Authors: Vera Nazarian
He recognized the gathering twilight.
T
he blond man lay on his back, watching through slitted eyes the abyss of dark shapes of the trees overhead. Only a little distance away was the small campfire, and its shadows were cast erratically upon the ebony succulent leaves of the great tree. He did not bother to turn his head, aware that the man and the woman were still there, seated near the fire.
The leaves, moving in the cool night wind, took on various forms in the darkness. He lay, breathing lightly, softly, thinking of the man seated next to the fire, probably like a stone statue of sorrow, the man who was Lord Vaeste, his brother. And he thought of the woman who was still and stoic, also paused silently in her own reverie before the fire, probably staring past the silver flames, while her fingers curled around the warm mug of tea.
They were fools, both of them, he thought, his mind growing heavy and muddled, while the leaves in the branches whispered and slithered, moving before his weary eyes in an endless swaying pattern.
Patterns of gray and slate charcoal interspersed with black. The sounds of night cicadas dancing in his auditory sense. Candescence and steel, black and dull grizzle, all moving like shadow soldiers across his closed eyelids—for they had closed now, and he had not even noticed. And he was beginning to spiral in the heavy warmth that came just before the nightly oblivion of sleep.
It seemed that one of the gray shadows took on a shape like a warrior of metal and darkness, flying past him on a great war stallion, becoming clearer suddenly, drawing into distinct focus, taking on a form separate from the night—
There was a warmth that suddenly gathered inside him, deep near his belly, in the lower regions, in the solar plexus. He lay, while the world seemed to spin all around and fall away, drawn by that gathering of warmth. And the soldier neared him still, no longer astride but walking, rich shadows flying past, and from somewhere, suddenly, blossomed a gathering of pinpoint stars of light.
Strange, rich living light, moving to saturate the inside of his eyelids, incomprehensible at first, until suddenly, a memory came, and with it the shock of recognition—
Red
.
Elasirr shuddered, coming out of his groggy half-slumber, and yet simultaneously sinking into what was a dream—and he knew it for such.
He stared with wide-open eyes, finding himself in some other
place
, and yet knowing he had not truly gone, for it was an unearthly plane and he was heady, disembodied almost.
And all around him, growing brighter by the second, was a bizarre terrible glow. The world filled with an unnatural blending
color
, and that
color
was everywhere, in the imaginary sky, the very air. . . .
Red.
He looked at himself and saw his body, nude, and bathed in a radiance like a thousand
Red
Rivers of the
Red
Quarter, a thousand broken orbs of spilled light that was
crimson, scarlet, vermilion, rose madder, flame
.
And suddenly before him, the form of
red
fire became concrete, as the
red warrior
clad in tongues of
scarlet
stood before him in the scalding
blood coral
vapor of his dream. And this figure was the source of all this impossible
red
, an angry fierce inferno.
Who are you?
Elasirr spoke, hearing his voice from an inner tunnel in his own mind. There was no fear in him, as always, instead, an openness. For, once again, the assassin flirted with his favorite lover, the unknown, the terror that was just beyond reach. Even in this dream state, he remained sardonic.
The form of
red
light closed in on him, and he thought he could see great muscle-bound arms, traces of intricate armor of ages past, antique and remote, and terrifying. And the head of the
red
one wore a helmet with a closed mask of
vermilion
flame, which then opened, and he saw a
face
.
The face of the
red warrior
was scarred with blood, and yet was beautiful like anger could be beautiful.
And
he
who was rage incarnate opened
his
eyes.
With a shock that pierced his heart for the second time, Elasirr knew
him
at last, the one Tilirreh who is
Werail
, the Passion of the world.
You know me well
, came a voice like the howl of cannon and the sharp smell of gunpowder, like the clanging of sword upon shield.
What do you want, Werail?
continued Elasirr insolently.
You answer me now, but not when I had called upon the Tilirr in the Shrine. Why did you come instead of the lady of love?
You are mine,
replied the thunder.
I come to you precisely out of your need.
Elasirr, bathed in the hot flaming
blood
-light, threw his head back and laughed, undaunted in his dream.
I need nothing, o Tilirreh!
he exclaimed,
especially not you!
And yet,
replied the
warrior
wrought of shadows,
you called me, as you knelt before the altar. It was my face and none other you saw in the candle burning bright like your anger
.
The eyes of the
red
one flashed, and
he
reached out with a great fist of gathered blood and flame, and struck Elasirr in the chest.
Agony!
A billion splintered razors of
scarlet
and
poppy
, and Elasirr doubled over, clutching himself, falling down on his knees as angry fire-agony washed over him.
Tell me you do not feel it now?
said
Werail
, and his own laughter came booming over the whole world.
It is your need
, spoke the
red
man,
it is your pain and fury and passion. It answers me loud and clear.
But Elasirr, proud even now, spoke words that he knew had to be said.
What of Tronaelend-Lis?
asked the assassin.
Tell me what must we do to save the City from a threat that is coming to us even now?
Werail
looked at him and through him. And then, the thunder dimmed, and was more like a whisper,
You ask, and I will indeed show you. Behold, the Enemy of the City, your Enemy! He comes to you, and you must know him beforehand . . . Now look!
