many things that you can do at the Feasthall to gain notoriety and support," Elder Rahdeas said, reaching for a stack of papers on his desk.
But I stopped him. "Thank you, Elder, but no," I said. "I am going to do things my way."
I was going to have a long, long talk with Avicenna. I was going to experiment with REtrocurrent even more.
—
"Avicenna," I called as I sat in my office at the Unraveler's Company headquarters, the familiar weight of the Vaultlamp warm in my hands.
The evening light filtered through the window, painting the room in shades of amber and gold, and outside, the Winetail River flowed past.
"Did your people have a way to... gain water easily? I do not know if I am explaining myself clearly. If you lived in a desert and you needed to get water, what would the folk of calm currents do?"
'You explain yourself very clearly, Justiciar,' the Djinn replied immediately, his voice patient, thoughtful. 'And the scenery you propose to me is actually something that was not very uncommon in Focularsa in the age of my people. You see, Focularsa was a very dry continent. While never completely desert, as you say, it was still hard to find water in many places.'
Never completely desert? I asked myself, my mind racing. Where does the desert of Darv come from, then? The wasteland that stretched across the dwarven kingdom, the barren sands that had shaped their culture, their politics, their desperate need for water—if Focularsa had never had a desert, then what caused Darv to become one?
"And what did you do about it?" I asked.
'Manatech, Justiciar. The answer is always Manatech or Aetherology when you speak of the folk of calm currents.'
"That seems too simplistic," I observed, "to reduce your people to just that."
'It was an old inside joke between us Sages, Justiciar. I apologize if I overstepped.'
Damn. I had not meant to sound like such a jerk. Avicenna was sharing knowledge that had been buried for millennia, knowledge that could save my home, and I was criticizing his phrasing. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he continued before I could.
'Anyway,' Avicenna said, his voice warming again, 'I will illustrate for you the Lifework of Paskael Mariohm of Sandand, one of the greatest water mages that Djinnkind has ever seen.'
With Avicenna's explanation, it was time for me to test REtrocurrent again.
The day was coming to an end, the sunset painting Zestier in warm colors—oranges and reds and deep, bruised purples—as I prepared to kill myself again. I did not have time to procure another Cravenite's mana core.
If I spent even a single day searching for shellfish, I would waste precious time needed to prepare for the Gem Banquet. An event that could potentially end up being historic for all of Dicathen.
If Finn Warend became an honorary Greysunders and Throneholder of Darv, then, just as Elder Rahdeas had said, the "friendship" between him and Prince Corvis would bring Elenoir and Darv even closer.
The two kingdoms would be bound not just by trade and diplomacy, but by friendship. By the strange, improbable fiction of a dwarven boy who did not exist and an elven prince who could not stop dying.
The problem would come if an official meeting between the two was ever needed. If someone demanded that Finn Warend stand beside Corvis Eralith in public, that they be seen together, that their friendship be proven beyond letters and messengers.
But I was sure Olfred and Rahdeas already had a plan for that. They had planned for everything else.
I was outside of Zestier now, the Alabaster Ring visible in the distance, the Elshire Forest pressing close on all sides. Berna was by my side, her massive form a warm, solid presence in the gathering dusk.
I stood between the trees, a sharp knife in my hands. The blade caught the last light of the sun, glinting red, and I stared at it, at the edge that would end me, at the steel that would send me back to the currents.
"Warworn Rapids, Warworn Rapids..." I murmured, and I was trembling.
The word was a prayer, a plea, a desperate hope that the violent part of the river would answer instead of the calm one. I needed to go back. I needed to have more time to prepare. I needed to die in a way that would return me to a point before this moment, not after it.
I was trembling until Berna's courage filled my body through our bond. It flooded through me, warm and steady, pushing back the fear, the doubt, the trembling. She could not speak. She could not tell me that everything would be alright. But she could give me this. She could lend me her strength, her certainty, her absolute, unwavering trust that I would come back.
"Always ready to make me brave, huh?" I asked, looking at my Guardian Bear. Her green eyes seemed even more luminous as tears filled them—tears she would not shed, could not shed, but that I could feel through the bond like a pressure behind my own eyes. I patted her head, my fingers sinking into her thick fur.
"This is going to be fine," I said. "And it is going to hurt."
I drove the knife into my neck. At the same time, I fought my instincts—every nerve, every muscle, every fragment of my survival-driven soul—to not augment my body with mana, to not use any hint of magic to make this less fatal.
The blade sliced through skin, through muscle, through the left carotid artery. Blood dirtied my hands, hot and slick, and I felt it pulsing out of me, felt my strength draining, felt the world beginning to dim.
I crumbled to my knees, but I did not stop there.
Again I took the knife and stabbed myself, the blade finding flesh, finding blood, finding the end that I needed. Berna licked my face.
Not to beg me to stop—despite the fear that haunted her, despite every instinct screaming at her to protect, to guard, to stand between me and anything that might harm me.
She licked my face to make my death less scary. To remind me that I was not alone. To tell me, in the only way she could, that she would be here when I returned.
I took the knife one more time and stabbed myself again.
The river claimed me. Its impossible waters welcomed me back, and I felt REtrocurrent's activation trigger, felt the current seize me and felt the world dissolve into the rushing flow of time.
—
I was... standing?
I opened my eyes. My legs—those of my Soul-Body, at least—were only half-submerged in the river. The water lapped at my calves, warm and gentle, and I was standing on something solid.
