Corvis Eralith
I didn't know why, but I was almost wishing that Windsom Indrath would visit me again.
Given the existence of the Caduchicil, and the fact that it was as clear as day that the Vritra were behind them, I thought he would at least give me a tip.
A hint. A warning. Something to show that Epheotus was paying attention, that the Asuras were not content to simply watch while their enemies spread corruption through my homeland.
But nothing of the sort had happened, and, maybe, that was to be expected.
Since the Overseer of Dicathen had complimented me for the Gem Banquet and rewarded me with the Aethra, like one rewards a dog for performing a trick, I had not heard from the dragon.
Was all of this just a test? Testing a ten-year-old to see if he was able to extirpate a Vritra cult?
I tossed my wand-cane to the ground and stepped onto the shaft, using Wind Surfing to begin gliding across the cobblestones.
The familiar rush of air greeted me, cool and steady, and I let the motion carry me forward. The streets of Zestier blurred past: the homes of the common folk, the shops of the Grand Nectary, the white stone walls of the noble estates.
The wind was my ally, my servant and my wings.
Then I activated Inner Current. REmould answered my call, shaping water mana into Trucewater, the Fate deviant that flooded my nervous system and carried me into a state of perfect peace and flow.
The chaos of the city became a pattern I could read, a rhythm I could dance to. My thoughts sharpened, my senses expanded and for a few precious minutes, I was not a boy burdened by the weight of worlds.
I was simply movement.
As I exited Elf Court, the vast plaza in front of the Royal Palace, where the Eralith family had greeted their subjects for generations, I grazed the storage ring on my index finger with a casual motion.
In a flourish of magical light I retrieved Avicenna's Vaultlamp, its crystals cool and smooth, and secured it to my belt with a quick, practiced motion.
Avicenna, I greeted, my thoughts shaping the words without sound.
'Peace to you, Justiciar.' The wise Djinn's voice resonated in my mind, calm and measured, like the surface of a still lake. 'To what may I answer today?'
Well, I was thinking, I started, avoiding a passerby by turning sharply on my wand-cane. You never told me about your own Lifework.
Since I had first spoken to Avicenna, he had talked at length about Lifeworks and Dawn Prizes, about the great achievements of Djinnkind and the amicable competitions that had driven them to ever greater heights.
But he had never mentioned his own work. His own masterpiece. His own contribution to the legacy of a people who had been erased from the world.
'Oh, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice carried a note of something I could not quite identify; maybe it was embarrassment, or the particular reluctance of someone who had been asked to share a secret they had hoped to keep buried. 'Trust my judgment on this: my Lifework is nothing to be concerned with. Under the light of Mordain, my Lifework was nothing worthy.'
I frowned. What do you mean?
'Apologies, I will say it without any idiomatic confusion.' Avicenna's tone shifted, becoming more direct, more precise. The voice of a scholar who had spent centuries learning to choose the right words. 'My Lifework was something I was not proud of. For that reason, I consider it a waste of your time, Justiciar.'
Not proud of? I echoed in my mind, the words feeling strange on my mental tongue. But Avicenna, it was your Lifework! How can you not be proud of it?
If something was clear to me about Djinnic culture, it was that Lifeworks were exactly as the name suggested. They were the goal of a Djinn's whole life. Their purpose, their soul, their memories—all of it expressed through their masterpiece, be it Manatech or Aetherology.
The Djinn devoted decades to a single research, a single creation, a single question needing an answer. It was something that was hard for me to comprehend.
In my short life, I had already worn so many masks, played so many roles. The prince. The merchant's nephew. The pawn of Epheotus. The Justiciar.
Did you finish it? I asked. Your Lifework, I mean. Before... before your people were exterminated?
I felt Avicenna do what was only describable as a mental sigh. It was melancholic, mournful, heavy with centuries of grief.
'I did not, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice was soft, almost inaudible. 'I did not finish neither of my Lifeworks.'
Neither? I asked, surprised. You mean you had more than one Lifework?
'Yes, Justiciar. Albeit I do not claim it with pride.' There was something in his voice now that I had not heard before. An hesitation. A reluctance. 'I was what my people considered a Sage. The pinnacle of the folk of calm currents. Master of both Aetherology and Manatech. We were the only Djinns who could claim such a thing as having a Lifework for both branches of our society.'
That's incredible, I replied, gliding through Ivorypass Door: the city gate that connected the Queen's Grove to the Vedette.
The white stone gleamed in the afternoon light, and I waved to Lenna Aemaris, who was positioned here today instead of at Patriarch Door.
She nodded back, and I gave my wand-cane a push with Wind Surfing, quickly leaving the city gate behind.
And which one of your Lifeworks were you not proud of? I continued, pressing gently.
'My Manatech one.' Avicenna's reply was clipped, final. His tone conveyed, with perfect clarity, that he did not wish to speak of it further.
