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“Consciousness cannot be touched or measured. Science cannot explain or command it. Our ego is our capacity to feel. We ourselves are already miracles. You are a true miracle.
“Not every sorcerer can share another person’s pain. Magic lives inside everyone—especially you.”
“Everything is simple in fairy tales,” the girl sighed. “You say abracadabra, or at the pike’s command…”
“You need no incantation to make Magic. It is far simpler. Or do you believe Eric is a fearsome warrior in his own world as well?”
The girl sat beside the old man on the bench.
“I don’t know. In my world, I was a harbor whore selling her body for two coppers—until he came for me.”
The old man set his staff aside.
“For a fly, the entire world is a heap of dung and filth. For a bee, it is an endless carpet of flowers. We choose the world in which we live. Learn to see beauty, and you will recognize the good in people and value it. You will find friends in no time. See only flaws, and you will remain mired in loneliness forever.”
“Do you know what Eric was in his world? Have you met him before?”
“I doubt it. But I am certain that he and I come from the same world.”
“What is the sorcerers’ native world like?”
“Probably much like every other—only duller. That is why we wander through worlds until we learn to value what is real. Until we discover our true dream, one for which we can overcome our own Vanity and Pride. One worth dying for. And that becomes possible only when we learn to see Souls rather than faces.”
“That all sounds needlessly complicated to me. Why make difficult what is perfectly simple?”
“Perfectly simple for you. You already know how to see souls. That is why you are so precious to him. Let us sleep. Our conversation will not improve Eric’s health.”
He glanced toward the wounded man.
“And judging by that wound—and those ravens—you will need all the strength you can gather.”
Chapter Nine: Buyan
Maniva packed the provisions their host had given them for the road while the two men stood beside the sagging, weather-beaten fence.
“I have already done everything I could for you. I gave you food for the journey. I saved you from death. Yet instead of showing gratitude, you demand still more.”
Eric smirked.
“I am immortal, as are you. I may have lost my ability to create, but immortality cannot be taken from me in these worlds. You have shut yourself away and sought peace. Why, when the power to accomplish great deeds remains in your hands?”
“I am tired, Eric. Peace is dearer to me.”
“How can you say that? Remember the books you read as a child. Surely we read the same ones. I will not even speak of imaginary worlds. But I was there. I fought the evil, vileness, and callousness of human souls. What would I have become without the wisdom of pages faded by time? You remember their rustle. That shiver of anticipation. Of course you do. Such things cannot be forgotten.”
“I burned out. This world is my refuge.” Leaning on his staff, the old man swept his gaze across the land.
“You can still strike the strings of a reader’s soul.” Eric made a sharp gesture and immediately doubled over in pain.
“My stories will never be published.” The old man noticed nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the distance, as though his thoughts had carried him elsewhere. “It is not easy to accept that I am a voice no one will ever hear.”
“No, it is not. That is why I have spent recent years prowling the worlds in search of inspiration. Maniva is more than a girl. She is a key—the key to a beautiful and instructive story about the Knight of Five Worlds. I want desperately for that story to be written. So I must go. I must bring her where she belongs.”
“There is one more thing I can do. I have a boat hidden at the river’s mouth—a sturdy sea skiff. You will have to row a few hundred yards before you can raise the sail.”
“Buyan cannot be reached so easily.”
“Have you never read Pushkin? By the curved seashore stands a green oak; a golden chain…” The old man grinned.
“Lukomorye is Buyan?”
“Yes. The simplest road into the worlds of fairy tales. That is where you need to go. A yellow-brick path leads from the coast to the stone.”
“The Road of Melpomene,” Eric whispered.
“A safe journey, pilgrim. And perhaps, if…”
“You helped me. You have the right to ask.”
“If by chance you meet my muse along the way, I would…” The old man faltered, embarrassed to confess his need.
“How will I recognize her?”
“Hair the color of ripe wheat spills over her shoulders, and the blue of heaven shines in her eyes. Scarlet lips, a gentle nature, and a strong name—Vera.”
The old man sighed heavily.
“You know the rules, Demiurge.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The elder hurriedly searched his pockets.