Something that was not water, not current, not the endless, drowning depths of the Warworn Rapids or the calm, cradling stillness of the Truce-Waters.
"Where am I?" I asked myself, and again I was surprised by the rich tone of my Soul-Body's voice.
It was deep, resonant, the voice of someone who had never been nine years old, who had never been afraid, who had never died and returned and died again.
These were neither the Truce-Waters nor the Warworn Rapids. I knew that immediately, instinctively, the way a bird knows which way is south.
Above me, Fate was ever-present—the golden threads stretched across the vault of the sky, turning and weaving and devolving in patterns I could not begin to understand.
But now, differently from the golden, warming light that bathed the Truce-Waters, or the ominous, storm-tossed lighting of the Warworn Rapids, Fate seemed to behave like a normal sun.
It hung in the sky, distant and calm, and its light was the exact same brightness as the Winetail River in spring.
I walked through the shallow waters, moving toward the island I saw in front of me. The sand was warm beneath my bare feet and it shifted with each step, soft and fine.
When my foot touched the highest point of the shore, a wave of Insight flooded my mind.
This was The Atoll. The impossible island that stood in the middle of the river, a place that should not exist, a place that had been waiting for me.
There was a tree at the center of The Atoll. A tall, lonely palm tree, very, very similar to the Watchful Trees one could find in the Elshire Forest. A Watchful Palm, yes. Its fronds swayed in a breeze I could not feel, and its trunk was scarred with symbols I did not recognize.
"Could you be so kind as to tell me how to reach the Warworn Rapids, Fate?" I asked the infinite entity above.
The golden threads continued their eternal dance, indifferent to my voice, my questions, my desperate need for answers. No answer came.
"Fool me for trying," I said, and the words tasted bitter on my tongue.
I scratched my neck, still feeling the pain—which was more a strange itch here, in this place where I had no body, no nerves, no flesh to feel with—of the knife.
As I walked across The Atoll, I stopped to look at my reflection in the water. Here, in this impossible place, I could finally see what my Soul-Body looked like. The water was clear as glass, still as death, and the person who stared back at me was a stranger.
He was tall. He had pointed ears like an elf, but slightly rounded, like a half-elf. His hair was long, the color of burnt copper, and it fell in waves around a face that was both familiar and utterly alien.
His right eye was teal, not dissimilar to that of me and Tessia, but slightly greener—the color of the sea on a stormy day. His left eye was a bright orange-yellow, like the sun, like the heart of a flame, like something that had never belonged on an elven face.
His whole body could not be described as anything other than perfect. Not athlete perfect, no. Literally perfect. It was the body of a god. Every proportion, every line, every contour—it was as if someone had sculpted the ideal form and then brought it to life.
"Who are you?" I asked, watching my own lips move on the reflection. No answer came. No wave of Insight flooded my mind. The stranger stared back at me with his mismatched eyes, and I stared back at him, and the silence stretched between us like a chasm.
"You are the original Corvis Eralith, right?" I said, and the words came out softer than I intended. "I have always been an imposter, then."
I looked up at Fate, at the golden threads that had brought me here, that had given me REtrocurrent, that had made me the Justiciar.
"You pulled my consciousness inside the body that was meant for this person. He is the true Corvis Eralith."
Fate did not answer. The golden threads continued their dance, indifferent and eternal, and I was alone with the stranger in the water and the terrible truth I had just spoken aloud.
I sat down on the sand. The grains were warm beneath me, fine as powder, and I let out a long, long sigh. The sound echoed across The Atoll, swallowed by the silence, and I felt the weight of everything I had been carrying settle onto my shoulders.
"Then I have always been right," I said, and my voice was hollow. "I am truly a fake."
All these years. All these years of trying to accept myself as Corvis Eralith, of learning to love my family, of building something that might outlast me. And now I discovered I was inhabiting the body and soul of someone that was not me.
The true Corvis Eralith had been meant for this body. The true Corvis Eralith had been erased, replaced, overwritten by a reader who had fallen into a story and could not find his way out.
"But it is too late for guilt," I said, standing back up. The sand fell from my clothes, from my skin, from the spaces between my fingers. "I... you do not even exist anymore. Fate destroyed you to make space for their Justiciar... for their Arbiter."
I laughed, and the sound was bitter. "I am talking to myself."
I shook my head and walked back toward the center of The Atoll. I had to find a way to reach the Warworn Rapids. I had to go back, to prepare, to become something that could stand against what was coming. The guilt could wait. The grief could wait.
It did not take long to find what I was searching for. A boat. It was sleek, with a wooden paddle and a small sail.
It was a Petaldrift—the same boats that brought people across Elenoir's rivers, the same boats that I had watched glide across the Winetail a hundred times. But here, in this impossible place, it was something else. It was a vessel that would carry me across the river of time, from The Atoll to the Warworn Rapids, from the calm to the storm.
"Insight does wonders," I murmured as I climbed into the boat. The wood was warm beneath my hands, familiar, and the paddle fit into my grip like it had been made for me. I looked around, at the golden threads above, at the still waters around me, at the island I was leaving behind. "Now I just need to paddle."
And so I did. I traveled across the river of time, the Petaldrift cutting through the still waters, the paddle dipping and rising in a rhythm that was almost meditative. The Atoll shrank behind me, becoming a speck, then a memory, then nothing at all. Ahead, the horizon was dark, churning, waiting.
The Warworn Rapids. The storm. The place where I would die and return and die again.
I paddled, and I did not look back.