H - 142: Some People (Patreon)

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Emeralaphine was saying as Kaln entered the room.

“So you did, my lady,” Clarent agreed. “I never doubted your assessment. In my profession, one must be unreasonably thorough.”

“Yes, mine too,” she agreed with a grin. “Tests are worth conducting. And a good old ‘I told you so’ is one of life’s simple pleasures which I never deny myself.”

“I am pleased to have been of service,” Clarent said, grinning back.

He oozed charm when he wanted—which so far, Kaln had mostly seen when he was talking with Emeralaphine. He found no jealousy in himself about it; Clarent was very unlikely to have romantic designs on the White Wind, and she even less likely to entertain them. The old spymaster had just found the easiest way to handle her, which Kaln couldn’t begrudge him. Any measures were reasonable if they kept you off an elder dragon’s shit list.

“I thought the plan was to do this before Pheneraxa left,” he commented, stepping up to the group.

“It was,” Vanimax said dryly, “but she was fully preoccupied pretending not to be nervous about her trip, and I didn’t have the heart to give her guff over it. Anyway, Captain Tirial seems competent, and since Emeralaphine decided to supervise, well… Can’t really get better magical help than that.”

Emeralaphine smirked and raised her chin.

Both dragons were in their smaller forms; in the larger, Vanimax could fit in the Storyteller chamber easily enough, but Emeralaphine would have been uncomfortably crammed into every corner.

“So,” said Kaln, “I gather the experiment was unsuccessful?”

“That is not how experiments work, husband,” Emeralaphine said severely. “You try things and gather data; it only fails if something goes wrong that prevents an outcome. But yes, we have experimentally verified that Clarent’s idea for aggressive use of the Storyteller will not work. Which, again, I knew, but verification is still valuable.”

He nodded. “Walk me through the problem?”

“The Storyteller didn’t even react to being activated when I was in it,” Vanimax reported.

“I’ve never seen it do that before,” Captain Tirial added. “Usually it requires almost no guidance; I wouldn’t even know where to begin troubleshooting this thing.”

“Don’t try it,” Emeralaphine said testily. “And also, don’t repeat this experiment. We got away with it this time because it was an experiment. This machine reads histories and arranges information according to the intent of its user. Intent is very relevant in its function. Intent was baked into its very creation, and attempts to use it for anything but its intended purpose may cause…significant problems.”

Kaln nodded. “Can you go into more detail on that?”

“You are aware that magic comes ultimately from gods, husband. Some systems of magic require the direct permission of deities to use, and only in alignment with their purposes; some are purely mechanistic and respond to fixed conditions; some may be independently accessed but are contingent upon coherence with their creator deity’s values even if said deity does not deign to personally enforce them. Any magical construct of the complexity and intricacy of the Storyteller had some consideration of ethics involved in its creation.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “So we can’t use the Storyteller aggressively because that would be…immoral?”

“Morality is more relative than most people care to acknowledge,” said Clarent, earning very level looks from Tirial and Vanimax. “I gather it’s more accurate to say that we cannot use the Storyteller aggressively because that would be…against its principles.”

“Precisely,” said Emeralaphine. “I crafted it for the singular purpose of protecting us from the machinations of our enemies. Its purpose is unavoidably foundational to its function; it will not tolerate enabling our machinations against others. As I said, one experimental attempt should cause no ill effect precisely because the intent was to see what it would do. If we attempt in earnest to use it to encroach on the affairs of others… Actually, this thing is so complex that even as its creator I can’t be sure exactly what would happen, but there is a nonzero chance that it would begin actively resisting and even retaliating. And that setting that off even once might taint any future use. Trust me: the only thing more obnoxious than a machine which develops a personality is one that gets pissy.”

“Well, it’s good to have that settled, then,” said Kaln. “I don’t mind admitting this is something of a relief. The kind of power that would have represented is…terrifying.”

“Better to fear power than to lust for it,” said Emeralaphine, reaching out to brush her claws lightly through his hair. “Better still to see it as merely a tool and remain true to your own purpose.”

“It would have been an absolute game-changer for the profession,” Clarent said wistfully. “Ah, well. On balance, my lord, I think you are correct. This is probably for the best.”