When he withdrew his hand, an earring glimmered upon his open palm—a small sapphire set in silver.
“It is hers. She lost it when she left. I should have stopped her then, or run after her. But foolish pride seized me.” A tear shone in his eyes. “Without her, everything became hateful. Time stopped.”
“If I meet her, I know where to find you.”
The old man took a leather-bound book from the table and offered it to Eric. The northerner raised a questioning brow.
“A primer for Maniva. You were right, wanderer. In doing good, we only become richer.”
At that moment, Maniva appeared in the doorway with a bundle clutched in her slender arms. The burden was so heavy that her body bowed beneath it.
Something stabbed inside Eric. His heart lurched. He rushed toward Maniva to take the weight.
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t carry it. They stitched a hole in your side only yesterday. What if the stitches tear? What if you die on the road? What am I supposed to do then?” The girl held out one warning hand and lowered the bundle to the ground.
“I am stronger than I look, future ruler of Angren. Besides, our journey will be across the sea. Hand it over, and let us go to the shore.”
First, an enormous oak appeared on the horizon, with a massive chain glittering in the sun. Then the bulk of the island rose behind it.
“Look how enormous it is,” Maniva whispered, unable to tear her eyes from the tree whose crown reached into the heavens.
“Yggdrasil, the Tree of Eternal Life. But we should circle the island. All manner of unclean creatures infest Lukomorye.”
“What do you mean?”
“Precisely what I said. Leshies, mermaids—and the domain of Bayun the Cat. Do you know how many stories have been lost here? That creature devours them. Any author who falls beneath his spell loses the bond with his muse. Bayun consumes her and makes her his slave. Each time he circles the oak along its chain, he tells another story or sings another song, making the Path of Melpomene harder to find.”
“Why would he do that?” The girl was frightened.
“Long ago, when authors wrote decent fairy tales, he rewarded them with magical gifts. Then his favorite—the man he considered a friend—told people about Lukomorye. Everyone who could hold a pen came pouring in. At first, the cat rejoiced. But writers and poets began using his gifts for personal gain and twisting the stories themselves. He grew furious, because it was killing the tree. Now he tells the stories himself, trying to heal the wounds inflicted by failed writers and graphomaniacs.”
A roll of thunder interrupted Eric.
“We must hurry. Nothing is worse than being caught in a storm near the coast. The rocks will smash us to pieces. Will you help me? I’ll row; you hold the rudder over.”
Maniva nodded and moved toward the stern.
Buyan greeted them beneath the gloom of a gray, rain-laden sky. The silver forest bordering the shore rustled—or rather, rang—with leaves of glass.
The boat’s bow ground into peculiar fine sand that looked more like powdered bone.
“A very strange place. Where are we?”
“That does not matter. What matters is staying away from that beauty.” Eric gestured toward the silver trees. “It is deadly to you.”
The forest swayed and chimed with its crystal leaves, greeting the Viking like an old acquaintance.
“What are you, really?”
“Does it matter who I am when you do not even know who you are?”
“With you, I feel special.”
“You are special.” Another crash of thunder drowned his words.
“And who am I, according to you?” The girl stepped close to him. He drew back slightly and released a heavy sigh.
“You are Maniva, mother of the future Sovereign of Amosia. I came to return you home—to your castle, Anshatukash.”
“You must be drunk or mad. No such city exists. No such country exists.”
“Not in this world. But you are not from this world either. You are the axis of the story, the incarnation of love in that dimension. You simply lost your way between worlds.”
“But I don’t want to go to the Sovereign. I want to stay with you.”
“I am not your destiny, and in truth, I deeply regret that. But…” Eric fell silent and listened. “Tell me—you hear that song too, don’t you?”
Maniva closed her eyes and listened. Beneath the wash of waves and whisper of reeds, she heard a timid voice, achingly familiar, singing a wondrous song:
The storm will open
the gates to another world,
and rain will trace
the Wanderer’s road.
But your guardians
will bar his way
and close the gate,
keeping watch over your sleep…
“Mother? Mother!” the girl cried, but only a faint whisper left her lips. She touched the scar upon her throat.