I understood. We all had things we wanted to bury. Secrets we hoped would stay buried. I thought of the Cravenite's core, the poison I had swallowed many times to die and return. I thought of the knife in my neck, the blood on my hands, the river that had claimed me more times than I could count. There were parts of myself that I was not proud of either.
And what about the other? I asked, changing the subject. I could complete it for you!
The words came before I could stop them, driven by something I had not known I was feeling. I wanted to help Avicenna feel better about his situation. For as much as I complained about my own life my existence was a paradise compared to his.
Avicenna was a Djinn who had witnessed the end of his people. He had been trapped in a Vaultlamp for centuries, without a body, without the ability to interact with the world, without anything but the sound of his own thoughts and the rare, precious voice of an hopeless prince.
'That is very thoughtful of you, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice was warm now, touched by something that might have been gratitude. 'But please, it would be unfit for a Djinn like me to have you complete my Lifework. You should chase your own, Justiciar. Not waste time on accomplishing the work of a Sage long dead.'
Still, I pressed. I want to hear about it.
The headquarters of the Unraveler's Company came into view as I entered Riverwine Racine. The Winetail River flowed by my side, its dark water catching the afternoon light, and the familiar facade of the building rose before me—white stone, red flowers, the sign above the door that read Unraveler's Company in letters that gleamed like gold.
I slowed my wand-cane, letting the wind currents ease, and prepared to dismount.
'My Lifework of Aetherology,' Avicenna said, and I heard the reluctance in his voice, the weight of centuries of unfinished work, 'was my attempt to translate the spellforms of my people into the Articles of aether in an universally understandable way.'
Why would you need to do that? I asked, not understanding the usefulness of such a project.
'You see, Justiciar, every spellform is deeply personal. Just as Insight is unique to each person, it varies. My goal was to make it translatable in such a way that everyone could understand everyone else's Insight. To make research and learning both easier and faster.'
I guided my wand-cane to a stop in front of the headquarters, stepping off the shaft and landing lightly on the cobblestones. The building was busy today. Unravelers coming and going, their voices a low murmur of excitement and exhaustion. I
I nodded to a few familiar faces as I passed through the doors, making my way toward the stairs that led to my office.
'A codex for every spellform,' Avicenna continued, 'with the same symbols for all of them. So that every spellform would be perfectly repeatable, using a simple language made of five key letters—one for each Article.'
You tried to sequence aetheric Insight, I said, the comparison forming in my mind. It was similar to how sequencing a genome worked on Earth.
Breaking down something complex and seemingly unique into a language of simple, repeatable parts.
'Yes.' Avicenna's voice was quiet, almost wistful. 'And I had... good results. But I was killed before I had a full answer.'
I would love it if you told me what you discovered, Avicenna.
'Thank you, Justiciar,' Avicenna said quietly, and I felt the weight of those words settle into my chest.
I climbed the stairs to my office, the wood creaking beneath my feet, and pushed open the door. The room was quiet, the afternoon light filtering through the window in long, golden bars. I sank into the armchair behind my desk.
If I could finish Avicenna's Lifework, then aether would be as easy to understand as mana. You would just need to learn the basic language of this "codex," and you could gain Insight even more easily than through the keystones that Arthur had obtained in the novel.
The keystones were rare—you would need to scavenge the Relictombs to find one—dangerous—who knows what trial you would need to face to even have the opportunity to take one in your hands—and required a Djinn's blood to activate.
This... this would be something else entirely. A key that anyone could use. A door that anyone could open.
It was impossible, of course. The Asuras would never allow it. The knowledge of aether was their birthright, their weapon, their shield. If the lessers of Dicathen could learn to wield it as easily as they wielded mana, the balance of power would shift.
But I was not thinking about the Asuras right now. I was thinking about Avicenna, about the Sage who had devoted his life to understanding the fundamental forces of reality, who had come so close to a breakthrough, who had been cut down before he could finish.
I would help him. I would learn what he had discovered. And I would find a way to finish what he had started.
It was the least I could do. For him. For the Djinn. For everyone who had been erased so that the gods could sit on their thrones and pretend they were the only ones who mattered.
—
The afternoon light filtered through the window of my office, casting long golden bars across the desk that Grandpa had given me.
Dust motes danced in the sunbeams, lazy and aimless, and above my finger stood a perfectly spherical bubble of water.
A Bubblespell, my latest innovation, my attempt to push beyond the limitations of Dicathian magic and into something new.
I had been experimenting with Bubblespells for months now, ever since I had first conceptualized them during a night in Burim after my umpteenth visit to sponsoring the Moyalembic, or better to say: the Water Generator.
They were simple in theory—a sphere of water magic, perfectly round, perfectly stable, containing a secondary spell within—but their applications were endless.
