The knight dressed in black reached the corner of the street, and stepped into the pool of light beneath the flickering gaslit lamp. Across the street, he surveyed his destination. Sweeping, gothic arches constructed of black stone framed countless tall, curtained windows up and up the manor’s massive face. Silver lanterns hung across the main door and several high balconies, shedding their soft, ethereal light. Corner towers loomed large, topped with high conical spirals, but what stood out the most was the tall central tower, a huge glowing clock displaying the time.
The knight pulled out a silver pocket watch, and compared the time with that on the clock above.
They’re the same. 8:27. I’m right on time.
Good thing, too.
He pocketed the watch and looked back on the city. At this time of night, it wasn’t all that lively, especially in this more remote district, but there were plenty of lights twinkling across the skyline, a sea of artificial stars illuminating the night.
He hadn’t planned on coming back here, to Ars Moran, the capital city of the kingdom. Not for much, much longer.
At his side, his companion whined softly, catching onto his mood. The knight looked down at his companion — a twenty-five pound dog with short fur, pointed ears, and a fluffy, curly tail. The dog looked back up at him, pale blue eyes watching closely. The curly tail dipped slightly.
“We’re just passing through,” the knight said in a gentle voice. “And this job’s worth the detour. At least… as long as it pans out.” He looked back up at the manor. The job paid exorbitantly. And all for… well. The description had certainly been strange — and vague. But the Captain had vouched for the job’s legitimacy. There was hope, yet.
“All right, then,” the knight in black murmured. He started across the street, his companion padding along beside him. The manor’s large front doors bore a chessboard pattern, with etched symbols of various pieces, and the large silver knocker was styled like the queen on a chess board.
But no — the knight realized he was mistaken. The knocker wasn’t made of silver. It was something similar, but not the same. The hum of magic that he could feel in the air around it when he reached for it confirmed that. A very specific kind of magic.
This material couldn’t be found in Albia. It could only be found…
The black knight knocked with the knocker, three times. It had a clear, sturdy sound, and he could faintly hear it echoed more strongly inside the manor. A resonance, not just of sound, but of magic.
He only had to wait three seconds before the soft click of a lock, and then the doors swung inward. Standing in the doorway was a dapper gentleman, probably in his fifties or sixties, tall and rail-thin. A high forehead met a dark widow’s peak, hair slicked back expertly, streaked here and there with grey. Angular, intelligent eyes looked out from behind a pair of round pince-nez perched on a sharp, narrow nose. He wore a white, collared shirt and black tie beneath a wine-red waistcoat — the white chain of a watch could be seen from one of the pockets. Black slacks, impeccably pressed, led down to shiny white shoes.
One curiosity — his cuff links. On the left wrist, a tiny black-rimmed looking glass. On the right, a tiny white book with black lettering too small to be read without a magnifying lens.
“Ah,” the man said in a clear tenor, neither face nor voice betraying any emotion. “You must be Obsidian.”
The knight nodded, removing from his coat pocket his Chivalric Marque — proof of his identity.
“Yes, all seems to be in order,” the man said, reading over the Marque. There was a lilt in his accent, a rolling of his r’s, a musical rhythm and pattern to his speech. Not from Albia, then. Or perhaps his story was like the knight’s. “Thank you for coming. I am Mister Carroll. The Lady is upstairs. The East Wing, third floor, third door on your left.”
Mister Carroll stepped aside and ushered the knight — and his dog, to whom he spared a small smile — into the manor. Once both were inside, the man shut and locked the door behind them.
The entrance hall was grand, marvelously grand, the kind of entrance hall meant for welcoming huge groups of dignified invitees to grand, marvelous parties on a regular basis. But the knight in black knew this manor didn’t see such social activity. Yet the entire space was dusted, polished, cleaned on every surface to perfection. White tiled floors led to an elegant, sweeping staircase — also tiled, which was a rare sight — that went straight up, with three landings from which halls swept outward on higher floors. There were tall doorways to either side on the ground floor, leading out to the rest of the house, but the knight had no interest in those. He started up the stairs, his dog padding along beside him, gazing all about excitedly. He clearly desired to sniff and explore the manor, but he stayed loyally with his knight.
They reached the third floor, and turned left into the East Wing. At the start of the hall, the knight noticed a small golden bell attached to the wall, with its chain dangling quite low, well within reach for a child to ring.
There were no decorations, no ornamentations. The walls were bare save for a clock at the end of the hall, and the bell that the knight passed. Down the hall, past one black door, then a second, to the third door — a white door. On it was a simple sign engraved in silver that read: Alice.
