Page 76 of Into the West

This is fascinating, and gives me a few advantages.

They crossed a threshold declared in paint on the floor and a stack of mage-lights on each side. In the four steps it took to cross it, Kordas felt his magical senses caving in on themselves, as if they were being dammed up, but all of his nonmagical senses were unaffected. Then his magical senses were silent. Very silent, not just quiet. Just—gone, with an absence that felt like an ache. It was—belittling. Demeaning, for anyone to just take away someone’s senses without even a mention. This is a power move and he’s not afraid at all to declare it.

“Oh, it’s good to get that noise out of my head,” Kordas said after a few moments. You want to fence, let’s fence.

“Oh, that,” Silvermoon replied. Dismissive, downplaying. “I’m sure you have one, too. Ours are all over, for convenience for all sorts of things.” Hint that they’re used strategically. “We could surveill you and you wouldn’t find a trace of us magically.” Crafty.

“Well, it is pretty amazing what good loaders can fit on a barge. We’re lucky to have so many strong men and women with the best tools. It feels like we could handle anything we might need to.” Loaders, in this case, obviously standing in for troops. Slight emphasis on need; imply we don’t want conflict but can outperform them in sheer manpower, and that we have superior “tools” of warfare.

“Our greatest strength is always in our people. May they always be our art.” Oh, nice. Okay, I have to admit, that was good. Imply that a majority of approval is needed or we’d collapse while also reinforcing that, as individuals, his people are far more powerful per capita. All right. ‘The people as our art’ means our societies become what we make them—we, specifically, who are in a position of senior power. ‘Our art’ means specifically us, without any Council. That’s all about declaring who is in control here, and it’s us two. He recognizes that we have something in common in workable diplomacy—

All negotiation eventually comes down to two people.

They gave each other a side-eyed look, and stalked, entirely alone, through ever-branching hallways of mixed stone, wood, and sculpture, waterfalls and flowerflows, and ramps, even using their walking as a declaration of attitude. Competitive walking? This is childish. So I’ll do it better. They came to rest in a curve-walled lounge, complete with washroom, filled with maps and instruments as well as comfortable hanging chairs, narrow beds, and mage-lights, adjoining a wide, open-lofted chamber within a dome. For meetings that go very, very long, he surmised. The chamber it opened onto was ringed in benches, tables of all sorts, and odd instruments, and was smooth-paved in gridwalk, which his Tayledras language infusion told him was a markable surface treated to take chalk diagrams and timing notes precisely. Boards of the same stuff were placed around the chamber, as well as one in the lounge. The view was beautifully and artistically lit, giving an effect that Kordas hadn’t even realized was possible until now. Angling and directing light for emotional effect was simply not a thing that would have occurred to him, Kordas realized. He tried to avoid looking at the chamber’s center directly, but even with his discipline, it wanted all of his attention. He found himself actually holding his breath looking at it—

In the center of the chamber, radiating its own version of sunlight sprinkled with flares of light and a nimbus of rotating particles, was a Heartstone.

It glowed from deep within, a sculpture of crystals, glass, purified silver, and steel, scintillating from arcane energy, tapping out rhythms in synchrony to the types of magic going through it/through him/through everything. A slow swell and drop of deep earth world-life-birth magic, a prime beat faster of life-energy-sustainment-intent, backbeat of I-love-you, it-will-be-all-right, you-are-loved-Kordas—

Kordas exhaled quickly, blinking from the lights. Even without mage-sight, he could sense all of that. That weirdly specific emotional impact. He had to admit, he had trouble reconciling that.

“You have been expected. I take it that this needs no introduction.” Silvermoon raised his arm to present the scene. “This is where we do work that affects and influences the world. The number of Vales, outposts, ward-cities, and defense-holds varies, but they are all part of our network of active control points and Heartstones. Each one different, each one especially fine-tuned for its place and constellation. Adjustable, even mobile, in some cases. The number varies, but a fully operational Heartstone can pull ley-lines to itself, link them with other Heartstones, and skim their power for our use.”

By all the gods, that is enough power to obliterate any foe, if it was even casually applied to warfare. And this is what they work with every day? It isn’t even an event for them to move a ley-line around? I had no idea at all that could even be done. I thought too small. And they do it right . . . there.