I usually applied them in tandem with sound magic to create sonorous explosions, or with earth magic to make bubbles that burst into clouds of stone shrapnel, further propelled by wind magic.
Each combination was a new weapon, a new tool, a new way to shape the battlefield.
But right now, I kept this Bubblespell empty. There was nothing inside the sphere of water except the faint, rippling light that played across its surface like light on a pond. I was listening to Avicenna expound his theories, his ancient voice resonating in my mind with the clarity of a bell struck in a quiet room.
'As I told you,' he was saying, 'we viewed aether in a different way than the Asuras. We divided that fundamental force into the five Articles of Peace. Balance, Solidarity, Justice, Unity, and Freedom. Those are the five Articles of Peace, and those are the fundamental components of every spellform.'
I mentally murmured a confirmational hum.
Balance, Solidarity, Justice, Unity, Freedom. They were very different from Spatium, Aevum, and Vivum—the Edicts that the Asuras had built their understanding of aether around.
Where the Asuras saw a trinity of space, time, and life, the Djinn had seen a quintet of abstract principles. It was a difference of philosophy, of culture, of the very way they understood reality.
That's very different from the aether of the Asuras, I said.
'That is because Asuran and Djinnic societies are total opposites,' Avicenna said.
Obviously, I thought. There was nothing more opposite than the Asuras and the Djinn. More opposite than water and fire, because even those two, in magic, find a common root: mana.
But the Asuras and the Djinn shared nothing.
One was a race of conquerors, of destroyers, of beings who saw the universe as something to be dominated and controlled. The other had been a race of peaceseekers, a folk of calm currents, a civilization of beings who had tried to understand existence rather than subjugate it.
They had been wiped out for their trouble.
Avicenna, I asked, the question surfacing from somewhere deep, did you know something about the Destruction Godrune?
I didn't know why I asked. Perhaps it was the way the light played across the Bubblespell, the way the water seemed to shimmer with potential, the way it reminded me of the river that ran beneath reality.
As I looked at that perfect sphere over my fingertip, I wondered if I could recreate even a sliver of that power. The strongest power that Arthur Leywin had ever wielded.
A force of destruction so conceptual that it didn't matter if you were a mana beast, a common soldier, one of Agrona's Wraiths, or even an Asura. You would be annihilated by Destruction. No matter what.
'Destruction Godrune?' Avicenna echoed, and his tone was... different. Slightly disgusted, perhaps. Or disappointed. 'The closest thing that comes to mind is the De-Construction Greatrune.'
I frowned mentally. Thinking about it, I had a hard time imagining the folk of calm currents developing something like Destruction.
It was antithetical to everything they had stood for—the peace, the understanding, the calm currents. And it was Arthur who had named them Godrunes in the first place.
What kind of power had the aether core given Arthur that he had been able to change something so drastically? To turn a Greatrune into the most powerful weapon in the world?
'However,' Avicenna continued, and I heard the shift in his voice—the scholar reasserting himself, the Sage who had spent centuries unraveling the mysteries of aether, 'the De-Construction Greatrune is an optimal example to explain my Aetherology Lifework to you. You see, every single rune—or spellform—is made of a sequence of Articles, which everyone interprets differently. That is true for all spellforms, except for the Greatrunes like the De-Construction one.'
The Bubblespell bobbed gently above my finger, weightless and serene. I kept my breathing steady, my mind focused, my mana core humming at a low, constant thrum.
'That is what gave them the name of Greatrunes,' Avicenna continued. 'The fact that all Djinns were able to use them independently. Something that was never possible for other spellforms. My goal, in other words, was to make every spellform like a Greatrune. Learnable by all.'
I see, I said, but if everyone interprets the sequences differently, how could you make a universal codex for them?
'Following the example of the Greatrunes, the codification of the spellforms would permit the creation of a standard version of said spellform. From that standard spellform, then, everyone would be able to develop their own way—true to their own Insight.'
Very similarly to how keystones worked in the novel, I noted mentally, but not to Avicenna. The keystones had contained Godrunes, and Arthur had needed to master the puzzles within to claim them. But what Avicenna was describing was different. It wasn't just for Greatrunes or Godrunes, however you wanted to call them.
It was for every single spellform. Every technique, every ability, every expression of aether could be standardized, codified, taught.
Do you think it is possible for mana too? I asked, the implications cascading through my mind.
'I think so. But never did I try to further my research for mana as well.'
In the back of my mind, I hypothesized that perhaps that was how Agrona had developed the bestowment ritual. From the novel, I knew that the magic used by the Alacryans was something that Agrona had developed from knowledge he stole from the Djinnic ruins of Alacrya and the Relictombs.
Were Avicenna's researches involved in that too? Or had Agrona come up with it on his own? Either way, it didn't matter to me.
What mattered was the knowledge—the potential—the key that Avicenna was offering me.