The knight raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touched the door, the voice of a young girl sounded from within. “Come in,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice.
The knight paused, only a moment. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a child’s room, full of toys and books packed onto shelves and spread across the floor. The mess was intriguing, because there was a certain order to it, and it wasn’t due to neglect. The shelves were full to bursting; several chests as well were full to bursting. There simply wasn’t enough space in this room to properly store all that was contained within. Toys and dolls on the floor were arranged in different units, spaces, and formations. Books were stacked neatly against the walls, against furniture, and even atop one very plush armchair and a writing desk, all arranged, it seemed, by an individualized system based on genre, author, and subject matter.
In the center of the controlled chaos, reclining on a white chaise longue, was a child.
She couldn’t have been older than eight, yet she had a look in her eyes, a hint in her posture and bearing, that suggested she was wiser than her years. She was dressed in white and black — white knee-length dress, black belt, black bolero jacket, white stockings, black shoes — and had a rather fair complexion, suiting her long, golden curls and big blue eyes well. In each ear were small stud earrings, silver, in the shape of books. On her jacket’s collar was a silver pin in the shape of a looking glass.
She smiled at the knight, a smile full of mischief and excitement. “Welcome,” she said, sitting up and placing her hands in her lap. “Obsidian.”
——
Alice watched the knight with a smile.
Oh. They might have actually sent someone useful this time.
“Welcome, Obsidian,” she said after the knight had closed the door behind him. She looked him over, head to toe. He was shorter than she’d expected, with shoulders and posture suggesting a lean, taut musculature beneath his long coat and high-collared shirt. He was dressed all in black — a long black coat over a black vest over a black shirt, with black pants, black boots, black fingerless gloves. He had a black leather rucksack slung from one shoulder. A few black pouches hung from a black belt, and the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side — and the sheath itself — were black as well. The knight even had black hair. That would have been taking things a bit too far, but there were splashes of color, as well. One color: silver. Silver buttons, small bits of silver ornamentation, and silver zippers — curious. Zippers were still quite new. Alice wasn’t used to seeing them yet. The knight’s skin was fair, though, in contrast to his dark hair, and his eyes were a bright, clear blue, like the sky on a cloudless summer afternoon. For his dark stature and his serious demeanor, those eyes hinted at something cheerful and bright somewhere deep below the surface.
Curious.
“I can see where you get your Knightly Title,” she said, smirking at the knight. She noticed that nowhere on his attire was the insignia of his Knightly Order. Curious.
“It’s not for my attire,” the knight said. His voice was curious, too — for his serious, almost dour, expression, there was a bit of a boyish charm in his voice. It was higher than she expected, a tenor instead of a baritone, and clear, not gruff or gravelly like she might have predicted. He spoke seriously, business-like, but there was that undercurrent, just like in his expression — he wasn’t all business. He wasn’t all seriousness. Not deep down.
The knight reached to his side, and Alice leaned forward, watching in awed delight as the knight drew his sword. It sang, a somewhat somber, mournful tone, as it left the sheath. She gasped softly.
The sword was beautiful. A two-handed weapon, not only were the hilt and crossguard black, but the blade itself was black, glittering and shining like refined volcanic glass.
Like obsidian.
Up its blade were engravings, mixtures of Elysian lyrics and musical notes along lines that formed a musical staff.
Curious, indeed.
“Well, now,” Alice said, planting her feet on the floor but remaining seated. “I should have you know that there have been fifteen other knights before you who accepted this assignment, only to be dismissed shortly afterwards. They weren’t up to the task. They were boring, or annoying, or incompetent, or a mix of all three, which simply won’t do. Tell me, Obsidian —” she leaned forward again, eyeing him with a challenge, “you already knew all of this. So why did you accept the task? What makes you think you’re worthy of it?”
“It was a task for one, rather than a team,” the knight said, sheathing his sword. He was left-handed, another detail Alice enjoyed. “I prefer to work alone. And I’d heard the reports, and know the knights who have failed you in the past.” Alice quite liked how he phrased that — the knights who had failed her, not the knights she had dismissed. It was, after all, their fault that they’d been dismissed. “I know that you wish to go to Wonderia, and you want a guide. I’m the best for this task.”
The way he spoke carried no braggadocio, no arrogance. He spoke plainly and calmly, his voice even and somewhat soft, no hard edges to it.
He’s used to speaking bluntly and openly. He doesn’t talk around things, he doesn’t try to play the game. But he isn’t rude, unkind, or mean-spirited, either.
If he can back up his claims with skill and intelligence, then he’ll do quite nicely.