Silvermoon murmured, in utter honesty, “It will always be a kind of home to me, this place. It’s almost powered down completely now, and I’ll never see it like this again. You know how that feels,” he said with some sadness in his voice. There was genuine affection here. Kordas stayed politely silent. Do the Heartstones have personalities? Are they elemental themselves? Is he going to miss—a friend? The wistfulness in the statement was disarming, but it hinted at much more to be explored. It also signaled personal feeling. Duel suspended. It was a show of honor and respect to let any personal talk be only personal, without applying it to the subtextual maneuvering. As such, it was also a test of empathy and consideration.

“And now, with a lovely view, we will have a discussion with no witnesses,” Silvermoon said, without even attempting to make it sound less ominous than it most certainly did.

Kordas was actively sweating, in the second mark of his occasionally tense leader-to-leader talk with Silvermoon. Boundaries were defined, expansion principles agreed upon, and baseline laws for nature, reserves, wildlife, and stock management were set. Exploration phases were agreed upon. Trade standards were agreed to in theory, dependent upon what yields would be. Expertise was agreed upon, to lead to an estrangement break with the Tayledras more or less completely in a set number of years, and updated according to need. Mutual-aid pacts and non-aggression pacts alike were reasoned out. Kordas bargained up defenses, pointing out that the Tayledras could—and were honestly expected to—build in any bypasses they would need to reassure them in case of armed conflict. Since the Tayledras weren’t threatened in any way by Valdemaran defenses, Kordas argued, then their boosting of essential defenses would only aid the Valdemarans’ survival versus regional dangers, and would ensure they lasted longer as a Tayledras eastern defensive partner. Silvermoon did mention, without explaining, that a fair amount of the region’s northeast was protected by a fellow nation’s ‘hard border,’ but didn’t elaborate. Silvermoon established early on, and bluntly, what Kordas knew, but dreaded: he outright stated that at the moment, the expedition were also hostages for the Tayledras. They were all bunched up—or split up—exactly as the Tayledras placed them, and even their methods of escape were inland and rested on foundations. Kordas had little to bargain with that the Tayledras did not have hundreds of already, and the Hawkbrothers could demand nearly any price of them if they wanted to. Fortunately, the Tayledras had some much different practices concerning goods and properties, and Silvermoon was, in a word, reasonable. Cultural and population exchange, intermarriage, and meeting events were agreed upon, freedoms of passage worked out, and a token set of tributes from Valdemar to their benefactors was worked out based around booze, beer, and bread as starting points. They even made agreements about the city-seeds, as Kordas named them—the utterly alien creatures that the Tayledras cooperated with to create actual buildings like the growing manor and the water-and-waste infrastructure for settlements.

Kordas was brow-furrowed, mentally compacting and splitting blocks of resources for the next round of their brutally honest state-to-state battle of wits, when his attention was split by a polite knock on a side panel. A pair of hertasi in what Kordas thought of as livery uniforms stood side by side at the lounge’s entry, on the far side of its threshold. That is, they seemed to be perfectly respectable hertasi in matching outfits, with knives and short spears sheathed on their persons, bringing picnic baskets. Silvermoon gestured and the pair entered, silently in that way hertasi had. Kordas was learning—when a hertasi didn’t want to be noticed, it just wouldn’t be. It could be unnerving, because even though a hertasi might be silent, it still displaced air when it dashed by or sprang up, and that felt like a spider on the skin. These two, though, made a point of being seen, then went about their work efficiently. They swapped out every glass and tankard for fresh, replaced the fruit plates and mint dip, swapped in a new coal for the chafer, and then, to his surprise, handed him and Silvermoon a sheaf of notes. In quick but legible script was a summary of what had been happening on the surface while they were down here—in Kordas’s case, it bore Herald Beltran’s ink-stamp. There was a list of resources and changes in their amounts, notes on health and manpower, and ten good bits of gossip. Yes, in the annals of history, it shall be forever recorded in Official Documents that ten beets are owed to Mrs. Gully by Goosecatcher Phobro in exchange for a midsized pie pan, and Hoggee Ferbrow has swollen ankles.

The hertasi duo suddenly lined up side by side, bowed in unison, and darted out.

“It’s a dilemma for them. They want to be unobtrusive by nature, but they also do not want to undermine trust during negotiations by slinking around unseen. So they overcompensate, and make sure they’re intrusive,” Silvermoon commented. “In a lot of ways, they are more Tayledras than the Tayledras. They are true friends. They remind us who we are when we forget.”