“And not only because that would’ve made your entire profession obsolete right after you got this new job?” Vanimax said pointedly.

“Quite so,” Clarent replied with a grin. “I don’t feel ready to retire just yet.”

***

The most northeastern pass from Dragonvale led into mountainous territory claimed by no other polity for a significant distance; this untouched region, containing no significant resources and some of the continent’s most inhospitable terrain, was home to Shadrach Meshabedan’s tower and basically nothing else. Only the pass itself had ever contained any sign of civilization, and that was so old that the Valeri-era road was long since so overgrown and buried that it was lost to sight.

The Phantom Legion had done a lot of work in the last month.

There was a road again—Valereld’s roads were well-crafted and had deep foundations, and with the piled dirt and overbrush cleared off it proved still serviceable. Six hundred years later, many of the old Empire’s roads were still in use; after having spent much of that time buried, this one was actually in better condition now than most. More importantly, there was now a gate marking entry to the territory of the Dragonlord Ar-Kaln Zelekhir and his family.

At first they had erected a wooden palisade across the pass; over the intervening weeks a proper stone wall had gone up, and was now nearing completion. The gate housing itself was finished, with the stretches of wall extending to block the pass on both sides—still with temporary barricades of sharpened logs standing in front of the unfinished sections. As the Legion hadn’t yet sourced some resources including metal fittings, many details were still absent. There wasn’t even a proper gate, yet, with currently a sturdy portcullis of logs lashed together with rope serving in that role. It wouldn’t stop an army, but armies were the least of Dragonvale’s concerns.

This being the most remote pass, it saw the least traffic; there were fewer than a dozen individuals lined up outside the gate. They were more disheveled and weary than those at the other gates, however, as they’d come the longest distance through the harshest terrain.

What they found at the gates of Dragonvale was a strange blend of comforting and horrifying.

The Phantom Legion kept to the standards of Amaar-Darah; they were standards still upheld by Empress Izayaroa and now, by Dragonlord Kaln. Unnecessary suffering was not permitted on their watch. Even those not yet allowed into Dragonvale were being tended to. The space in front of the gate had been fully cleared, a few neat tents and lean-tos erected, and so there was now space for people to sit and rest. There was a small cooking tent and a medical station, providing for the immediate needs of the exhausted travelers.

All of it being administered by ghosts.

Valefolk were almost as used to undead as to dragons and liked them about as much. This lot in particular, though, had made the decision to come to Dragonvale and so were expecting to swallow old animosities in the hope for a better future. The ghosts were a surprise, but these were very distinct in their demeanor from the mindlessly hostile specters that regularly emerged from the Cryptlands. The Darashi ghosts were polite, efficient, and if anything, more compassionate than most of the authorities lower-class Valefolk lived under.

And so, there was still a line of people outside the gate, where the current applicant sat at a rough table across from a ghost conducting his entrance interview, as evening was falling. This was the mountains; the sky overhead was just barely tinged by the orange of sunset, but it was fully dark this deep in the narrow chasm which formed the pass. The Phantom Legion had set up enough torches to provide ample light, and the flickering orange of it was a cheery contrast to their own cold blue glow.

It was into this odd setting that a new nightmare came around the bend.

The Legionaries on guard went to full alert the instant she appeared on the road, rounding the foot of the mountain. It was their change in demeanor which alerted the refugees, who otherwise might not have noticed anything until she was almost upon them.

The animals were another matter. A horse who had been ridden and two donkeys pulling carts went into a panic; they were already on edge around the ghosts. So were the three dogs present, of whom one found the courage to stand protectively in front of her master while the other two whined and hid behind human legs. Three chickens in a cage in the back of a handcart began squawking and flapping furiously about.

Some of the refugees were thus fully occupied trying to calm and control their animal companions, but the rest shrank back in instinctive fear as she walked past them.

It was hard to say at a glance what was wrong with the lone walker, save that perhaps her brownish-gray hair was an odd color, and that her ragged cloak and rusted chain mail suggested a person who might be desperate. Or that she carried her long staff at her side, not using it as a walking aid. Her demeanor was certainly calm and the farthest thing from threatening; in fact, she turned her head to smile and nod politely to the people she passed.