“Your accent,” Alice said, cocking her head to the side. “You’re from Westgard, aren’t you?” The knight nodded. “A long way from home, then. I haven’t met many from Westgard. Do you miss it?”
“No,” the knight said, simply, calmly.
Alice smiled. “But you’re rather well-traveled, aren’t you?” she asked. “There’s a touch of —”
Suddenly, Alice stopped.
The knight wasn’t alone. She’d been so focused on him that she’d completely missed — completely ignored — the steady, soft tail-wagging happening down beside him, and the pale blue eyes that watched Alice intently, interested, curious.
“You have a friend!” Alice said, slipping off of the couch to kneel on the floor. She held out her arms. “Come to me, sweet doggy! Let’s be friends!”
The dog’s tail wagged faster, but he looked up at the knight. The knight’s lips quirked in the faintest of smiles, and he nodded. The dog came over, trotting quite politely, all tail-wags and curious sniffing as he reached Alice. Alice laughed, giggled, petted the dog all over — he was so soft — and she only laughed with greater delight when he gave her lovely warm kisses on her nose and cheeks. “Oh yes, thank you,” she said. “What a kind, polite doggy. And what’s your name?” She searched for a collar, but there was none, no tag in sight.
“Flynn,” the knight said.
“Flynn, hmm?” Alice asked, ruffling the dog’s face, stroking his ears. “You’re quite a lovely creature, aren’t you? Such a fetching coloration.” It was true. Flynn had a gorgeous coat of reddish-brown, white at the tips of his ears, the base of his paws, and along his neck down to his chest and tummy. It was as Flynn rolled over to accept tummy rubs that Alice noticed a strange, jagged line running from Flynn’s right side, near his front right leg, back and down across his stomach. No fur grew along that thin line. “What happened here?” she asked.
“He saved my life,” the knight said, soft, gentle pride in his voice, mingled with distant sorrow and regret. He said no more on the subject, and Alice, for all her curiosity, didn’t press.
He likes his privacy, and guards his secrets. Which means he’ll be good at protecting the secrets of others.
“And you?” Alice asked, finally pulling her eyes away from the wonderful dog to the knight before her. “I can’t go around calling you ‘Obsidian’ all day. Don’t you have a name?”
“Tobias,” the knight said.
“Tobias…” Alice let the name rest in her mind, juggled it around in her thoughts as she looked over the knight. “Hmm. Perhaps.”
Tobias didn’t ask any questions, and Alice didn’t elaborate.
“Now, then,” she said, rising back to the chaise longue, letting Flynn return to Tobias’ side. “Do you understand your task?”
“I’m to serve as your knight-protector, to guide and guard you through Wonderia,” Tobias said. “Though I don’t know exactly where it is you wish to go. Knowing that would be helpful if I’m to be your guide.”
“And how well do you know Wonderia, Tobias?” Alice asked, testing his name further. It felt very much like perhaps, not so much like definitely. Interesting.
“I lived there,” Tobias said. His eyes were so calm, so steady, betraying very little, if anything at all. “For almost fifteen years.”
Ah. That explains that more curious part of his accent. There’s more there that I’m not sure about, but there’s a distinctive lilt now and then, especially in those r’s. Very Wonderian.
“This is perfect!” Alice leapt to her feet. “Well, then. You’re going to be my guide. I need the very best. After all — we’re going somewhere that everyone thinks is lost. To the place that no one’s been able to find for so long, people are starting to believe it never existed at all.” Alice smiled as she saw the faintest flicker of surprise — and excitement — in Tobias’ eyes. “Yes. You and I are going…
“…to Elysia.”
——
Guinevere was packing.
Well, not really packing. She’d done the packing several days ago. But the day she’d packed for had arrived, so she was double-checking, triple-checking, everything down to the smallest detail.
But she was tamping down on her excitement. Because she knew how the night would go, knew the order of events that had to happen for her to achieve her aims. She couldn’t let her excitement show, not until the time was right.
So, she was making an attempt at sulking.
Which would have been natural any other day. There wasn’t very much else to do other than sulk, was there? There hadn’t been much else to do for so very, very long. Her lavish, spacious bedroom — the most beautiful cage in the world — was filled to bursting with bookshelves stuffed with books.
Guinevere adored books. But she’d read them all. Every single one on every single shelf, at least a dozen times each.
And even when she was let out of this cage, it was under strict supervision, going to pre-planned locations for pre-planned activities under a pre-planned schedule.
There were wonderful people here. Very few of them, but they were here. And there were moments of fun and joy, sprinkled in amongst all the relentless monotony and endless restrictions. She might even miss some of it.
