“Explain,” she demanded.
“Explain what?” I dissembled. She stuck her finger in my face and nearly growled.
”You don’t get to act stupid after that little display. You know exactly what I mean. You’ve never studied magic, but you can drop Algentir’s sixth method like you’re reciting the alphabet? I haven’t learned that yet, and I’m an Adept—the Tower recognizes my ability and allows me to practice magic independently. So, explain, now!” she said, irritation seeping in.
I leaned back, mind racing. She was too smart, and this was dangerous. I bought time by scanning the alley. There were ventilation pipes overhead that released tiny clouds of condensation and covered the wall with heavy droplets. A faint mechanical hum came from a window on the second story. Ester cleared her throat and tapped her foot impatiently.
“Alright! What do you know about the... magic circle the Urallites had me in when we first met?” I asked. She shook her head.
“No, we’re not playing that game. I’m not giving you hints, so you can mold a perfect answer with just enough of the truth that you think I’ll be satisfied. You know what you aren’t saying, so tell me! All of it,” she said, planting her hands on her hips.
I glanced to the rooflines above. Even here, half of the night sky was obscured by haphazard pathways wedged between the buildings. Nothing moved up there, but unease bubbled and frothed in my chest. There could be ears anywhere. I felt for the coin in my pocket and rubbed its edge. The big bad wolf had come to blow my house down—and he was a small woman with a head of brown curls and angry blue eyes.
“Could the Inquisition or the Kingsmen—or anyone, really—be listening to us?” I asked cautiously. Ester’s glare intensified.
“Maybe, if they didn’t have more important things to do—like investigate the largest attack on the city since the last war, for example,” she said, sarcasm dripping.
“Then, no,” I said bluntly. Ester blinked, momentarily confused before exploding.
“No?! What do you mean, ‘no’? I deserve answers, Daivon—and I’m not going to—” she started. I held up my hands to cut her off.
“Stop, Ester, and think. You’re clever; do you think you would need an explanation from me if there was a simple answer? I’ve had not one, but two, different encounters with those cultists. If I was with the Inquisition, I would investigate me. Look, I haven’t known you for long, but you’re one of the only people I trust here. I don’t want to freeze you out, but I can’t tell you about this if someone else might hear,” I said.
We stared at each other for a long time. My heart pounded in my ears as the minutes stretched. This could have been the end of our nascent friendship, brittle and frail as it was. Finally, she huffed and looked away. I exhaled and eyed my shaking hands. How long had they been doing that—and had she seen them?
“Fine. I know a place we can talk. Let’s go,” she muttered. She led the way out of the alley without even glancing back. Did that mean she trusted me—or that she couldn’t bare the sight of me? I was scared to find out.
We walked for fifteen minutes through the dark backstreets. No other living soul crossed our path, except for the mice. I idly wondered how the rodents hadn’t died out with almost everything else, but evidently life—uh—finds a way. We ignored them and they scurried out of our way.
Ester’s skirts swished just above the ground as we dodged puddles that had frozen over and uneven patches of paving bricks. We exited the dingy lanes and stepped onto a major cobblestone road. Small shops with their nearly-neon signs lined the sides of the sidewalks and a few groups of people flittered in and out. Ester pointed out a squat building that stood apart from the others.
It was only three stories tall—diminutive by comparison to the rest of the city and on par with the wealthy manors. The facade was made from panels of smooth black marble with streaks of gold and turquoise. Four large pillars stretched from the ground to the bottom of the highest level, which was cantilevered over the street. Two large wooden doors were swung open on top of a half-flight of wide stairs and revealed a well-lit antechamber.
Without comment, Ester strode into the building with me a half-step behind. Inside, rows of benches formed an aisle that led to a large metal counter where a young woman sat on a tall stool. A few other people occupied the benches, quietly chatting in small groups, but Ester ignored them and walked directly to the counter.
“Hello again, Ester! I see you brought a friend this time,” the woman said. Ester nodded.
