Roland took in a breath, gazing up the hill at their destination.
“Okay,” Tsubasa said in a quiet voice. “The pictures do not do it justice.”
Up the snowy hill sat a grand plateau. Overhead, the sky sparkled with a dancing aurora borealis. And beneath the beautiful lights, a majestic, otherworldly castle stood.
Aula Fantasia.
Seated atop the plateau was the castle’s base, a grand fortress fit for an army, with crenellations atop the walls, and high towers to watch for danger. But this all belied its true purpose — the castle was no castle, but a shrine, the seat of reverence for the Fantasians.
And that was made all the more obvious by the rest of Aula Fantasia. The castle was only the beginning. Up in the sky, shimmering within the aurora’s light, eight spires floated in the air. Four to one side, four to the other, and in the center floated a ninth tower, the grandest of them all. Great crystals shone with light, their song a hum in the air, a chorus demanding awe and wonder.
Roland’s eyes were drawn up the center spire. From this viewpoint at the base of the great hill, it looked as if the central spire was crowned with the Cúplach, the twin moons. Their sapphire glow was tinged with green and purple, and they seemed larger than Roland had ever seen them, closer to earth than anywhere else.
Roland’s attention was then taken by the song. Its chorus demanded attention from all others. But to Roland, it sang a different song.
Aula Fantasia recognized the Summoner’s approach. It sang an invitation, one colored with a hint of warning. Danger awaited within — the Trial of the First Quartet.
But Roland had already expected danger. He knew the nature of the Fantasians’ Trials, and after Jurall’s, he knew to even expect outright hostility towards him.
He would prevail. Not just for his Teacher, nor for his own sake, nor even to reach Elysia.
After the events in Fujitoshi, after seeing the power Lacie wielded, he knew that whatever danger awaited him was trivial in comparison. Moreover, the rewards for success were more important than ever.
If there was any power in this world that might quench Lacie’s black flame, and set the world to rights, it lay at the end of Roland’s Path. He couldn’t dare falter now, at the halfway point.
A warm, strong hand rested on his shoulder. “Ready?” asked Muirrach, his voice the tide, a steadying timbre that brought Roland out of his thoughts, and into this present moment. The cold of the wintry air. The firm ground beneath his feet.
Aula Fantasia, waiting for him. Calling to him.
Roland nodded. “Ready,” he said.
He started up the hill, and his friends followed.
As they reached the top of the hill, they saw the gates of Aula Fantasia open on four sides, and from four sides came pilgrims, those who wished to pay their respects to the Fantasians, or see with their own eyes the seat of the Fantasians’ power, to hear the song sung only here.
A part of Roland wondered if he might encounter another Summoner. He was not the only one to ever walk the Path of the Eight. He was likely not the only one walking the Path right now. But when they made their way inside the gates, into the grand hall of Aula Fantasia, he saw no signs that other Summoners were present. People studied murals and tapestries on the walls, or sat listening, some of them writing in journals. Crystals hung in the air — some high up at the arching ceiling, other low enough to touch — shining with the different colors of the Fantasians, humming with song, adding their voices to the chorus. Halls branched off from this main hall, passages to other parts of the castle, with more to see and hear and learn from, and visitors traveled down those paths.
But no one approached the Summoner’s stage.
From the four main gates four red carpets led to the centerpiece of the castle. A circular stage, twenty yards in diameter, was accessible by four stairs. Its crystalline floor shimmered in the light.
No one approached the stage. Some eyed it from a distance, clearly curious. But no one save a Summoner and their chosen companions could set foot upon the stage.
Roland had imagined this moment for years. He’d often wondered what his first reaction to Aula Fantasia would be. How his heart would long to explore! To see every mural, hear every song, gaze upon every crystal…
Here he was. The door was opened to him. And his heart wasn’t drawn to explore, to see every part of this place.
His heart was drawn to the stage. This part of the castle was important, no doubt. But it was for visitors. For pilgrims. It was known.
What lay beyond, in the spires shimmering in the sky, was the unknown. And Roland’s heart yearned for the unknown.
Step by step, he led the way straight down the carpet. Straight towards the stage. No one paid him and his friends any heed at first. It was only when they were halfway to the stage, without wavering in their path, that people started to look. A few whispers rippled through the crowd. More and more eyes turned their way.
When they stepped upon the stage, every eye in the hall was upon them. The air stilled, tensed — a breath held in anticipation.
Roland and his friends took their place in the center of the stage. Four crystals flew down and circled around Roland. Each emitted a beam of light that ran over Roland from head to toe, like it was examining him. When the four crystals were done, they flashed with light, and then flew back up.
Beneath his feet, a ripple of light flashed across the crystalline floor. Roland and his friends looked down, watching, listening, waiting. There was a soft sound, something shifting underneath. Then another ripple of light…
And the floor became transparent. The twins gasped in awe.
Under their feet was a stained glass mural, a circle divided into four quadrants, each one an artistic representation of a Fantasian: gentle Kirin of the earth, playful Viatos of the wind, mysterious Shureen of the water, imposing Jurall of fire.