But not enough to take actual joy in this place. Not enough to stop her from leaving.
A knock came at the door. Guinevere shoved her pack under her bed and then rolled onto her bed, hastily adjusting her long, magnificent, beautiful skirts — she had to admit to their beauty, though their beauty was a shame when she had nowhere to go to show it off. She tugged them lower, pulled in her legs, made sure even her feet were covered. It wouldn’t do to give the game away, after all.
Another knock. That sharp, energetic rap on the wood that could only belong to one set of knuckles.
Mother.
“Guinevere, darling, are you still sleeping?” came her mother’s voice through the door.
Guinevere said nothing. What would be the point in replying? She knew, whether she spoke or remained silent, whether she was sleeping or wide awake, if her mother was here, there would always be the same outcome.
A weary sigh, a sigh that Guinevere mimicked, predicted, did perfectly in time with her mother. She knew that sigh far too well. And her mother was nothing if not a creature of routine. “Open the door,” her mother said, but not to her. There were several clicks, the sliding of bolts, a whole series of unlockings that really was overkill of the highest degree.
There was a tiny voice in the back of Guinevere’s mind — conscience, some called it, such an absurd notion — which reminded Guinevere that those locks were, at least partially, her own fault.
If you hadn’t attempted to run away seven different times — and succeeded, albeit temporarily, twice — this wouldn’t be such a tightly locked and jealously guarded cage.
Oh, shut up, Guinevere told her conscience, just in time for the absurdly long unlocking procedures to finish and the door to open, revealing her mother.
She strode to Guinevere’s bedside with impeccable elegance, a being of unmatched grace and beauty. She was, quite simply, the perfect member of high society, and every motion, every word, every perfect curl of her hair and perfect seam of her dress, told that same story. She perched delicately on the edge of Guinevere’s bed just as the knights outside closed the door and locked it tight again, a process that took over half a minute.
“Guinevere, darling —” her mother always spoke her name the same way, as if her name existed in those two inseparable pieces, “— won’t you stop sulking?”
“Won’t you give me something better to do?” Guinevere asked, peeking out through the orange curls that buried her face.
“For starters, stop letting your hair cover your face.” Her mother reached out to brush Guinevere’s hair away, but Guinevere slid back and did it herself.
“I quite like my hair on my face,” she said. “What’s the point of having the softest, most luxurious locks in all the realm if I can’t enjoy their touch on my skin?” She tossed her head haughtily. All she got was the usual response from her mother — a long-suffering sigh.
She was so dreadfully sick of that sigh.
“You know, today is a very special day,” her mother said, perfectly composed. “It’s the start of your birthday celebrations. And twenty-five is a very significant year.”
Guinevere suppressed a derisive snort. It would be tremendously unladylike. As much as it would delight her to frustrate her mother, she did like to maintain a certain measure of ladylike grace.
She was, after all, a lady. The specifics of her personal definition of that term simply differed from her mother’s in significant ways.
“Not just mine, mother dearest,” Guinevere said with acidic mock sweetness. “And there is precious little to celebrate ever since he disappeared.”
“He was killed, Guinevere, darling.” Her mother’s tone was ice. “Hope is a marvelous thing, one of the great virtues, but it must line up with reality. It’s been ten years. Please… let him go.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” Guinevere glared daggers at her mother. “Am I not the Promised Queen? Was he not the Promised King? And what am I without the Promised King? A promise, nothing more, a beautiful promise locked in a beautiful cage. What should I celebrate? You letting me out of my tiny cage to a slightly larger one, for people to fawn over me and make nice, treating me like some beautiful, delicate doll? No, I will not be celebrating my birthday this year, Mother dearest. I will remain in my tiny cage, until the impossible happens. Because it is only if the impossible happens that I can be free again, that I can live like an actual person again.” Her mother opened her mouth to speak and Guinevere cut her off. “Don’t, Mother dearest, don’t speak. You don’t understand. You never could, never even tried, and I really am quite tired of these infuriating little chats we have. Talking in circles, round and round, never changing, just like my tiny little world here. Leave me, Mother dearest, please. I am quite content sulking alone. I find it preferable.”
Her mother surprised her, slightly. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t glare at her, didn’t even argue. She actually looked — dare Guinevere believe it? — like she was sorry.
But she stood, without a word, and knocked thrice on the door. The unlocking process began. Before it was finished, she said over her shoulder, “I do wish you’d let him go, Guinevere, darling.”
And then the door was open, and her mother was gone, and Guinevere was alone.
Blissfully, wonderfully alone.
Well. Not entirely alone.