How did you codify the spellforms? I continued, pressing forward. How did you discover what their sequences were?
'That was the true challenge of my Lifework. The theory—yoi see—I am not the first Djinn to have discovered the nature behind the spellforms. Many others have theorized that all spellforms are made up of multiple Articles, and many others have theorized about the sequences and formulas that compose them. But I was the first to develop a true way to transcribe them.'
Avicenna paused, and I felt something shift in his consciousness—a stirring of pride, perhaps, or the satisfaction of a scholar who had solved a problem that had eluded his peers for centuries.
'The Alphabet of Peace,' he declared, and for the first time in our conversation, his voice carried a hint of pride. 'I simply called it the Alphabet of Peace. Not a very inspired name I know, but my death came before I could formulate a better one.'
The Alphabet... I echoed in my head. I assume you wrote upon them the codex of each spellform? Did the Greatrunes work similarly?
Avicenna chuckled. The sound was dry, ancient, but there was warmth beneath it—the warmth of a teacher whose student had understood a difficult concept.
'You understand quickly, Justiciar. Yes, that is right. The Greatrunes had complicated artifacts attached to them that required a great deal of work and time to understand. I was simply the one to simplify the process.'
I remembered that Arthur had needed to challenge the puzzles offered by the keystones to obtain the Insight stored within them and utilize the Godrune.
With Aroa's Requiem, he had spent days inside a Zone of the Relictombs, just to resolve the puzzles.
If Arthur had had access to Avicenna's Lifework, he would not have needed to spend that much time. He would simply have had Avicenna's Alphabet of Peace, the information regarding Aroa's Requiem ready for him.
Like the recipe for an apple pie.
Do you remember any of the ones you... sequenced? I asked.
'I do, Justiciar. The first spellform I "sequenced," as you said, was one of my own.'
Neat, I said, and I meant it. Too bad I cannot use aether.
The words came out bitter, tinged with the frustration I had been carrying for years. Even if I could use aether, I was not stupid enough to try it when I knew Windsom Indrath was watching over me.
If I so much as breathed the wrong way, the Overseer of Dicathen would eventually know. And if he discovered that I was experimenting with Djinnic Aetherology—that I was trying to replicate the knowledge that the Indrath Clan had slaughtered an entire civilization to suppress—he would end me.
'Justiciar,' Avicenna said, and his voice was gentle, almost tender, 'I still think that this knowledge can come to great help to you. Aether and mana share a deep bond. After all, it is aether that generates mana in the first place.'
You think I can transform the Alphabet into a mana equivalent? I asked, my mind racing.
'The Alphabet's language, its letters, only work for aether. But you, Justiciar, might be able to ignore that problem.'
My eyes widened. The Bubblespell above my finger trembled slightly, reacting to the surge of excitement that coursed through me. My Bubblespells—they were practically already suited to hold the Alphabet of Peace!
Bubbles of water magic that served to contain other types of magic. Or, bubbles of water ready to be inscribed with letters of power.
If I used REmould to change the language of the Alphabet into an equivalent for mana, I could recreate Avicenna's Lifework.
Avicenna, I said, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart, tell me about your spellform. Dictate its codex.
'With great pleasure, Justiciar.' Avicenna's voice was warm, eager, the voice of a teacher who had been waiting centuries for a student who was willing to listen. 'R, S, L, L, B, O, R—'
Wait, what?! I stopped him, utterly confused by his dictation. I had been joking when I said it reminded me of DNA, but this seemed very much like it.
"Letters" strung together in a sequence, each one standing for something else, each one building toward a whole.
'Apologies, let me explain. R, Ramdad, the Article of Balance; S, Sandand, the Article of Freedom; B, Breskan, the Article of Solidarity; L, Lelmoran, the Article of Unity; and O, Orvandal, the Article of Justice.'
Ramdad, Sandand? I asked, recognizing the names from other lessons about Djinnic history and culture. Are those the names of the Legal Bodies of Focularsa?
'Yes. Each Legal Body was formed and named after an Article.'
That means your name, then—Avicenna Artira of Balance, I said.
'Exactly.'
Let's get back to work, then, I said, and Avicenna began to dictate.
The letters came in a steady stream—R, S, L, B, O, sequences that built upon each other, layer after layer of meaning and intent. With each code, I tried to use REmould to transform it into a mana equivalent, to "engrave" the pattern inside the Bubblespell.
The water sphere rippled with each attempt, the surface shimmering, the light within shifting and changing.
'...S, O, B, and L.'
The Bubblespell began to spin above my fingertip. Faster and faster, a tiny vortex of water and light, and I felt something building within it, something vast and complex, something that I had only begun to understand.
And then—it exploded.
The pain was instantaneous, absolute—every nerve in my body screaming at once, every thought shattered into a million fragments.
And I died.