The First Quartet.
Light shone, green and blue and red, the stage lifted off from the ground, rising into the air. Roland looked up, and saw high up on the ceiling, the exact same stained glass mural shone above them. The stage was carrying them straight up towards it, and as they approached, the mural split along the lines separating the four Fantasians, and slid back into the ceiling.
A door was opened, into the sky.
The stage carried them up and out of the castle, rising high towards the airborne spires. Four of the outer eight spires responded, moving across the sky, forming a tight circle. In the midst of them, a structure appeared, and the stage carried them to that structure. The aurora, Roland realized, was closer than it had seemed — for now its ribbons of light were around them, ethereal streams of color painting the world in a whole new hue.
They reached the structure, a small crystal shrine, with just enough space for the stage to land. Doors opened on four sides, each revealing a bridge leading to one of the four spires.
“Where do we go now?” Tsubasa asked, looking back and forth, a slight bounce in her posture. She was clearly ready to go exploring on her own.
“Pick a tower, I suppose,” Roland said. He sang a question in his heart, but the Fantasians were silent. He could feel their presence, though — watching, waiting.
“Lead the way,” Muirrach said.
Roland decided to cross the bridge to Kirin’s tower. That was where his journey as a Summoner had started, after all. It felt only right to begin there again. Through a door, across a crystal bridge, they entered a grand circular tower. Up the walls were stained glass depictions of Kirin, and of green and growing things, of life and nature in full bloom and beauty.
And in the center of the spire was a stair, winding up and around — and then exiting through a doorway up the wall of the tower.
“Guess we can only fly partway, huh?” Tsubasa asked.
“Seems so,” Roland said. He started up the stairs, taking a slow pace. His eyes kept tracking the walls, his ears kept listening close to the music, open to any new discoveries, any hint of what awaited him, and of what secrets and history this place held.
How many Summoners had walked this path before him? And yet he saw and heard no trace of them. He’d hoped for something left behind by other Summoners, some final unveiling of the curtain that had shrouded the Path in such secrecy since the dawn of time.
But they reached the high doorway, and climbed stairs outside, crossing over to Vi’s tower, without any sign of those who had come before. And in Roland’s heart, the Fantasians remained watchful, waiting, silent.
Up through Vi’s tower, much like Kirin’s, then out and up to Shureen’s, and through that to Jurall’s.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they rose out of Jurall’s spire, away from the fiery windows, to a platform that connected all four towers, right at the top. It was open to the air, but the wind, even at such a height, was gentle. Here on this open platform, a new stage waited, but it was smaller than the last. Up a set of stairs it waited — a stage for one.
“The Trial awaits,” Roland said.
“Take heart, Summoner,” sang Shureen, breaking the long silence. “There is more to know than has been revealed to you. Succeed in your Trial, and all will be open to you.”
A small hand took hold of Roland’s. “Do you have to go alone?” Erika asked.
Roland smiled down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I? When it’s over, we’ll all go together.” He looked up, across the sky at the central tower, its grand mystery calling to him.
Not yet, the ethereal chorus seemed to say.
Roland stepped forward. First, he must complete the Trial of the First Quartet. He took his place on the small stage, and waited to be examined, waited for a shift beneath him, for the stage to take flight.
None of these things happened.
Instead he heard a song — a mingling of Kirin’s, Vi’s, Shureen’s, and Jurall’s songs, together in perfect harmony. Light shone beneath him, so bright it blotted out the world around him.
The song faded away. The light went out.
Roland was no longer in the sky.
Now he stood in a barren, rocky pit. Like someone had taken a scorched, blasted battleground from some horrible war, preserved it in its barrenness, and deposited it into a new arena. For creating a circular perimeter around the wide rocky ground was a high stone wall. Roland turned in a slow circle. A faint mist hung in the air, making it hard to see certain details. But he thought… yes. Up on the walls, at each of the cardinal directions, sat four chairs. North, South, East, West.
And in them sat ghostly shades, dark silhouettes that he recognized, even without their beautiful colors. In one reclined the four-legged Kirin. Atop another floated the spritely Viatos. Upright in another was the rippling Shureen. Tall and glowering in the last was the fiery, intimidating Jurall.
“Shades?” Roland asked. His voice sounded strange in the space — echoing, but also dulled, muffled. “Dark versions of yourselves…”
“No,” sang Jurall, and Roland realized the song didn’t come from his heart. It came from the chair atop the wall. Roland gasped, suddenly noticing the emptiness within him.
He couldn’t feel the Fantasians in his heart.
“You have done well to make it this far,” sang Kirin, “where few have ever trod.”
“Now we see what wings you have of your own,” sang Vi, “and how much higher they can carry you.”
“The Trial of the First Quartet begins,” sang Shureen. “Show us the truth of you, Roland. Show us what comes next.”
“Face yourself, Summoner,” sang Jurall.
As the Fantasians each sang their part, Roland turned in a circle, looking up at each of them. And when he came back around to where he’d started…
He came face-to-face with himself.