“Shh.” The Viking placed a finger against her lips. “You will become her. Everything in its time. Just listen—and remember.”
Maniva closed her eyes again. The first drops of rain began beating out a rhythm like drums, and the song grew stronger.
My sovereign demon,
cast sorrow aside.
Within my embrace
you will find peace.
Let every trouble recede
beneath my song;
like a wild she-wolf,
I guard your rest…
At the next roll of thunder, the girl silently joined the refrain, moving only her lips.
Within the realm of dreams
I guard your peace,
and stars in heaven
dance for us.
A world of darkness and sorrow
may close around us,
but my voice will scatter
every fear forever.
Sleep—I keep watch,
though a thousand years may pass.
Sleep—I stand guard,
though thousands of years may pass…
Lightning flashed. The sea shuddered, and the roar of the raging ocean carried the song onward:
My voice and my heart
are yours forever.
Love is my shield,
my sun and my light.
Beyond the darkness of clouds,
a radiant dawn awaits us.
Through the blackest night,
I will keep you safe…
Tears streamed down the silver-haired beauty’s cheeks, mingling with the rain. Her lips trembled, and Eric heard Maniva’s own voice:
In silence I guard
your sleep like a wall.
I alone will sever
the road between worlds.
I will call to the heavens,
whispering your name.
Sleep, my hero.
Do not fear the storm.
Within the realm of dreams
I guard your peace,
and stars in heaven
dance for us.
The girl rose to her full height. Lightning stabbed mercilessly into the raging waves. Wind scattered the silver of her hair, and rain lashed her shoulders as though washing away every sin forced upon her by need in another dimension.
Her eyes, black as a warm July night, burned with fire.
She sang.
Her voice had returned, and with it, her magic.
Her clothing began shining with every color of the rainbow, answering the words of her song.
A world of darkness and sorrow
may close around us,
but my voice will scatter
every fear forever.
Sleep—I keep watch,
though a thousand years may pass.
Sleep—I stand guard,
though thousands of years may pass.
Her voice gained strength and authority. The elements retreated. First, the clouds—having spent their entire arsenal—trudged together toward the horizon beneath the shepherd wind, still giving birth to lightning and thunder whenever they collided.
The waves slowly subsided. Enchanted by the miraculous melody, the ocean fell asleep.
My sovereign demon,
cast sorrow aside.
Within my embrace
you will find peace.
Let every trouble recede
beneath my song;
like a wild she-wolf,
I guard your rest.
My voice and my heart
are yours forever.
Love is my shield,
my sun and my light.
Beyond the darkness of clouds,
a radiant dawn awaits us.
At those words, sunlight flooded the shore, filling the silver forest with playful sparks. The waves fell completely still, and now the ocean crept over the sand toward the enchantress’s feet like a gentle kitten.
Eric watched without looking away. He had succeeded. He had done it.
The girl continued singing as she spun in a dance.
Through the blackest night,
I will keep you safe.
In silence I guard
your sleep like a wall.
I alone will sever
the road between worlds.
I will call to the heavens,
whispering your name.
Sleep, my hero.
Do not fear the storm.
By the final lines, Eric too was weeping.
“I found you—the one in whose heart the sacred fire of Magic still glows like an ember.” The fearsome warrior wiped his face with his sleeve. Tears shone in his eyes, but he smiled. “How long I have searched for you.”
The girl stepped toward him and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you for everything. Now who are you?”
“A guide. A pathfinder. A seeker. But I do not hunt treasure or track escaped slaves and criminals. I seek the inspiration lost among the worlds. I return magic to the land of fantasy. I teach creators to fly.”
“Then you are…” The girl looked into the warrior’s eyes, trying to reach the deepest hidden chamber of Eric’s soul.
He stroked her cheek.
“No. I broke my Demiurge’s wings long ago. Now I can only help others build their worlds. She needs you. She is waiting for your return. There is a portal inside the cavern grotto. It leads to the center of all worlds. Only you can open its gate. I will take you home.”
Eric drew a magnificent pair of gloves from his bag. Intricate silver patterns twined across their thin black leather.
“My last gift to you. Come. The Mistress of Dragons awaits. We should not keep the Great Mother waiting.”