That did it. The torchlight reflected from her eyes like a mountain lion’s, in an uncertain color that didn’t belong on that human face.

As the strange woman neared the gate, the ghost behind the table paused his discussion, turning to regard her, and the man across from him looked up, did a double-take, and began trying to shuffle sideways in his chair away from her.

She only came to a stop, finally, when another ghost flashed in front of her, the puff of mist resolving into a uniformed figure standing at attention.

“Good evening,” he said in his eerily resonant voice. “Welcome to Dragonvale.”

“How courteous.” The woman’s voice was…strangely normal. “Thank you kindly.”

The Legionary gestured diffidently at the people waiting. “If you would please step to the end of the line, we will be with you as quickly as possible.”

The line of refugees surreptitiously backed away.

The woman glanced at them, then back at the ghost. “I…beg your pardon?”

“Applicants for asylum and citizenship are being interviewed on a first come, first served basis,” the ghost said courteously. “The wait is not long.”

Another silence hung.

“Are you…serious?” the woman in rags finally asked.

“If you have a particular status which necessitates a different procedure, please do so inform us,” he said. “Are you a representative from a national government, major religious institution, or trading or adventuring guild with operations in more than five sovereign states.”

She stared at him.

He gazed placidly back.

“I am not,” she said at last. “None of those.”

The ghost nodded. “If you are experiencing a medical emergency, please step over to the first aid tent. We will administer such treatment as is possible in the field and, if necessary, convey you to a more powerful healer.”

Another Legionary flickered into being in the open doorway of the tent at which he gestured, saluting.

The woman in rags looked at her, then back at him.

“I am…fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Splendid,” the Legionary replied, his meaningless, implacable smile not altering by an iota. “Please join the line, and you will be seen as quickly as possible.”

She stared at him. Then turned her head to look at the line, causing everyone in it to flinch. Then looked back at him.

“If lines are an institution not practiced in your homeland,” he said pleasantly, “it is customary to join them at the rear.”

She stared at him.

“In the interest of fairness,” he added after a moment.

Her uncanny eyes now remained fixed upon the ghost’s face, projecting the full force of her unearthly presence. He stared back with the relentless patience of the dead.

Finally, the ghost behind the table, with a quick and quiet word of apology to the man across from him, rose and stepped over to join them. At his approach, the other soldier flickered to one side, saluting.

“Good evening,” said the new ghost, who wore a lieutenant’s stripes on his spectral sleeve. “Is there some problem?”

The woman with the staff shifted her stare to him, and now she was actively projecting weight into it. The world seemed almost to deform, as if the intensity of her regard were affecting its very shape.

“I am not accustomed to people standing in my way,” she stated. “Few are so imprudent as to even attempt it.”

“In the vast complexity of the universe,” the lieutenant said evenly, “even the most ancient of us are eventually surprised.”

Finally she narrowed her eyes in the first outward sign of annoyance.

“I gather that you object to waiting in line,” he said. “By what standing do you presume yourself more important than those who arrived before you, and have had the courtesy to comply with procedure?”

“At this point, I know you are being glib,” she said, her voice sharpening. “A creature such as you recognizes a creature such as I from mere proximity. You are the first foolish enough to dare defy me.”

“A creature such as I serves the Dragonlord, and have been entrusted with the security of his borders. If you wish to apply for asylum or citizenship, or believe your personal business to warrant the Dragonlord’s direct attention or that of any of his consorts, you will not be denied entry. You will, however, comply with security procedures first.”

“Enough,” she snapped. “I am kin to this new self-styled lord of Dragonvale by virtue of divine lineage, and I am a traveler upon the weary road. I claim guest right.”

“Then it shall be honored,” said the lieutenant, holding out his left hand. A spectral book appeared in it, open to a passage at which he now glanced. “Dragonvale’s border controls acknowledge the ancient law of hospitality, and may apply special status to beings constrained by this to the exclusion of mortal laws. Do you vow by your soul, pledged to be held by the strength of the oldest law, that you come meaning no ill and will do no harm to this home or its inhabitants, to be embraced by their largesse and share in their defense until you part once more as friends?”