“Come on out, Ava,” she said, laying on her back, stretching her legs and arms out wide. Out from behind one of the bookcases wriggled a beautiful white pointy-eared dog with a fluffy curled tail. She leapt up onto the bed, gazing at Guinevere with eyes like dark pools that drowned away all of Guinevere’s worries.
“She doesn’t say so, but I do believe your disdain for Mother rather upsets her,” Guinevere said, stroking Ava behind the ears. Ava lay down beside her, resting her head in the crook of Guinevere’s arm. “Though really, if she knew any better, she’d realize it’s her own fault.”
Ava was the calmest, sweetest creature in the whole world, a lovely and loyal companion who had come to Guinevere seemingly out of nowhere on the morning of her fifteenth birthday. The little white pup had just trotted up out of the woods, with a collar around her neck bearing a glittering silver tag that simply said: “For Guinevere.”
The best day of her life. And the worst, wrapped in one. It was that very night, at the stroke of midnight, that the news had come.
Artorius, the Promised King, her betrothed, had been killed.
Or so they said. But there was no body. The royal funeral they had held for him — ironic that they gave him a king’s funeral when he was years away from being properly crowned — had carried a ceremonial casket, empty.
Guinevere shook her head, shaking off the ghosts of the past. Truthfully, a small part of her did still believe, as she had then, that Artorius was alive, out there somewhere. Hiding? Running? Fighting those who had attempted to claim his life?
But her plans for today weren’t because of those hopes. No. She couldn’t spend her life pining for her betrothed, the man who’d once been a boy and her very best friend in the whole world. If he hadn’t returned to her after ten years…
He wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t believe it.
But she had stopped believing that he’d come back to her.
No, her plans for today were entirely personal. She eyed the clock on the wall.
8:27.
Three more minutes. That’s all she needed. Then the time would come.
“It’s time to get ready, sweet girl,” Guinevere said, kissing Ava on the star-shaped mark. Ava rose, energetic and prepared, knowing what was afoot. They’d gone over it a thousand times, planned and prepared and practiced for months.
Guinevere undid her dress, dropped bodice and skirts to the floor in a casual tumble. Now she stood in boots, breeches, and a duelist’s blouse. She pulled on a dueling jacket, checked the laces on her boots, and then reached under her bed and pulled out the pack she’d been checking, stuffed with all that she’d need for the journey. One last time, the last chance she’d ever get, she went through all of its contents with practiced familiarity, checking that all was in order.
Gloves. Changes of clothes. Various tools, equipment, and personal necessities for the journey. Notebooks, writing utensils, drawing utensils. Money. Books — two for study, and two of her favorites for recreational reading.
The most important piece of all was one of those books, a tome that her mother didn’t know she owned. It was an instructional volume on glyph artes, and Guinevere had read it cover-to-cover more times than she could count. She smiled to see that it was there, then held up her left hand, pressed middle finger and thumb together. With a thought, a mere effort of practiced will, a gleaming purple glyph appeared, lines tracing within a circle to form the symbol she desired.
Her smile deepened. Oh, yes. She was ready.
She let her fingers come apart and dismissed the glyph. She checked the clock. 8:29. The second hand was tick-tocking its way to 8:30.
“Here we go,” Guinevere said. Ava rubbed against her leg, wagging her tail gently.
The clock chimed once for the half hour, and a series of taps sounded on the door.
The time had come.
“Promised Queen,” came the voice of Lancelot. Barely nineteen years old, he was one of the youngest Knights of the Promise. Endlessly loyal, a kind and soft-spoken little sweetheart who trusted her without restriction.
He was so easy.
“It’s time for the changing of the guard,” Lancelot continued. “And we’ve brought your nighttime snack.”
Guinevere’s mouth watered. She did so love the sweets they sent up at 8:30 every night.
“Yes, thank you,” she said calmly. The unlocking process began.
Guinevere placed middle finger and thumb together. The circle formed, the size of a currency coin, gleaming violet. Lines traced within the bounds of the circle, forming the glyph she needed.
The unlocking process ended. The door opened.
Guinevere smiled.
And snapped her fingers.
Light was stolen from the world.
All was plunged into sudden, total, suffocating darkness. Lancelot cried out, and his fellow guards shouted in shock and dismay, too.
It took them three whole seconds to raise the alarm.
By that point, Guinevere and Ava, the only ones who could see in this crushing, absolute darkness, were well on their way. When Guinevere passed Lancelot out the door, she plucked the tray of sweets from his hands and ran with it, fighting not to crow with triumphant laughter.
Freedom. It was here, and it was exhilarating. She nearly danced as she ran, finding the huge portrait of her mother and father, sliding a panel beside it to open one of the numerous hidden passages in the Queen’s Manor that would lead her…
Outside.