The Viking lifted the bag of remaining provisions and a heavy wrapped bundle from the boat.
He looked at the girl.
“Where did this come from?”
“The old man said it was the key to the portal. I thought you knew.” Her eyes widened in surprise.
The man unwound the cloth, revealing an enormous two-handed sword.
“A peculiar key. I wonder what kind of lock we will have to open with it.” He shrugged. “Well, war is no disaster. Maneuvers are what matter.”
Maniva stared at him without understanding.
Eric waved it away and smiled.
“Am I completely stupid?”
“No. You simply resemble your mother very closely.”
“But I don’t remember her at all…”
“The road is long. I’ll tell you about her as we travel.”
“Very, very long?”
“Long enough for me to weary you with advice and moral instruction. Incidentally, this is yours.” Eric handed Maniva The Demiurge’s Primer. “I will teach you to record sounds and read them.”
Chapter Ten: A New Beginning
The guardian of the portal gave a choking rasp and toppled back into the abyss from which it had crawled.
Eric wearily released the enormous sword and slowly lowered himself onto a fragment of a column, one hand pressed against the weeping wound in his side. Maniva rushed to him.
“Are you all right?”
Eric shook his head.
“That does not matter. The way is clear.” The warrior’s voice trembled.
Maniva looked toward the portal glowing in the depths.
“I have to go through there?” The radiance beckoned to her. She felt its magical call upon her skin, yet she did not want to leave.
Eric nodded.
“It leads to the Compass Rose. She will carry you home.”
“Will you come with me? I’m frightened.” Tears filled the girl’s eyes.
Using the sword like a crutch, Eric forced himself to his feet.
“Only as far as the portal. I may go no farther.”
“But why?” Maniva lowered her head, trying to hide the emotions raging within her. “You could…”
Eric interrupted before she could finish.
“You will forget me the moment you return to your own dimension.” He made no attempt to hide what he felt. “When I set out to find you, I was only trying to fill the emptiness here.” The Viking struck his chest with a bloodied fist. “You restored my soul. You made my heart beat again. You reminded me what joy and happiness feel like. I am deeply grateful to you for that.”
The warrior leaned one shoulder against the portal.
The sword rang against the stones as it slipped from his exhausted hand. Eric rubbed his palms furiously against the hem of his shirt until no trace of blood remained. Maniva stood beside him as though waiting for something.
The warrior gently stroked her silver hair.
“And now it hurts to know that we must part forever.” Grief closed around his chest like a vise and made it difficult to breathe. “I… I could not bear to see you in another man’s arms.”
“You mean we…?” The girl did not raise her eyes to her stern guide.
“Yes,” Eric whispered, scarcely audible as he swallowed the knot rising in his throat.
“And you?” She lifted her head and looked into the northerner’s eyes, blue and pure as the sky.
“I will remember you always, Maniva. It is time.” His hand settled upon her shoulder and gently urged her toward the portal.
“Wait.” The girl placed her left hand upon the warrior’s shoulder. “If I’m going to forget anyway, kiss me. I want you to remember me as I am now—not as that whore from the harbor brothel.”
“I never thought of you as a whore, Maniva. Even in those rags, in that little room, you were a beacon—a sorceress who restored my faith in love.”
Eric brushed an unwilling tear from his cheek.
“Go. It is time. Only do not look back, or the portal may—”
The girl wrapped her arms around the warrior’s powerful neck.
Their lips met, releasing all the passion they had longed to give one another, knowing this would be their final intimacy.
Eric never remembered how long the kiss lasted. But he would forever remember the strawberry taste of her lips, her final gaze filled with gratitude and tenderness, and her last words dissolving into the portal’s crackle:
“Don’t forget me…”
The warrior’s heart missed a beat when he saw Maniva turn back after all within the portal’s fading shimmer. A sense of irreparable disaster seized his soul.
“Look out!” Eric managed to shout as the figure of a walking corpse rose beside her.
Without a moment’s thought, he hurled himself into the closing passage between worlds.