“Yes, I’d like to take him into the archives,” Ester said. The clerk leaned over and retrieved a tray from somewhere out of sight, placing it in front of us. It was split into two sections: one had identical half-masks that would cover the mouth and nose while the other compartment held thin gloves that were attached to metal cuff bracelets. Ester passed me a pair of the gloves and a mask before putting hers on. The woman behind the counter looked at me.
“Do you have anything that could be used to start a fire on you? If so, leave it with me. Bringing flame into the Library—even on accident—is punishable by death. Always check before entering,” she said with a stern look. I took her advice and double-checked, but I didn’t have anything like that. She smiled and gave me a prepared speech.
“No weapons, no water or food, no blades of any kind, no animals, no powders or liquids, and absolutely no sources of fire are allowed in the Library. You may not destroy, deface, obstruct, or obfuscate any of the materials. Copies of any of the materials must be obtained through the archivists’ official lending and duplication services; no other means are permitted. Before leaving, return any books to their original positions or to one of the return bins. Do not place a book on a different shelf or leave it carelessly strewn around the library,” she recited. I nodded along; I was well-prepared to listen to long security spiels thanks to the TSA.
Satisfied with our responses, the clerk gave Ester a parting wave and we left through an open archway that led to a wide spiral staircase. The stairs went both up and down, but we walked to the ‘down’ side and slowly descended. After two complete twists, we entered a huge open chamber below ground. It had an arched ceiling with support ribs and several dozen rows of tall bookshelves. Soft aether light filled the room from sturdy chandeliers and sconces along the walls.
Organized clusters of tables and chairs filled the chamber and formed seating sections where figures sat studying thick tomes. Closed doors with small windows lined the room on three sides. I took another step and my entire system winked off. I flinched and looked around wildly. Ester saw my distress and rolled her eyes.
“The library suppresses all magic and aether constructs. Mages are a source of fire, so they have to be controlled while in here,” she said. I hesitated, but hurried to catch up when she turned and kept walking. I barely used my system, so it wasn’t much of a disadvantage for me. We followed the stairs down three more twists before making it to the ground level.
Ester cut through the main room and brought me into one of the small side rooms. It held a single table and booth seating on three sides, enough to fix six people comfortably. We closed the door behind us and slid into the seats across from each other.
“The null field is the main reason we’re here. So, talk,” she said, guarded.
“Are you sure no one else could listen in here?” I asked.
“Nothing is perfectly secure, Daivon. If Haylomar wanted your secrets, not even the Wastes would be safe. Every construct has flaws, but you aren’t going to find a better place any time soon. It’s here or nowhere—and it had better be here,” she said, expression hardening.
I took a deep breath and looked around, stalling to gather my thoughts. An array of white lights overhead bathed the room in soft shadows. The table was a grey metal—probably steel—and had a matte finish. The booths were soft with lush cushioning and cloth lining. I drummed my fingers on the table and met Ester’s gaze.
“Master Bluebell said, ‘memory maketh the man’. Do you believe that, too?” I asked. Ester nodded slowly, narrowing her eyes.
“That’s most of what a weave is: a self-sustaining record of our decisions and experiences. Our memories... are us,” she said. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat.
“Then... I’m not Daivon Khan,” I said.
It was done. My secret was out. The Inquisition was either listening or they weren’t. The die was cast and I had thrown my lot in with Ester, hoping she wouldn’t blame me for my circumstances. I was flooded with a giddy lightheadedness as a subtle weight lifted off my chest. No matter what she decided, I wouldn’t have to lie to her anymore.
Ester’s expression softened slightly, and she sighed, shaking her head.
“It’s not as simple as that. Identity is partially mediated by the people around us—I am my mother’s daughter as much as I am myself. You are still Daivon, even if you lost most of yourself. That’s a secret benefit of community, I suppose: part of you can never be lost because we carry the memory for you,” she said.