Oh, blessed outside!
Down the stone corridor of the secret passage Guinevere and Ava ran, on and on, as bells clanged and clamored the warning that something — no one knew what, yet, bless their ignorant, slow-witted little hearts — had gone wrong. That the Promised Queen was in danger.
And it was true.
I’m in more danger than ever. Free, and flying to further freedom!
But danger is what I want. Danger is what I crave.
I can’t have freedom, I can’t have this adventure, I can’t see my wish come true, without danger.
And she was going to have her wish come true. She wasn’t just leaving the manor and running away, oh no. She was going to find that lost land, the land that was hers by right, the land that made wishes come true, no matter how great, no matter how huge, the wish might be.
She was going to Elysia.
——
Roland sat bent over the café table, deep into his research.
He really shouldn’t be working on this. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that right now was not the time for personal research. He had a mountain of actual assignments with actual deadlines to complete, and a small army of professors, researchers, colleagues, and mid-level Tuners who would be very cross with him if he did not complete that work.
But he was so close! After his self-imposed and definitely-not-officially-sanctioned sabbatical, he’d finally come back to this project, and everything had started falling into place.
If only he’d figured it all out sooner. If only he’d understood what he was lacking sooner.
Then he wouldn’t have failed. Then his Teacher wouldn’t have…
Regrets won’t solve these problems, Roland. Regrets kept you away from these answers for far too long.
For his memory. For your own atonement. You mustn’t shrink back now.
This was part of why Roland had taken his work to the café. Café Somnus was a wonderful little place by the Miridian River that ran through the center of Ars Moran. It was a favorite of his with the most tantalizing vanilla éclairs and aromatic, soothing rosehip tea.
But he especially loved Café Somnus for the fact that it was on the opposite side of the city from the Tower, and the Academy. His colleagues, his mentors, the professors — none of them ever came here. He could work in peace, in a quiet corner by the window. The staff here knew him, and he knew them, and he could even hold a decent and friendly conversation with them, a personal accomplishment that he was quite proud of.
Conversing was dreadfully difficult.
So he was here, in his favorite corner of his favorite café in, quite honestly, his favorite part of the city, working on his own personal research rather than the mountain of actual work he needed to finish.
In other words, a fairly typical weekend afternoon for Roland.
Faint voices of the past spoke in the back of his mind, old lines he’d heard too many times to count: “You’ll never get a promotion if you keep that up,” “This is why Professor Harlond thinks you’re lazy,” “This is why you’re only a Second Level Tuning Assistant,” and so on, and so forth.
Perhaps I like being a Second Level Tuning Assistant. It keeps me far away from the political squabbles at the higher positions. And it lets me — usually — fade into the background.
The easier it is for people to pay me no mind, the happier I can be.
As he worked, Roland faintly absorbed the scattered chatter and conversation happening throughout the café. It was all rather soft, comforting background noise. No one got into any arguments around here — it was a favorite retreat for elderly ladies, retirees, and the North Quarter Literature Society. All of whom were very polite, soft-spoken, imaginative individuals.
Roland’s type of people.
But there was something strange today. The kinds of voices he hadn’t heard in Café Somnus in a very long time.
Children’s voices.
“Excuse us, madame,” said a young girl. Roland didn’t lift his eyes to look, but judging from the voice, the girl couldn’t possibly be older than eleven or twelve. She was very well-spoken for her age, though, soft-spoken and polite. And she had a bit of an accent, something Roland couldn’t quite place. It was subtle, but a trained ear could tell that the child wasn’t from the Leucen Kingdom. Westgard, perhaps, or the Cyril Republic.
“Oh? What is it, dearie?” asked an elderly lady that Roland knew just by the sound of her voice: Lady Margaret Abershire, head of the North Quarter Literature Society. The Society wasn’t meeting at the café today, but Lady Abershire came here often on her own.
“Do you have a wish?” the girl asked. Roland still wasn’t watching, but his ears certainly perked up at the word wish. “My brother and I are chronicling the wishes of the people to take to Elysia.”
Elysia.
Now Roland did lift his eyes. In the center of the café, at Lady Abershire’s regular table, two children — about seven or eight years old, as Roland had thought — were standing, looking up at the dignified, respectable lady. It was a girl and a boy, very likely twins. They looked the exact same age, and had similar curly platinum-blonde, almost silvery, hair, worn fairly short, and clear green eyes that even from across the café were striking in their brilliance. The presumed twins were even dressed identically, in white tunics over white pants, and white shoes. There were white, feathery ornaments dangling from the ends of their sleeves, and they also had jade ear ornaments that curved to fit the outside of their ear, from which dangled white feathers. The girl had out a large journal, which she stood poised to write in with a white fountain pen.