And suddenly a vista stretched before Elasirr’s eyes. Still bathed in flame, he watched through a curtain of
red
the City that he knew so well, Tronaelend-Lis, from a bird’s-eye view.
There were towers, bathed in the
crimson
world-glow, and walls of stone, and familiar pinnacles. And as a bird, he flew overhead, tumbling faster than thought, passing all familiar sights—
Dirvan
, the Palace, the heart of the wheel, the ring of the Arata, the Quarters, the Outer Fringes, the gates of grand stone.
And outside beyond the city gates, together with the rising fiery disk of a sun that was like a drop of blood, came a serpent of pure darkness.
The serpent started out on the horizon, silhouetted against the orb of the sun, and neared, gathering thickness, along the eastern road. It was a black army, Elasirr saw.
The army numbered thousands. Greater than any known in their time, in the past hundred years. They wore armor of ebony, matte deadly iron, unpolished, and absorbing all light. They came mounted on tall great beasts that were not quite horse, not quite animal.
They bore no banners, the slithering serpent army. Instead, at the head of the serpent, between the two eyes, rode a figure of congealed absolute non-presence, a vacuum.
He is your Enemy
, spoke
Werail
into Elasirr’s heart.
And you already know his name. I show him to you now, because your need requires it
.
The figure of absolute dark nothingness reposed upon a platform wrought of beast and man and machinery, a weapon of war that was also somehow an extension of his non-presence.
He is the one Vorn serves, the one whose name is not to be spoken, the Twilight One
, whispered Elasirr. And a new wave of anger came to rise in him, while the eyes of
Werail
bore through him, somewhere on the other side of this panoramic view.
His lens narrowed, and like a bird he flew closer, swooping in to the head of the darkness, to the seated figure shaped outwardly like a man, wearing the night around him.
The Twilight One wore a helmet of fierce angular horror, matte black metal, and the visor was raised to show a skin darker even than that of Lord Vorn, features formed like carbon and coal and yet perfect in their shape.
And as Elasirr looked on, his fascination turning cold even in this dream state, the face of the Twilight One slowly turned, and the eyes focused directly on him.
They were
red
, the eyes.
And yet, unlike the clean burning source of all
red
that was
Werail
, this was a sickly shadow-
red
, deep and low like a dying ember, just before the night closes in.
And in that instant of meeting those inhuman eyes, Elasirr realized suddenly that the other had
seen
him, somehow.
And with that awareness, he was slammed back into a dark vortex, and all around him was only the clean-burning
red
that was the Tilirreh.
Werail!
cried out Elasirr, forgetting pride.
You must come back into the world, to help us in this struggle! The Enemy is stronger than I had ever imagined
.
But the
red warrior
stood before his mind’s eye, and
his
simmering passion began to recede as
he
too started to turn away.
Wait!
continued Elasirr,
I entreat you, O Tilirreh! What must I do to persuade you to return?
I may not return
, whispered the voice of low thunder, as the shadow form of
color
light continued walking along an invisible plane, growing smaller, more distant.
For you must first touch the Rainbow. And that will never be
. . . .
The
red
about him faded, and Elasirr heard his own voice raised in a howling cry, against his own volition, while the warmth inside him faded.
What can I do?
he cried to the skies of his own mind.
What is it that remains for us, then, but oblivion? Why did you show me the Enemy and then leave me? Why?
And then, in the swirling monochrome dusk, another form took shape, and a different voice sounded, like a great distant ocean of coolness.
Because this Enemy is the Enemy of us all
. . . .
There was a pooling in his vision, a gathering of pixels, a swelling wave of rich light that moved in upon him, and he was suddenly swept away in a smooth great slow pattern that was different altogether.
And the light about him slowly focused into a richness, and again he recognized it with a shock, for he had also seen it before. . . .
Blue
.
And with it, came a sense of many layers, cool
cerulean
water flowing against his bare flesh, slivering
azure
along his chest, and soothing the angry passion that had surfaced with the coming of
Werail
.
For now,
Werail
had gone. And in his stead was another.
Koerdis
.
The Tilirreh of
blue
bore the shape of a man that was ageless, neither young nor old, but like a boundless
sapphire
sea.
His
eyes were cold as ice and yet perfectly fair, for here was Truth incarnate.
Look at me
, spoke the Tilirreh with a voice like the passing of the ages.
I am Order and Reason, and I also live within you. You called me from beyond the candle flame, as you called Werail, and because of your need, I am here. I am your pride.
Elasirr met the gaze of the terrible peaceful eyes almost unflinchingly, although in truth, he burned at the contact of gaze to gaze, truth to inner self.
Koerdis
, he uttered,
what greater truth can you tell me then? I have seen the Enemy but not the way to defeat him. I must know, O Tilirreh!
The radiant impossible
lapis
ice of the eyes was upon him, chilling like winter, like a watery wind of
color
.
You know the answer already
, spoke the
blue
form, stilling him with its simplicity.
You were shown the Enemy, and only you alone know what you can do. Face it, now!
With that harshness, the reality was indeed there before him. And Elasirr recognized what it was that he had to do—what he could do, what he had been doing all along.