Corusca, a cheetah girl in her teens – her exact age not known even to herself – hastily scrubs out a bowl fashioned of a large bug's shell, then sets it on a chitin rack with several others to dry. She then sprints across the kitchen and bows before a wise old snake, Mitaisa, clasping her hands in unspoken request.
Mitaisa flicks a forked tongue at the air, and glances past Corusca to the wash-basin. "You ssshould clean up your area more diligently," she scolds lightly, then turns away. "However, you can tend to that … after you take out the trasssh."
Corusca's face lights up in a broad smile, and her ears wiggle as she bows several times in thanks to the back of the snake. She then rushes toward the open doorway leading out to the terrace outside … almost forgetting the trash that provides her with an excuse to go outside, but she quickly recovers – before Mitaisa has so much as a chance to notice, thankfully – and sprints back to take up a bucket of broken bug shells and fruit cores, then hauls it outside.
The cheetah sprints out through the terrace, where a modest garden plot grows, largely thanks to her own handiwork, though Mitaisa was the one to acquire the seedlings. Corusca plucks a couple of bits of fruit out of the refuse basket to toss into the mulch pile, then upturns the bug-shell bucket over the edge of the terra, dumping the contents out and letting them plummet down into the darkness.
The child within her briefly wonders whether, some day, the garbage that gets dumped down there might pile high enough to reach the heights where people actually live … but she's soon interrupted from that thought by a light tap on her shoulder.
Corusca involuntarily lets out almost a squeak of a bark in alarm, and spins about, nearly losing grip of the bucket. A handsome male cheetah, about the same age as herself, grabs her arm to steady her, ducking his head with a sheepish, apologetic look on his face … but a mischievous glint in his eye.
The girl gasps, then adopts a mock-scolding demeanor that quickly gives way to a smile, as she tosses the bucket back onto the terrace, and throws her arms around her lover. She presses her knuckles into his shoulder to sign, "You came!" and he confirms this by pressing his nose into her hair and breathing deeply.
Just then, a cry goes up from the other rooftops, and a shrill whistle sounds, followed by a flash that briefly betrays the embracing couple … though no eyes are focused upon them. It is midnight, and the end of a year.
Corusca turns about in her companion's embrace to watch the display, as he folds his arms about her waist. She leans back against his strong chest – He has never given her a name, so mysterious has he been, but she suspects he must be a laborer in her master's house … She just hasn't ever had duties taking her far enough from the kitchen to observe him at work.
Soon, she tells herself, she'll press him to trust her to give her a name … or at the very least to make one up so that she has the comfort of a label to attach to him. Perhaps he fears that she'll ask for him, or commit some other indiscretion to betray their love for each other. The master discourages such things amongst his slaves, after all.
Corusca briefly feels a pang of regret, at her lover's lack of trust in her … but it is soon swept away by the warm realization that he is here. They are together. And for now, that's all that matters.
And then … the sky explodes, fragmenting into pieces, as if Corusca had been watching the fireworks through a giant glass window, and now each shard for a moment reflects a fragment of a different scene … water, blinding light, stars, walls of rock, raging fire … Emotions rush through Corusca in a split second – Fear, then wonder, then awe.
Then, the sky turns to stars, dominated by a giant, mostly blue orb with white wisps tracing across its surface. She feels suddenly weightless. It would be a marvelous, joyous feeling … if it were not for the sensation of the air rushing away, the bitter cold … and the pressures surging in her body.
Understanding does not reach Corusca's mind. This is utterly beyond her comprehension, save for one point – She is instantly struck with the realization that she is about to die. A hopeful thought flickers across her mind – that she is going to die in the arms of her lover – but it is driven out by the indescribable pain of every capillary rupturing, of her eyes bursting, of her insides fighting to expand and escape her body. The pain lasts for what seems an eternity …
… then, there is nothing.
Polyhedrons of chitin and bone roll across a lacquered wooden board inlaid with semi-precious stones, forming runes, geometric shapes and sweeping lines across its surface. The curiously formed dice bounce off of a short retaining wall surrounding the board, then come to a stop.
One of the dice lands on a circle composed of a mosaic of tiles that form a rainbow array of color, in the center of which is a rune that remotely resembles a very stylized tree … the same rune that appears on the die's topmost face.