“A wish?” Lady Abershire asked, sounding positively delighted. “Elysia? Gracious! Are you and your brother going to take the wishes of the entire world to Elysia?”
“Yes, madame,” the girl said, smiling. “The journey to Elysia is long and hard, and few can make it. We want to do what we can for all those who will never see Elysia.”
“Such darlings,” Lady Abershire said, a hand to her chest. “Well, if a wish is what you want, a wish I do have. My wish is to see every child in the world learn to read, and to learn to love reading. That is my most fervent desire.”
“That is a wonderful wish!” the girl said, her eyes glittering with delight. She swiftly wrote the wish in her journal. “Thank you. We will be certain to see your wish fulfilled in Elysia.”
Just then, the door to the café burst open, hard enough that the bell which would ring to announce arrivals was ripped free of its mooring and went flying, skidding across the floor with a shrill, pathetic warbling, until it came to a rest at Roland’s feet.
Two men entered the café, dressed in long, hooded coats of sinister scarlet. Masks covered their faces completely, painted masks depicting predatory, ferocious faces from out of some fiendish nightmare.
Each of them bore a golden, segmented gauntlet on their right hand, which held a tiny crystal in a small cage.
“Surrender to us this instant, you wicked little children!” the man in the lead announced in a muffled, gravelly voice. He raised his gauntlet, and the complex sigil on the palm glowed faintly with golden light, superheating the caged crystal.
“Good heavens!” Lady Abershire cried, and then promptly fainted on the spot. The barista behind the counter stood aghast, hands in the air in abject surrender.
There were no other patrons. Any other employees were in the back room or office somewhere, far removed from this confrontation. There were only the children…
And Roland.
“We won’t go with you!” the boy cried, stepping in front of his sister.
“Oh?” asked the second man, and his mask’s wicked sneer seemed to widen. He raised his gauntlet, too, the sigil glowing gold on his palm. “Maybe we don’t need you alive, eh?”
Roland hesitated, for a moment. Not out of fear — out of thought. He pulled back his right sleeve, eyeing the two tattoos on his forearm.
Two choices. Which was most appropriate?
He pressed his thumb against the higher tattoo — a pair of green butterfly-like wings attached to a whirling cyclone — and softly hummed a swift, energetic melody. The tattoo gleamed with glittering emerald light, and Roland flung the hand of the tattooed arm forward.
Wind blasted through the café. But it wasn’t an uncontrolled hurricane, a torrent of wanton chaotic destruction. This wind was targeted, a tunnel of powerful, blasting air that shot past the fallen Lady Abershire and the threatened twins to catch both of the masked, scarlet-coated men full in the torso. They were both lifted bodily and thrown out the door, across the street, and over the bridge to plummet into the river.
Roland pulled down his sleeve over the tattoos and gathered up his belongings, a stunned, adrenaline-fueled thrill running through him. He’d done it now, that was certain, and more than that, he’d done it! He’d wielded his power promptly, targeted it effectively, and succeeded in his objective of protecting others without causing any collateral damage.
His Teacher would be so proud.
He gathered his belongings swiftly, stuffed them into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. In the mere seconds it took to do that, the children had come to him, the girl in the lead, the boy looking like he wanted to grab his sister and run rather than talk to strangers, even strangers who saved their lives.
“Thank you, sir,” the girl said, bowing respectfully, hands clasped in front of her, in a manner that was reminiscent of the land of forever-spring, Haruo, not a custom of Leucen. These children were a long way from home, and well-traveled, too, for such a young age. “But why did you help us?”
“Because you needed help,” Roland said. “And… well, I wish I could say it was entirely out of selflessness, but my intentions were mostly altruistic. You mentioned Elysia, yes? I may be able to help you get there. You will need a guide, won’t you?”
“You’ll help us?” the girl asked, eyes wide and hopeful.
But her brother tugged at her arm. “Let’s hurry and leave, before they come back,” he said in an urgent voice.
“He used Pact Artes,” the girl said, before looking back up at Roland. “You did, didn’t you? That’s what that was?”
“Yes,” Roland said, amazed that these children even knew of Pact Artes.
“You see?” the girl asked her brother. “We can trust him. And he’s right. We will need his help.”
The boy glared up at Roland. But he nodded. “Fine, then,” he said. “Now let us hurry.”