That was... incredibly insightful, but also a complete misunderstanding. I cringed and rubbed one temple. This was going to be far worse the second time.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not Daivon because... I’m a different person entirely. I never lost my memories—as far as I can tell, at least. I remember my whole life—it just isn’t Daivon’s,” I said.
Ester froze, her back stiffening. Her eyes darted from me to the door and back. She bit her lip and hugged herself, creating another barrier between us. Seconds of silence stretched on until she furrowed her brow.
“I scanned you. So did Edacien. You’re not a demon or a ghoul—we would have seen that—so... what are you?” she asked quietly.
“Human; I was born that way and it has never changed. I’m just... not from here, and somehow got stuffed into Daivon’s body through the cultists’ ritual,” I said in a near-whisper. Ester barely moved, taking shallow breaths.
“And... Daivon? Where is he?” she asked. I hung my head.
“He... he died, fighting a demon. I heard them and came running. It got the upper hand, so I shot it as quickly as I could. It went down and I finished it off, but... the death throes... Daivon died and then I was pulled here, somehow. I’m—I’m sorry,” I said, choking up at the end. Tears streamed down Ester’s cheeks, and we stared into each other’s eyes in silence. After a time, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and sniffled.
“You said you’re not from here—where are you from, then? Quionsha?” she asked. I shook my head.
“No. I’m not from this world, at all. I’d never heard of aether before three days ago—well, outside of fiction, at least,” I said. She blinked rapidly, then coughed.
“You’re... from a different world? What—how... what world are you from?” she asked, her voice breaking near the end.
“It’s called Earth. I don’t know where it is, compared to here. Speaking of, what’s the name of this planet? I couldn’t ask before, for... obvious reasons,” I asked. She kept shaking her head in disbelief.
“This... this is Aeshu. Are you sure you aren’t from here? You speak our language... perfectly. That shouldn’t be possible,” she said, confusion and distress warring.
“I thought the same thing. I wasn’t sure this was a different world, at first, but it definitely is. For one, Earth’s sun is fine: it’s bright in the day and only dark at night, or in shadows. And, like I said, there’s no aether there. At least, I thought there wasn’t...” I explained. Grandpa’s tombstone surprise challenged that idea quite effectively. Ester stared at me, bewildered, before abruptly standing and moving towards the door. My heart sank, but she turned and waved for me to follow.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Come on, I need you to see something,” she said.
Ester led me to the bookshelves, near the middle of the set. The shelves were sturdy and tall, with thick beams underneath the flat portions and hefty pylons holding the structures up. Books of all sizes and colors rested behind sliding glass panels. Some looked ancient—with crackling leather covers and faded writing along the spines—while others were still bright and crisp. We stopped in front of a section that was filled with older specimens and Ester carefully slid a panel open, pulling out a dark tome.
It was bound in leather dyed navy-blue and fraying at the edges. The front showed a faded drawing of an enormous white whale jumping out of a stormy ocean. Something about the image seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Ester cradled it like a small infant and looked up at me.
“When Mrs. Basil and I met you outside Ravenspoint, you said something about a sea full of ‘sharks’. I thought you must have been referencing this book. Not many people have read it—it’s considered esoteric fantasy, mostly filled with nonsensical terms and places. It was odd that... you... would know of it but not most other things. Is anything about it familiar?” she said, flipping it open and past a few pages before handing it to me. I started reading.
CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
Call me Ishmael.
And immediately stopped, almost dropping it. Ester squeaked, but I kept ahold of it without damage. I thrust it back into her arms and leaned heavily against a pylon, shaking from head to toe. That line was legendary—and from Earth. For just a second, I was sixteen again, watching the classroom clock tick towards lunchtime. I’d been forced to read another copy of the same book in high school. It was impossible for it to be here—or should have been impossible. It was undeniable physical proof of a connection between the two worlds, beyond my own existence.
“How is this here?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. Ester watched me with concern.
“Most of the relics are recovered from the Wastes. Books in particular are highly valued—you never know what lost knowledge they might contain. What does it mean to you?” she asked.