Surprise won over the irritation on her face. “I…that is…a more obscure interpretation than I…”

“It is difficult to tell from mere proximity, but I believe I am older than you,” he replied. “You have invoked the ancient law, and Dragonvale shall honor it. Speak your vow of friendship and you shall be welcome to this land.”

“I was told by the wind that a new cousin of our lineage has emerged. I have come to take his measure and determine what I shall do about this. To make a pledge to an unknown quantity is out of the question.”

“By the ancient law which you invoked, one who refuses to honor hospitality is not entitled to guest right. By the modern procedures of national border control, anyone attempting to enter sovereign territory at any location other than a legal crossing will be immediately detained, brought to the legal crossing, and put through normal intake procedures. I am required by policy to advise you that in Dragonvale, illegal entry is a misdemeanor for which there is no punishment, and fleeing custody is not a crime at all as it is deemed universal instinct for all thinking creatures to dread confinement. You would thus not be punished for entering the country illegally, unless you committed some other crime in the process. You would, however, be brought back here and compelled to get in the line.”

“I have had enough of this nonsense.” She took two steps back from him; the intensity of her presence gathered, until it seemed the force of gravity itself had increased upon the spot where she stood, tilting the world toward her. Shifting her grip on her staff, she brought it up held diagonally across her front. “Whatever thing you may be, whomever you claim to serve, gods are not to be defied by the likes of you.”

A shadow shifted—a reflection, as of a moonbeam, or the first touch of winter’s frost. It did not appear, fully, but was suggested, outlined, springing from the upper tip of her staff. A crescent shape marked by that faint distortion, of a thing not fully present but hinted at as by the reflection of water, or glass.

The blade of a scythe.

The lieutenant stared at her impassively for a slow count of five.

Then he snapped shut the book in his hand. It made a sharp clap which rang from the surrounding cliffsides, the echoes rebounding as they faded into ominous whispers.

Now, the Phantom Legionary also permitted open annoyance into his tone.

“Lady, look at me. I want you to look into my eyes and ask yourself: ‘Is this guy afraid of death?’”

Behind him, an entire row of Legionaries flashed into position, fully blocking the gate and the whole wall, with shields upraised and spears planted upright. Above them, another rank materialized atop the wall—even the unfinished parts—with bows and wands at the ready. All weapons were held in neutral positions, not aimed.

For now.

She didn’t even glance at them. The ghost and the goddess locked eyes, silently matching wills.

“You have now refused to honor the law of hospitality,” the lieutenant finally stated coldly, “and threatened Dragonvale’s border security by implication. These are grounds for denial of entry. If you now enter without permission, it will be as an invader and all of Dragonvale’s forces will move to answer the threat you have chosen to represent. I recommend you think about what that means, and whether whatever you’re trying to do is worth it.”

Slowly, she relaxed her posture; slowly, she lowered the staff again to her side. As it shifted away from the odd nexus of light, the hint of a blade melted from view like a dream.

“I do not believe this,” the lone goddess of death said to no one in particular. “All these years, I have walked unchallenged throughout this land. I have come here over mountains and under lakes, through forest and river, undaunted and unhindered in a straight line to meet my young cousin… Only to be thwarted at the last minute by a bureaucrat with a rulebook.”

“Ain’t that always the way,” commented a particularly brave fellow still waiting in line.

“Papa, hsssht!” hissed a younger woman beside him, tugging at his sleeve.

“So it is, friend,” said the goddess, giving him a rueful smile. “So it is. Well then, soldier. I cannot say otherwise than that you serve your master with honor and diligence. Tell him of my visit. One way or another, he and I shall converse in good time.”

Turning, she walked away.

Not back up the path: she went right for one of the cliff walls bordering the pass. The assembled refugees and ghosts watched as she simply changed orientation from one step to the next and strode right up the vertical rock wall. They continued watching in silence until she had crested the peak above.

The lieutenant indulged in a quiet sigh and the book in his hand dissipated back into mist. “Report this to the Commander.”

“Sir!” The first soldier who had stepped forward saluted, then streamed away toward the dragons’ lair in a luminous puff.

The lieutenant returned to the table and seated himself with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about all that. Some people just don’t think rules apply to them. Now, where were we?”