“Yes, that does seem to be the wisest course,” Roland said. He pulled out his wallet as he hurried past the counter, and laid out twice as much as he owed for his drink and pastry. “Sorry about all this, Rebecca. I hope more trouble doesn’t follow.”
“No, thank you for getting rid of those horrid men,” said the barista, Rebecca, nodding gratefully, still clearly quite shaken from the encounter. “I never knew you had such powerful Artes.”
“Yes, well, I’m really still just a student,” Roland said, laughing self-consciously. He left, following after the twins.
The clock on the wall ticked on, reading 8:27.
“Where shall we go?” the girl asked. She turned to Roland. “Do you know how to get to Elysia?”
“I know how to get to Wonderia,” Roland said, his heart singing with hope and excitement. “And I know that if I can complete the Path of the Eight, the way will become clear. If I follow my Teacher’s research, and complete what I started with him, we can find the way.”
“So you can’t guide us to Elysia,” the boy said, glaring up at Roland.
“I’m not sure there is anyone who can guarantee they know the way,” Roland said. “If anyone does, they’re a charlatan or a thief, or worse.”
“Too true, sir,” the girl said, beaming. “If you can get us to Wonderia, shall we go now? Will you lead the way?”
“Sister —” the boy started.
“Time to hurry!” the girl said, pointing towards the bridge. “There’s quite a commotion building. We don’t want to be delayed, even by well-meaning law officers.”
“Too true,” Roland said. And he started off, hailing a boxy, steam-sputtering cab. The three of them piled into the spacious backseat, and Roland told the driver, “To the Tower, if you please.”
And they were off. Leaving the café behind, and hopefully leaving the masked men behind, as well.
Roland was quivering with anticipation. There was no small measure of fear, as well, but he tried to redirect it, to understand its source and then rise above it, as his Teacher had taught him.
Of course he was frightened. He’d fought, fought armed men, for the first time in his life. He was with two children whose names he didn’t even know yet.
And he was leaving his comfortable life behind. He was going on an adventure.
To Elysia.
——
Sheena stood tall upon the rugged tor, looking back, down, at the sprawling city.
Her home. But it didn’t feel like home, not now. It couldn’t, not how things were.
Maybe it wouldn’t ever be home again. Certainly not if she failed. Maybe not even if she succeeded. The attempt alone would already make her an outcast, possibly — probably — even hunted by her own people.
She loved the rich reds of her city’s roofs and bridges, the deep blues of the many rivers and streams, the vibrant greens of the trees, the riot of color of the flowers, ever-blooming, in this land of always-spring. Taiyoushi, capital city of Haruo. Her beloved city.
She loved the people, too. Even though they dismissed her. Even though they refused her.
Even though they would hate her, and hunt her, for what she knew she must do.
She had her sword at her side. A light pack, hanging from her shoulder. She wore her battle garb, the garb of a sword dancer, a sleeveless tunic made up of several layers and folds and intricate embroidery over knee-length pants. A translucent skirt wrapped around her waist, attached to a wide silk belt that was tied in an intricate bow in the back. On her wrists were loose metal bracelets hollowed out like bells, and anklets hollowed like bells adorned her ankles, above low-topped leather boots. A trio of round bells dangled from the base of her sword’s hilt. Even as a strong wind swept over her, none of the bells made a sound. They would sing their song only at her command. And she would need all of their different tones and songs for the journey ahead of her.
Nestled in the folds of her layered tunic, close to her chest, was the warmth of her small companion, Akko.
And in her heart was a deeper warmth — her love for her brother.
She had everything she needed. Casting one last look upon her city — perhaps the last she’d ever look upon it — she turned away. Towards the wild road, the slopes to the mountains, lands of summer and fall and winter beyond.
But she wouldn’t go that far. She only needed to go halfway, to the hidden border of Haruo. To the secret door.
To Wonderia.
But Wonderia was just the start. She had to find her brother. But finding him… it wouldn’t save him. She knew that, just as she’d told the council of elders, just as she’d told the men and women once under her command.
Just as she’d told the only person who’d understood what she had to do.
“They will hunt you, just as they intend to hunt him,” he’d told her. “You must be swift, clever, and you may perhaps never be allowed to come back home. And even if you find him, there may be no cure for him. Hope may already be lost. But if there is a way… you know what you need.”
Sheena knew. She needed something more than medicine, more than magic — a miracle.
She needed a wish to come true.
And so she started on her journey. Up, high above her city, far from her people. Beyond the always-spring, beyond the colors and beauty of the world she knew, to Wonderia, and beyond…
To Elysia.
Different heroes, on different paths, for different reasons…
All leading to the same place…
Their adventures begin in