Chapter Eleven
The highway wound away like a serpent and vanished among fields of golden wheat. The outriders were already looking forward to the feast that would mark the collection of taxes from the newly acquired lands. The dangerous stretch through the forest lay behind them. Ahead was open country, and on the horizon loomed an outpost of the Duke of Balintia’s watch—a loyal vassal of His Majesty Elizar the Fifth.
The foot soldiers trudging behind the treasure wagons had taken off their helmets and slung their shields across their backs.
“Two or three more hours and we’re home. Safe behind Krumdel’s white stone walls,” the captain of the guard told them wearily. He was a broad-shouldered young man with brown eyes.
Rising in his stirrups, he bellowed, “Close ranks, brothers! Just a little farther!”
The rear guard quickened its pace.
The carriage bearing the royal deputy traveled near the very end of the column. Behind it, in no particular hurry, rode the treasurer’s personal guards.
That infuriated the captain more than anything. Mercenaries. Careless and insolent, they ignored every rule and table of rank, believing themselves above both. The captain reined in his stallion and waited for the carriage to draw level with him.
The heavenly orb poured its still-gentle light across the land, though its heat was already beginning to bite. White clouds drifted through the sky like the vast castles of celestial rulers. It seemed like paradise on earth—a feeling made all the stronger by the danger they believed they had left behind.
“I told you it was all nonsense…” the treasurer began, leaning out the carriage window.
Then a flock of birds burst from behind the sheaves at the edge of the field.
“Column, halt!” Eygar shouted. Perhaps his gut warned him. Perhaps experience from a score of battles did.
“Halt? What do you mean, halt? It’s nearly noon. This is no time for a rest. Keep moving!” the treasurer shrilled.
But the procession stopped.
At that very instant, crossbow arms snapped. There was no mistaking the whistle of heavy bolts.
“Shields up! Archers to the flank! String your bows!”
The captain’s roar was drowned beneath the hammering of iron heads against armor.
Wounded horses screamed. Several knights fell, bristling with bolts like pincushions.
“Lock shields!” the captain yelled, spurring his horse and pressing himself low against its mane. His squad of ten was already racing after him toward the haystacks, from behind which another swarm of arrows rose into the sky.
The captain jerked the reins and brought his mount rearing.
Just in time.
A rank of spearmen rose to meet the charge.
“Goblins! Get the convoy out of here! Everyone else, to me!” the captain roared at the sergeant commanding the treasurer’s personal guard.
This time the mercenary’s arrogance vanished from his face, and he rushed to obey.
“For the Duke!”
The captain’s sword crashed down upon the first spearman. Several pikes scraped across his mount’s barding at once. Eygar drove in his spurs, forcing the horse to rear again and strike an unwary goblin with its hooves.
The knights of Balintia were already galloping toward their captain, visors lowered. The light-cavalry vanguard wheeled around as well and came at full speed, bristling with long lances.
Hooves crashed into the ragged formation of short, stocky creatures clad in armor made of bone.
The carriage drivers did not wait to see how the skirmish ended. They whipped the horses forward and fled for the safety of the fort, surrounded by mercenaries who had forgotten all about their employer’s carriage.
The knights drove straight into the disordered mass of spearmen, hacking left and right.
Victory was close. The captain had already raised a triumphant cry when the screams of draft horses and the howling of wolves told him he had miscalculated.
Wolf riders struck the unprotected convoy. Nearly all the mercenaries died in the first rush. Only a handful of swordsmen from the guard still fought desperately against fangs and bone axes, but the wagons were already in the raiders’ hands.
“The convoy! Everyone back to the wagons!” Eygar shouted, abandoning his pursuit of the goblins.
The vanguard riders and the knights of Balintia raced toward the carts. Too late. Nimble, quick-handed orcs had stuffed the treasure into their saddlebags and were fleeing toward the ancient depths of the Bogveri Forest.
The deputy’s carriage rolled up beside the captain.
“A brave warrior, certainly. A fine swordsman. And stupid as a cork. You were supposed to protect me! We can collect the gold again with a new tax—there are plenty of peasants. His Majesty has only one deputy. When we reach the city, you will surrender your sword and report to the pigsties. You will shovel manure, and until every coin you lost has been repaid, you and your men will take your meals with the swine!”