Gnarled hands sweep aside all the other dice save this one, banishing them to the four corners of the board, then gesture toward it. "Once again, Life is predominant," a raspy voice proclaims.
A second voice, noticeably younger, mumbles in contemplation, then pronounces, "That is unacceptable. That would hardly be a conclusive result – It would be just like Fire. How about one of the subordinates?" Another hand reaches down, pointing at some smaller circles arrayed around the one with the rune of Life on it.
The older Eeee's voice cuts in with a laugh. "Yes, perhaps, but that would only pose a delay. They are just as fruitful. They aren't barren balls of rock."
"Can't you get Mind? Or Earth?" the younger voice puts in, sounding agitated. "We haven't much time. Those are just gas anyway."
There is a pause, then a wave of gnarled hands, dismissing the notion. "No, there isn't enough time or power left. I can move the focus to Air again." The gnarled fingers tap on a circle that is mostly made of Lapis lazuli, though with sections of jade, wisps of a white, waxy-looking stone, and a glittering ellipse surrounding it. In the center of the sphere is the rune of the lightning bolt.
"But where?" the younger voice protests. "And what good will that do us?"
The gnarled fingers tap on the glittering ellipse, accompanied by a low chuckle.
The younger voice coughs and laughs briefly, then turns serious. "Fine, fine, on with it! We're almost out of time!" Flashes of light illuminate the board, as whistles and explosions can be heard … fireworks going off. The older voice mumbles arcane-sounding phrases, and the gnarled hand sprinkles glittery dust across the board, then goes about, gathering up all the dice, and tossing them. The dice roll … roll … bounce … and two of them land on the glittering band about the blue, green and white circle.
"That's it!" the younger voice proclaims. "That's decisive – Now, let's get inside! There's bound to be an unpleasant after-effect."
The older voice stops chanting suddenly. "No, that isn't right," he mumbles.
"What? What?! Hurry! There's no time!" the younger voice shouts.
"Fool! I'm getting a chaos reflection! The area of effect is larger than anticipated!" The older voice practically cracks while spitting this out.
"Larger … than anti – Oh, vhai. You don't mean … ARCADIA! Change it! Hurry!"
"Too late," the older voice proclaims.
"VHAI! This can't be happening!" There's a flutter of wings, as the owner of the younger voice takes to the air.
The older voice mumbles, "Sunala, to thee I commit myself. Grant me oblivion and quickly." Multi-colored pills spill out of a pouch onto the board, landing in glitter and dust. Gnarled hands fumble to pick a small black pill out of the mess, then just grab several, and lift them up. The owner of the older voice can be heard to swallow, then to utter a chant in which the name of Sunala figures prominently.
Then, there are several flashes, and all goes silent, as an unheard wind blasts the glitter and powder off of the board, which begins to float up and off of the ground. Droplets of crimson spray onto its multi-colored surface.
Captain Karada reaches out with a russet-colored hand to gently stroke the downy fur of the tiny bat-ling that clings tenaciously to the maid cradling him from a perch on the ceiling. The little fuzzy creature shivers, and makes a muffled warbling squeak.
"There, there," the maid coos, caressing the child's head, as Karada withdraws and just watches. "It's just your father." She looks away from the child then, and smiles to the father. "He has your eyes."
At this, Karada's smile fades. The maid gasps, no doubt thinking that the reason for his displeasure is because he happens to have a patch over one eye – She has no doubt reminded him of his loss in the war. He had lost part of an ear as well, but it was far easier to fashion a clever prosthetic for that.
The male bat releases his perch and descends back down to the floor, alighting there, flexing his toes in agitation, and drawing his wings out himself, linking the "thumb" claws to each other like a clasp and wearing them as if a cape. "My eyes," he repeats, then silently scolds himself.
Matra is hardly more than a child herself, he reminds himself, of the maid, and I do not think she was here before my journey to the Nagai Empire. She could not realize that he had been gone almost a full year, and come back to learn that his wife had borne him a son.