“It’s... from my home. The events are fiction, but the places and things? Most of them are real. I’ve read it before; it’s arguably the most famous book from my country, if a bit outdated. Old things tend to be that way. The fact that it’s here...” I explained quietly.
Ester examined the book for a time, then gently returned it to the shelf. She looked around and then removed another, showing it to me. It was red and bound with loose cloth. The front was bare except for large golden lettering. The Trials of the Last Incarnate. No recognition stirred. I turned to Ester quizzically. She looked disappointed.
“It’s in a similar category—very mysterious and full of gibberish words. Most of the time, it almost makes sense, but then jumps wildly into strange concepts and words as if they were common knowledge. I was hoping... but no. Maybe some of the others will be familiar, too?” she said.
She showed me dozens more books, all old and heavy, but I didn’t recognize any others. We spent an hour standing there and searching the shelves, carefully examining tome after tome until Ester gave up. She rested her head and shoulder against the shelf, scanning me up and down with her eyes. Her expression was unreadable.
“So, what should I call you?” she asked out of nowhere. I frowned, thinking.
“That’s... a good question. I have my own name, obviously, but that’s not what my system will say—or what anyone else knows me as. Would it be safe to tell people about... my situation, openly?” I asked.
“Oh, certainly not. It’s astounding that the Inquisition didn’t catch you the first time. There are at least three different High Mages that would want to dissect you and study your weave. You... didn’t let Edacien keep a copy of your scan, did you?” she asked. I snorted and shook my head.
“It seemed like a terrible idea,” I said, chuckling.
“Good. Eddy’s wonderful, really, but he can be a little... obsessive when something interesting comes along. But you haven’t answered my question,” she observed.
“It’s probably best that I keep going by Daivon here... if that doesn’t bother you,” I said. She looked away.
“It... it does bother me. We grew up together, went to the same plays and parties, and even had the same few friends. When I look at you, I see him. The same eyes. The same smile. I know you have to use his name with everyone else, but... I don’t know if I can,” she said, her voice fragile and falling off. I felt her pain and struggled to find an answer. Sayings and folktales came to mind, but nothing to comfort her.
“I understand. Where I come from, they say that names have power. To name something is to gain power over it,” I said. I looked around idly, but my eyes were drawn to the first book she had shown me. A small smile bloomed on my face.
“Call me Ishmael,” I told her. Ester frowned.
“That’s not your name, is it?” she ask, dubious.
“No, but it can be our inside joke. If anyone overhears you calling me that and asks about it, you can say that we both read that book and thought it was a good nickname between friends,” I said. She raised an eyebrow but shrugged.
“Fine, keep your secrets,” she said. I nearly choked, but she didn’t look like it was a deliberate reference. She looked concerned at my reaction for a moment, but I shook my head and looked away, smiling.
“What are your plans for... everything?” she asked. I scratched the back of my head absently.
“What else? World domination, human sacrifice, a little mass-murder—the usual fare for interdimensional invasions,” I said with a straight face. Her eyes bugged out and she took a half-step back. I cracked and began laughing—quietly; it was a library, after all. She recovered and glared at me, crossing her arms.
“That’s not funny.”
“It was a little funny. You should have seen your face.”
“I’m serious! Don’t say things like that.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of a ‘coping mechanism’? Please don’t try to take mine away.”
Ester rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Big baby. One little discorporation and now you have to cope.”
“Hey, that’s not funny. I’m trying here.”
“It was a little funny. But really, what are your plans?”
I resisted the urge to continue bantering and thought. What were my plans? My goals hadn’t changed, but I wasn’t much closer to achieving them. With Ester now in the know, I would be able to learn faster and get help without drawing too much suspicion.
“I want to know how I got here, and how to get home—if I can get home. I’ll have to come back here often and search through all the books, in case I recognize any more. Maybe there will be a pattern or some hint there. You mentioned that most of these come from outside the city?” I asked. Ester nodded cautiously.