“That is one of the best things a friend can do. No matter who we are, we can go too far. There’s just no substitute for someone who cares enough to save you from yourself,” Kordas replied.

Silvermoon leaned forward, reaching for some sliced-up orange fruit, which he speared on an eating knife. “In that exact spirit, new friend, I’m going to warn you of some important things, with no pretense otherwise. Both warnings and threats. I speak for the Clan and the Tayledras in general when I tell you—don’t interfere with us. Keep to yourselves, because I assure you, we can keep you out of anywhere you think you want to go, and we prefer not to murder. We try to be kind, but when we work, we face horror and misery, and we will die for our mission. To understand that, you need to understand the Pelagirs more—and you will, in time, from a safe enough distance. For now, I will tell you directly—the Pelagirs is a system of evolving, self-optimizing entities that advance in sophistication every year. If we did not oppose it, it would become sentient, exceed us, and cover the world.”

Silvermoon was not joking in the least. He just let that statement lie between them like a corpse on a buffet that neither wanted to comment upon first.

Finally, Kordas broke the uneasy silence. “If you lose, we all lose,” he replied.

“Yes. It’s much more than romantic-quest material for a hero story. We have been dedicated, at great cost, to the same task for centuries. To interfere with our work is to interfere with our very identity. Take this into your consideration about the enormity of the Pelagirs threat: we were tasked with this because an actual Goddess didn’t think she could do it alone.” Silvermoon dunked crisp-edged venison into the mint dip, and after a few bites, continued. “I’d prefer that you be a strong ruler, for a very long life. What your settlers will become is not only your interest. I’d prefer you were like us in our outlook, but all we can realistically hope for is tolerance and distance. We are the best allies anyone could want—or dare—but we aren’t easy to stay friends with. We wish to be seen as more impressive, and frightening, than the monsters we oppose, because that stops the naive and exploitive alike from venturing into Uncleansed lands. Make us myth, Kordas.”

“I can understand wanting to control a narrative in official history,” Kordas replied, intrigued by the venison and dip. “Maybe more so than anyone,” he murmured. He took his first bite. Savory, with a tiny amount of bitterness from the charred edges, then cooling mint with a hint of something sharp. “I can direct storytellers to create a mystique around the Tayledras. You can be characterized as enigmatic benefactors of our earliest days, fiercely territorial and inscrutable.” He pointed at the rapidly emptying platter with his pinkie finger. “This is very good. I’ll barter for the recipe.”

Silvermoon laughed merrily. “If we surrender our recipes to you, what will we have left to bargain with?”

“We officially prostrate ourselves at your feet for your culinary guidance.” He paused to dab at his face with the same sort of leaf Silvermoon did. “It irks me to prevent any history being known, but some things are better left as mysteries. We can leave out details of just how much you’ve helped us.”

That seemed to satisfy Silvermoon. “I feel it’s best if the Tayledras welcome, help, and then just leave. It will strengthen your nation if you stress your own identity as robust, adaptable explorers, over being weakened chicks scooped into a warm nest by us. We like the feeling of being respected and honored for our good work, but in the past we have interfered too much with new tribes and nations, and suffering followed. The ones who opposed us, or went in dark directions, are all gone now. Their leaders were too short-sighted, and because they did not curate their own freedoms, they rotted and fell, to be absorbed into other, wiser nations. Now snakes live in their ruins.”

“What do you mean about curating their freedoms?” Kordas was not so sure he liked every implication of the phrase. It could definitely be taken in some pretty dark ways.

“Imagine a nation as a living creature, with an actual personality collectively made up of what every inhabitant feels. Courage, strength, history, happiness, and wonder, and the fulfilling pleasure of mattering. Curating your freedoms means taking care of what matters so it is not taken away by others. It’s looking after what you have control of in your lives. Live wisely, live well, be smart and honest with each other. Watch for the signs of rot, and heal what is sick. You are talented, Kordas, but you will not lead this expedition for millennia. Build a country that wants to be you, as the people think of you. Think of being that personality, as the ideal of every citizen. Living by certain virtues is powerful at that scale, and that generates more Goddess-aligned power than even praying. The country, barony, outpost, or tribe that can do that becomes an incredible force for primary magic. When that happens, believe me, it makes our work easier.”