Diffraction

Interlude - Orellien

Orellien strolled down a slope of luscious, soft grass, his eyes on the horizon. Streaks of violet and orange mingled in the sky, the colors bright like lightning. The rich verdant hillside stood in sharp contrast, its green shade likewise unnatural. No winds blew, but the air carried a hint of fragrance like fresh fruit and baked sweets. Flowers created bursts of crimson, gold, and magenta so glaring that he expected spots in his eyes when he looked away.

Even his own pale Aeramental skin glimmered as if lit from within.

So it is with the Dreamstate—everything richer, more vivid than it should appear. No different from any other day here, yet my mind still cannot take it all in.

The hills matched the landscape above Lake Alathon, whose slopes Orellien had walked in person in the waking world. In the distance, a white tower raised high in the air above a small town. In truth, Alathondan lay in ruins, buried under centuries of dust and overgrowth. But certain constructs of the Cerunae stood forever in the Dreamstate, regardless of their true condition.

Even before the Linkstones between Cities failed, Dreamsenders had used the Magistrate's Tower of Alathondan as a meeting place. Since the days when the Empire held sway over the region, sages from each of the City-States met in the Dreamstate and traded communications for those with enough money to pay for the service.

My peers should arrive soon. Orellien memorized several messages earlier that day, full of details he would recite to a counterpart and purge from his mind to make room for dispatches from other Cities. But I have a more pressing appointment first.

He fixed his gaze on the tower's uppermost balcony and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, a lofty view of the Chornauren Mountains greeted him. The lake gleamed like a mirror, its surface smooth and unmoved. A white stone railing circled the edge of the tower balcony, carved with intricate patterns somewhat like webs. If spiders only moved in straight lines, perhaps. The patterns interested him, decked with gems that sparkled in the ever-present light of the Dreamstate.

A woman's form coalesced in the air nearby.

Orellien smiled at the sight of his wife Bethrynivere, until he noticed her apparel.

She wore a polished breastplate emblazoned with the stern Eye of Elith over chainmail. A long curved sword hung at her side. Her pointed pale ears flanked a tight bun of blonde hair streaked with cyan warpaint that matched her icy eyes.

"You're stressed, my love," Orellien said. Always showing up in the armor when you travel with the General.

"Sorry, Lien," she said. "It's been a difficult day. Scouts found the remains of Aelwyn's expedition this morning—three times our number wiped out. We haven't even recovered the bodies for proper ceremonies. That side of the Wall is a death trap of Bloodsworn."

She looked out from the balcony as if she could see past the mountains and across the plains to where her body lay in meditation. "What news do you bear," she asked. "Have any of the Cities sent additional support?"

"Lanaloth sends foodstuffs, a contingent of archers, and a band of Arcanists. Mirelenai dispatched a small number of foot soldiers," Orellien said. "The Admiral will send none, and the Sea-Mistress extends regrets that she must contend with foes closer to home."

Bethrynivere scoffed. "Swift with apologies but slow to see danger as always. I see she's learned nothing. What else? We're desperate, Lien."

"I know, Ryn. Khordûn promised a regiment of hardy Dunestanni fighters. And Calmen also pledged support, though I know not what. Some details were lost in the dreamsending."

She laughed—a rough, full-throated guffaw unconcerned for the dainty propriety expected of Aeramentals. His heart warmed to hear it.

"Not every Sage has your twisted mind full of numbers and facts to assist them."

Orellien chuckled. "My mind is fixed on you alone." The chainmail did little for her form, but her snug leather trousers held his gaze.

"And how I wish it could remain so," she said with a smirk. "But I cannot linger. We patrol at all hours around the camp, for the Bloodsworn test our defenses daily. And I have a report to pass. Astriana needs this information to reach the nobles of the Cities with haste."

"Understood," Orellien said. He focused his mind, picturing his desk in the Aulisinath Academy. "I'm ready when you are."

"First, the expedition," Bethrynivere said. "Six thousand one hundred ninety two confirmed dead. No survivors found, so three hundred eight additional missing presumed dead. Manner of deaths match Bloodsworn incidents, no signs of outside support or assistance."

In his imagined office, Orellien wrote the numerals for the confirmed dead in the center of the parchment on his desktop. Everything else is basic arithmetic, easy enough to recall.

"Our camp has provisions to last six days," Bethrynivere continued, "if resupply can be counted upon. We can ration and make it ten days if necessary."

Orellien pictured his hand writing "six ten" in the lower right corner. Southeast info for Lanaloth, since they're the only ones with foodstuffs to spare.

"Scout reports estimate their total forces at no more than thirty thousand."

That information, intended for everyone, belonged in the center. He'd turned his attention back to her before he considered the implication.

"Numerous raiding parties striking the western side of the Wall," she continued. "We've tried to hold the Pass, but—"

"Ryn," he interrupted. "They have fifteen times your number."

Her strong demeanor cracked for a moment. "Please, Lien," she said. "Spread the word. We need every body we can muster. I know the Cities all have their own interests and problems, but if we don't hold the Wall, everything else may quickly cease to matter."

She took his hand. "Have you heard, my love? Is Aulivar sending aid?"

Her cyan eyes flared with intense need.

"Yes, of course," he said. It's what she needs to hear right now.

But the math seemed far too easy—painfully so.

Five Sungards.

To help hold the Pass against thirty thousand savages.