“Then I might take the Adventurers up on their offer. They’re going on an expedition soon; I could look for more clues out there,” I said. Ester threw her hands up, exasperated.
“Again?! Adventuring is dangerous. You should know that, after everything you said this morning. You might have to go out there eventually, but in the meantime, you can stay here, where most of the books they find will ultimately end up,” she said.
“That’s the thing, I nearly died inside the city yesterday, while surrounded by fighters. You said it yourself: nothing is perfectly secure. Dangers are everywhere here. If it isn’t Stalkers in the Wastes, it’ll be cultists in the city,” I said. Ester just shook her head.
We walked in silence down the rows of books, lost in our own thoughts. We returned to our small study room and sat awkwardly for a few seconds. Ester broke the tension.
“Tell me about your home. About Earth,” she said. I sat back and blew out through my lips.
I told her about life on Earth, how I’d grown up, and what my hometown was like. She listened with rapt attention as I described the vast cornfields that surrounded the small farming town and the movie theatre my friends and I frequented after school as teenagers. She was shocked to learn that every child—regardless of family’s standing or wealth—was required to attend at least twelve years of education.
I told her about smartphones and the internet. She was immediately enthralled with the idea of instantaneous communication with everyone anywhere in the world. Cars and long-distance travel seemed equally magical to her. She accused me of lying when I got to airplanes.
“How is any of that possible? I can tell you believe what you are saying, but it boggles the mind. The cars—I suppose our carriages could be improved for speed and distance, but to travel so far? And flight? Without magic? How is life even possible without aether?” she asked, mystified. I shrugged.
“Aether does not exist on Earth, as far as I knew. We haven’t discovered everything about nature—and the origins of life are a big uncertainty still, although there are some theories. Flight is surprisingly simple, once you know how it’s done—but flying well is a different story,” I said.
Ester looked off wistfully. I let her have a moment. Eventually, she shook herself and sighed.
“I spent a lot of my childhood here, in the Library. Many of the books are factual—reference material and philosophy treatises. Those can be interesting—and I certainly value them, even to this day—but the novels were always my favorite. I could open a book and be transported to another world, or another time. It must not seem amusing to you, now, but for me—those were some of the best times of my life,” Ester said.
“Many people felt the same, from my world. The best stories would keep me up at night, refusing to sleep so I could stay in the author’s mind a little while longer. I wish I could share some of them with you. Maybe when I figure out how our worlds are connected, I’ll be able to bring some over,” I said. Ester look surprised.
“Would you do that? Come back to Aeshu if you could be home instead? The way you described it, Earth seems like a paradise,” she said. I shook my head.
“It’s definitely safer, at least when it comes to monsters and the undead—no such thing there. But if I can travel freely? Why not? Some of our scientists might even be able to help find out what’s really going on with the sun here,” I said.
I went on to give her a bad rendition of my favorite science fiction movie. She interrupted to ask questions and laughed at me when I got flustered or forgot an important plot point and had to backtrack. We talked like that, trading stories and jokes, until hunger woke up and demanded attention. We left the Library lighter and closer than when we had arrived.
We followed the main road back towards the Tower in companionable quiet. When we were only ten minutes away from the huge spire, Ester nodded to a small shop on the right and we drifted over. The building was made from grey stone and stood five stories tall. The door was tarnished bronze and a sign hung over it: Fungi & Friends. The words floated in front of a charming picture of a stylized mushroom. I opened the door and Ester flowed in with a smile.
The inside was cozy, bordering on cramped, but had a playful and whimsical atmosphere with a predominantly earthy color scheme. Towards the back, a pair of cooks watched over a dozen steaming pots that were set into a counter. Ester slid over to them, her curls swaying gently as she skidded to a stop. I smiled ruefully as she peered into each pot, sniffing the fragrant aromas that wafted out. She found one she liked and pointed at it, looking to the cooks.
“Two bowls of the Northern Browncap for us, please!” she said.