“What…” Roland started. The self he faced was like a mirror image, and yet he didn’t mimic Roland’s words. His stare pierced through Roland.
“Feet will stumble which do not belong on the Path,” said the other Roland.
“What is this?” Roland asked.
“Do you not know?” asked the other Roland. “You recognize this place for what it is. A battleground.”
Roland barely got his arms up in time to block the sudden punch from his other self. His arms throbbed from the impact, but he didn’t have time to recover. The other Roland threw a trio of punches, and Roland was retreating, blocking, then ducking under a sudden spinning kick. He flung out his hand, sang Vi’s song…
And felt nothing.
The other Roland kicked him hard in the chest, sending Roland sprawling. “You have no power,” the other Roland said. “But what surprise is that? It was never yours to begin with. And we shouldn’t hold tight to what doesn’t belong to us.”
“We made a Pact,” Roland said, scrambling to his feet. He blocked a pair of quick punches, then leapt back, away from another kick, giving himself some needed breathing room. “I’ve stolen nothing. We have an agreement.”
“What feeble words,” the other Roland said, his voice as hard-edged as his stare. “Four Trials you’ve conquered, yet now, without their power, what are you? If the Pact is broken, the agreement abandoned, what then? Who are you, Summoner?”
The other Roland leapt into an offensive, and Roland was retreating, blocking, desperately fighting to get away. But his other self was relentless, not running short on breath or breaking a sweat where the real Roland was feeling a familiar tightness in his chest, and knew that he was running out of time.
“You’re not me!” Roland said, rising to block a kick upwards, sending his false self off-balance. He spun in a kick, catching the other Roland in the chest and knocking him on his back. Roland took a step back, catching his breath, but on his guard. “As for who I am… I am a Summoner. I’ve walked the Path of the Eight this far, and I’m not going to turn back now. Whatever this Trial is, I will overcome it.”
“What for?” the other Roland asked, rising easily to his feet, unharmed and unbothered. “The sake of the world’s broken heart? To contend with a power beyond reckoning, held in the hands of a child? You’re out of your depth, Roland. Stay the course, and you’ll only drown.” He threw two quick punches, which Roland blocked, but they had him on the retreat again. “Who are you, Roland?”
“I already told you!” Roland replied, grabbing his false self by the wrist and yanking him aside, sweeping his legs out from under him. The other Roland went sprawling, and Roland stepped back, giving himself some space again.
“You’re a failure,” said a new voice, and Roland turned to see another him — younger, though. This Roland was twenty-eight, his eyes haunted with a fresh grief that Roland knew too well. “Alystair died because of you. Eilidh was left without a brother, and left her husband to join a villain, because of you.”
“And I’m doing everything I can to make up for that!” Roland said. “I know I failed them. I can’t change the past. But I can fight to make things right in the here and now.”
“What can you do to make things right?” asked a new voice, and Roland turned to see another him — but this one was a child. Barely six years old, red hair thick and wild, clothes stained and patched. “You’re an orphan. Your own parents didn’t want you. You might as well not exist.”
“I…” Roland started, his denial halting on his lips.
Out of the barren rock rose a familiar doorstep. And suddenly Roland was a child again, pausing at the door of the orphanage. Another day, wondering if he should walk back through that door.
Who would miss me if I didn’t come back? Who would care?
I’m just a burden on good people with better things to worry about. If I disappeared, if I didn’t exist, everyone’s lives would be easier.
The old questions, the old thoughts, came rushing back as if they were freshly conceived. Thirty-three years since he’d been found on the doorstep as an infant. Thirty-three years to deal with being an orphan, to find his place in the world, to make something of himself. Three decades to banish the ghosts of the past, the shadows that haunted the dark corners of his mind.
And here they were, like they’d never left, looming larger than ever before.
“Who are you?” asked the first other Roland. Roland wheeled around, and was met with a hard shove in the chest. He fell backwards, through the door, and landed in a heap on a dusty wooden floor.
Who am I?
“I’m a Summoner,” he said, but he heard now how feeble his words were.
“You wish you were,” said his child self, standing over him. “But you should have died when you faced Shureen. Only a Summoner should enter the Cloister. Alystair went with you — and he’s the only reason you got out alive.”
“I should have died…” Roland said softly.
“Why don’t you end it here and now?” his child self asked. “You wanted to make things right. You can’t change the past. But you can catch up to where you’re meant to be.”
There was the sound of a faucet turning, and then running water. Water flooded across the floor, slow and steady. It was just an inch deep, but rising.
Roland lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t find it in himself to stand.
“You’re out of your depth,” his child self said. “And yet you’ve kept going forward. Time catches up, though.”
The waters covered his hands. They rose up to cover his ears. Soon, they’d flow over his face.
Where I’m meant to be…
“Who are you?” his child self asked. It sounded so distant, coming through the water to flooded ears. But Roland heard the question.
“I answered,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yes,” his child self said. “And yet the question remains.”
Who am I…?
The waters rose up, and Roland didn’t take a breath, didn’t fill his lungs, before the water covered his face. What use was resisting?