Still, a son, he reminds himself. He has four daughters – all of them beautiful, and sure to fetch fine husbands – but failed to sire a son. He had refused to take the services of a Life Mage to ensure that the next would be a son – He privately distrusts magic, and has heard that having Life Magic involved in one's birth tends to make one susceptible to the effects of magic through life. It might only be a wives' tale, but wives' tales have a knack for having some truth to them, where magic is concerned. It was a risk he wouldn't take.
And a risk my wife did not take either, he surmises, privately admiring and reviling her for taking the initiative in a way he would be fully within rights to slay her for … and, in the process, have to admit that this son is not his. He had actually returned to his house once, briefly, many months ago, but it had been on military business, and he had little time to see his family – let alone share more than a few private minutes with his wife. In fact, she had been ill at the time, and unable to see anyone.
He feels quite sure now what her "illness" was … and he also feels confident that if any of his servants were questioned about his visit, they would claim that he had been alone with her, to comfort her.
"Yes," he says aloud, smiling for the maid's benefit, "and he has his mother's smile … minus a few teeth, of course." The maid stops holding her breath, and politely giggles in relief, and he quickly turns away before his expression can betray his torn emotions. "I will raise him as a proper son of the House of Karada," he says, reciting a proclamation dating back as long as the House has had its name … as much to himself as anyone else, "and he will carry on our proud tradition."
With that, he strides out of the nursery, and out onto the upper-level walkway overlooking the main hall of his tower-top manor. He snaps out his wings and glides down to the center floor, rather than bothering with the stairs – His family has done well enough to be able to afford a house with wide-open interior expanses, rather than just chambers to huddle in against the elements.
Upon landing, he wraps his wings about himself again, and turns to look at his wife, Lady Jenari. She meets him with an even gaze, and a coy smile.
She knows that I can do simple math, he thinks, looking into her dark eyes, and she is unashamed.
If she hides any feelings of guilt, they are truly hidden well. Perhaps she has been more discrete than I have credited her for, Barada be praised. She is, after all, a daughter of House Tekkis … a family shrewd enough to be rumored a threat to High Princess Saraizadze's reign, should she grow careless.
Karada leans in to kiss her on the cheek, reaching out to brush aside tresses of silken hair to do so. "Someday, my love," he whispers in the faintest of breaths, into her ear, "you shall steal my fortune away and smother me in my sleep. If you shall delay that day until I am old and withered, I shall see to it that you want for nothing."
It is said in a manner of dark jest, and Jenari obligingly giggles at the tease, but there is truth to it. His wife, after all, is a daughter of Tekkis, and is held by a chain of loyalty to her scheming father – no doubt to her dying day.
He does not hate her for this – In fact, he finds himself loving her for it. She may be his wife, but she is a prize not yet wholly acquired. He may have her hand in marriage, but not her heart … and he considers it a challenge to win that as well some day.
No matter, the bat warrior tells himself, as he walks past his wife, and out to the landing, where a city patrol ship – the Vigilant Eye, is tethered. I will make this child my son, and he will learn the honor of House Karada. With Tekkis' guile, and Karada's strength, perhaps he shall one day rule Babel.
He breaks away from these promises to his own heart when he sees that the crew of the patrol vessel is still at leisure … and that the vessel is the only one on the pad. He walks out into the open air on the platform that juts out over the city, and demands of the nearest crewman, "Where is the Screaming Star? They should have come in for the exchange by now."
The crewman just shrugs in ignorance, earning a blow across the cheek from the captain.
"If you don't know, then find out!" Karada nearly shrieks.
The crewman staggers to his feet, and snaps out his wings, fluttering to the deck of the small rakhtor-drawn craft, squeaking to the others. Karada lands close behind. "This may be a holiday night, but city patrol still sticks to a tight schedule! Shove off immediately! Battai, scan to see if you can find them on the perimeter. Kenoa, send off a flare."
As he says this, Karada realizes that "flares" are already going off all over the city in early anticipation of midnight. Could it be that the Screaming Star has encountered trouble, and its warning flare has been mistaken for just another firework?
In short order, the two rakhtors are roused, the lines are cast off, and the Vigilant Eye lifts off from the platform, quickly making its way toward the edge of the city – No sense, after all, in remaining over the city itself too long, and tempting a rival house into deliberately aiming some fireworks at it to prompt an "accident".