One of the cooks grunted, placing two clean metal bowls on the counter and stirring the pot with a large ladle. He doled out two generous portions into the bowls, producing spoons and cloths seemingly from midair. With practiced motions, he pushed the bowls over to Ester and returned to tending another pot. Ester placed a medium aether container against a small divot in front of her chosen soup pot before turning and handing me one of the bowls. We carried them using the thick cloths like oven mitts.
Picking out a table in the back, we headed over cautiously, careful not to spill the soup. The chairs were light and uncushioned, but the seats were made from a fine metal mesh and were incredibly comfortable. We sat across from each other and I kept the door in the corner of my eye. Ester was oblivious to everything except the soup. She stirred her bowl, blowing gently on the surface. The spoon came up to her lips and she closed her eyes, slurping loudly. The following moan seemed... indecent. I laughed and she cracked one eye open, catching me staring. She crossed her arms, looking between my face and my bowl expectantly.
Shaking my head, I dipped my spoon in and followed her example, cooling the soup just enough to not burn myself. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten—and I’d had pizza before. The rich mushrooms, the spices and seasonings in the broth, and the slightly crunchy fresh vegetables all combined to form the Platonic ideal of a mushroom soup. Such flavor should not exist on the mortal plane, and Ester’s reaction now seemed like a blasphemous understatement.
We slowly worked on draining our bowls, trying to savor the decadent experience for as long as possible. Sometime while I was distracted, a young man had moved onto a small stage in the far corner of the room and sat in a tall chair there. He was holding an acoustic guitar. My spoon paused halfway to my open mouth, lowering after a second. Ester caught my look and turned to see the man as he adjusted the tuning knobs. She raised an eyebrow to me questioningly. I leaned closer to her across the table.
“I haven’t heard any music since I arrived. I’ve been dying to play guitar since day one, but I didn’t even know they existed here. You have to tell me: where can I get one for myself?” I asked, pitching my voice down so only she would hear. She looked thoughtful and sent me a new pin on my map.
Fret Thirteen
It sounded perfect. The octave was on the twelfth fret for most guitars, but I had noticed Aeshu had a bias towards prime numbers—probably more magic-related chicanery. I smiled and made a note to head there as soon as possible.
“I’d like to hear you play. It would be... a new experience—from you, I mean,” she said. I got the hint: Daivon hadn’t played, so I should be careful. I nodded and continued working on my soup as the musician started playing a gentle melody.
“If music is important to you, you should think about getting an audiomemetic construct from the Tower, or maybe from Fret Thirteen if they have them,” she said. At my confused look, she continued.
“It’s an aether construct that augments your system. It allows you to record and play back sounds from around you. The best ones will even let you search through your weave and play sounds you remember hearing, although those are expensive and the quality of retrieved sounds depends on the strength of the memory,” she said. I dropped my spoon into the bowl.
“I’m getting one. I don’t care how much it costs; I will drown someone in a vat of aether if it means I can have my music back,” I declared. Ester giggled.
We finished our meal and sat listening to the musician for some time. He was pretty good, although the music wasn’t exactly to my tastes. It was pleasant, soft, and inoffensive. I found it a bit boring, but Ester seemed to enjoy it. They might not be ready for Painkiller quite yet. I waved to draw her attention.
“I’ve decided I want to join the Tower. It makes sense, given my circumstances. Do you have any advice for applying?” I asked. Ester shook her head.
“After your demonstration today, you don’t need to worry about it. They’d probably kick someone out just to make sure there was a place for you if they needed to. Just talk to Hapheti the next time you see her; she’ll walk you through the process,” she said.
After some pestering, she relented and gave me a list of introductory reading materials I could look over, explaining that I could use the aether core at home to access them or buy copies from the Tower’s archive or the Library. I thanked her and we sat quietly after that, enjoying each other’s company and the shop’s atmosphere.
It had been a rocky start, but today was looking to be the small slice of calm I’d needed to stay sane.