"There it is, sir!" Battai squeaks, pointing down at one of the platforms. "It's docked at Checkpoint One."
Thoughts race through Karada's head as he tries to make sense of this. If Screaming Star is still at Checkpoint One, that means … "Full speed to the perimeter!" he barks out. "South Checkpoint! The orders must have been scrambled! And Battai, please tell me you see another patrol craft that just got sent up in place of the Screaming Star, and this was just a minor schedule mix-up!"
As the craft passes South Checkpoint, there is no sign of any other patrol craft in the air … not even over the other city checkpoints. Karada's ears blanch at the gross oversight. A gap in security of this magnitude is positively unthinkable … unprecedented … and heads are likely to roll for it.
"There!" Battai cries out, "I see one … in the no-fly zone! Sir! It just dropped something!"
Karada turns around just in time to see the brilliant displays of the fireworks lifting off from the city – many of them misfiring, as tends to happen on the surface – and the grand spectacle of the best that the Mages' Guild can muster on any given night. And, amidst it all … he can pick out, in the occasional flashes, a hurtling object dropping … over the Palace. He races through ideas in his head of just what could be happening … it could be a barrel of gunpowder, which will explode when it reaches a high enough level of quantum uncertainty, but what would one barrel do against …
And then the sky shatters. A display unlike any other he has seen flashes before his eyes … but he recalls the tales from spies in the Himar Region. There is only one weapon that he can think of that would be used in this way … and it was not so long ago stolen from the Nagai at Fetiss Sky Island by the Knights Templar. He knows. He was there. It was there that he lost his eye and part of his ear, and a great deal of his pride.
The clap of air rushing in to fill the suddenly created vacuum brings with it tremendous winds that toss the airship about. Kenoa has the presence of mind to pull the emergency release to let the rakhtors loose. As the ship buckles and begins to break up, Captain Karada shouts the order to abandon ship, though he can't hear his own voice.
A moment later, after being tossed about like a leaf on the wind, he is able to regain his bearings … but his keen sense of hearing is all but drowned out by a constant, painful ringing in his ears. He has to rely on his one good eye rather than his ears to navigate, and sees his crippled, deflating airship dropping, out of control, toward … a vast pit cut into the heart of the city.
He half expects to see a red plateau sprouting up there, perhaps rivaling the size of the Tower of Babel … but instead there is just a more or less circular hole, its circumference broken only by the base of the Tower itself, which evidences some sort of immunity to the effects of the terrible weapon, as it juts into the gap.
Split buildings along the perimeter collapse under their own weight, crashing down – silently, by his perspective – into the pit, knocking up great clouds of dust.
Karada lands on a building along the perimeter … one that he dearly hopes will stand long enough for him to survey the devastation. He picks out a few landmarks along the edge, and mentally triangulates. Not any surprise, but the Palace is – was – about dead center. The Mages' Guild … it should be on the very edge … but, no, it's gone.
Then, realization dawns on him of further implications. The ziggurat of House Tekkis … should be there … and the tower of House Karada … his home … should be … there. There's no room for error.
Images flash through his mind of his wife, his daughters, his infant son … yes, his son, the one for whom he had not but a few moments earlier been dreaming up grand plans. He remembers what he was told of the working of the "Boomer" … that it swaps the target area with someplace else … and here … there is nothing to take its place. Nothing.
His mind rebels against the possibilities that come to mind. His house is there. His family is there. He stands there for a stunned moment, and then snaps out his wings once more.
Into the pit he dives, screaming out their names, though he cannot hear his own voice.
Lochinvar wakes up with a start, and it takes a few seconds for realization to dawn upon him that he is himself – as silly as that revelation might seem to the uninitiated – and that he is in his bed, in his room that his parents have kept reserved for him for whenever he might come to visit.
This has become a morning ritual for him, for every night since his meeting with Rephath, she has haunted his dreams with these visions of death and doom … testimonies to the tragedy that befell Babel … testimonies of those who were there.
At least she hasn't been playing with his mind like she did with the false memory of the shadow-creature … making him believe that Dalton and Ariecha had been slain, and that the creature had betrayed him. Still, the endless barrage of death and despair has been wearing on him, and Rephath herself hasn't shown up in his dreams for him to have a chance to so much as voice a protest – not in her territory, leastwise.
More pleasant sensations reach Lochinvar's nose, however, as it smells like breakfast is being prepared. Before he has a chance to guess at what his parents might be fixing, his door bursts open, and in spills his cousin, Charaz – a full-blood Vartan who, to the amazement of some who are not familiar with Lochinvar's family, sports markings almost identical to Lochinvar's … save for the lack of a coyote muzzle and other distinctly Hekoye features.
"Lochy! Are you all right?" he scrawks as he gets back up off his digitigrade knees and onto his hooves, flapping his wings for support, having bowled into the room a little too hastily for his balance.
Lochinvar turns to look at Charaz, after staring at nothing in particular in front of him. He nods a little, and replies, "Couple of bad dreams."
Charaz's beak hangs open for a bit, then he shakes his head. "Aw … your folks said you were having nightmares, but … I didn't know they were that bad." He poses at the door, running his fingers through his feathery ruff on the top of his head, looking embarrassed. "Uh … well … sorry, and all. Auntie invited me over for breakfast this morning. Guess I got here a bit early." He scratches at his beak a moment, then asks, "Hey, what are they like? Are they about that shadow creature?"
The winged Hekoye sits up, grabbing the sheets as he swings his legs around to the side of the bed, grumbling slightly as a wing catches on the other side of the bed. "Not recently," he replies. "These dreams … I feel almost like I'm living someone else's memories. Places I've never been, people I've never seen."
Charaz's eyebrows raise. "Whoa. Yeah. I've had dreams like that. I dreamt once that I was Baron Bonebreaker … ah … he's from a book. Strongest Vartan in the world." The ends of his beak turn up in a sheepish grin. "Anyway, I'm glad to hear you're not having nightmares about the creature. I mean … I've been hearing a lot of talk about that, but … well, I was wanting to slip it into a conversation somehow and not sound like I'm gushing or anything, but I just wanted to let you know that I think that was incredibly heroic of you. I wish I could be like you! Maybe someday I will be." He sees Lochinvar starting to get up, and looks about. "Anything I can get for you? Make myself useful?"
Lochinvar smiles a little. "Little cousin, I don't feel like a hero, nor did I ever want to be," he says. "And don't try to be like me; I'm sure that you will achieve many great things by being yourself."
Charaz brightens. "And you're humble, too!" He pokes Lochinvar on the shoulder, winking. "You hate all the attention, don't you?"
Putting a hand to his shoulder in mock-pain, grinning slightly, the Vartan/Hekoye nods. "I never asked for the attention, no," he says. "It gets in the way."
Charaz shrugs. "Well, true heroes don't ask for it. Deny it all you want, but you're a role model!" He grins widely. "I'm just proud I picked you as a role model first before it became popular!" He chuckles to himself. "It's fun to see you squirm with all that gushing. Eh … all right, I'll tone it down. I'm still down-right proud to have you as a relative. And don't you let folks get you down. You know how we are … afraid of magic … for good reason, too, but sometimes we see a little magic imp behind every stone. You just have to keep to what you know is right, even if people are badgering you for it." He mock punches at Lochinvar. "Badger-badger-badger! Ha!"
At the mock punching, Lochinvar jumps off the bed and grabs Charaz around the neck in a slightly playful manner (holding his sheet around him with his other hand). "Gotcha!" he says, grinning, and holding the younger Vartan bent over a little. "Haven't I told you to quit the 'Badger' thing before?"
Charaz squirms a bit, and makes a "Gahhhh!" sound of protest, then goes, "All right, all right! No badgering!"
Lochinvar releases his cousin. "Good, now – maybe you could give me a few moments for me to get ready for the morning?"
The younger Vartan makes a show of gasping for breath. "Wheeeeze! Ah … all right. But, hey, I want to hear about these dreams, all right? Anything that makes you holler like that in the morning has to be a real doozie!"
"I'll think about it," replies the winged Hekoye. "Now, get out of here, okay?"
Charaz laughs, and darts out of the room.
"And close the door!" Lochinvar calls after him, then sighs, going over to close it himself. "Never mind."
