Chapter 253 - Discussing Dreams

“That was you watching me outside the Mausoleum,” Mirian stated. She turned from gazing out at the city far below to the other Prophet.

“Yes,” Zhuan admitted.

“Why?”

“You know the answer. Let’s skip that part.”

Mirian raised an eyebrow. “Fair enough. You know I can open the doors of the Mausoleum. Now, with the Yiaverunan focus, I can shift between the visions the Ominian has been showing us. The implication—”

“—is that we are connected with the Ominian, even in sleep,” Zhuan finished.

“Therefore we are all present in that dreamscape—”

“—and can communicate there. But early in the dreams—”

“—all the Prophets were present. Presumably, some of whom are attested to historically and are now long dead. So—”

“—can we communicate with them too? Can the trunk of the tree still be shaped? Because if so—”

“—we could change the branches we’re on.” A flash of excitement went through Mirian. “But how would that work? If time is a field, as Eyeball and Conductor have talked about…”

“Eyeball and Conductor?”

“Oh, I gave the Elder creatures that facilitate the Elder Gates names. Eyeball likes theirs, but uh, don’t tell Conductor I named them. They’re the grumpy one.”

“Ah. Then it’s ‘Conductor’ who regulates the Jiandzhi Gate. Time is a field… a field. What a strange concept.”

“For the Elder Gods, and for creatures like Conductor it is. They can move back and forth on the timelines. They can see futures. For things like the myrvite titans, it’s more like what happens to us—memories passed from different paths on the fields, but there’s no freedom to navigate it.” Mirian shook her head. “I can’t even imagine the Gods’ War. I can keep track of a battlefield in three dimensions, keep track of a skirmish in four—but how does one maneuver on a two-dimensional plane of time? You’ve seen the wall of fire?”

“Yes. Weapons and magic on a scale that is inconceivable. But that doesn’t make them gods.”

“They created Enteria.”

“So they did. But if a world is just enough rock and water, those things exist in space. Collect enough meteors and we could make one too. In fact, the Triarchy made a moon. Though, not on purpose, it seems.”

“I suppose you’ve written a book on the matter?”

“Not yet,” Zhuan said sadly. “I never have enough time to write.”

She doesn’t believe in the Elder Gods’ divinity? Come to think of it, Song Jei always was uncomfortable discussing the divine. And I haven’t seen any temples in Zhighua. Huh. “Ibrahim has his own religious disagreements. I don’t think we’ll resolve them, and I don’t think we’ll need to. As long as we can agree on the way forward. Back to the dreams. Have you actually been able to talk to another dreamer?”

“Talk at them. I haven’t received a reply yet.”

Mirian nodded. “We need to do some testing. We both know soul-communication, which is likely the only way to communicate in the dream. However, we need to determine whether or not the subject heard you and couldn’t reply, or couldn’t hear you. We’ll have to try—”

“I’ve already set up an investigation protocol for this contingency,” Zhuan interrupted.

“How many times have you been outside the Mausoleum?”

Zhuan hesitated. “Twice now. I didn’t know who opened the door the first time.”

Implied was that she couldn’t. Does she think I needed the violet focus to do that? Should I imply I’ve used them before? Zhuan had immediately revealed herself when they had arrived. She could have easily hid. But are her elaborate theories of politics just a cover for what amounts to a different kind of domination? At the same time, Akana Praediar had a substantial navy off the coast, and several forts spread throughout the country. Zhuan might be able to dance around the provisional government and slip the bindings of foreign control—but only for a time. Zhighua’s army was nearly nonexistent, and what they had was highly dependent on Akanan supplies. Baracuel also had its own navy and soldiers here, but here, they were outnumbered ten to one by Akana.

Then there’s the dimension of soul magic. Zhuan clearly is experienced in it. Who taught her? And how much? And has she gone into the Labyrinth? Do I need to worry about her trying to commandeer the limited supply of relicarium? Xecatl can’t because she’s pinned to her island, and her memories bound to Ceiba Yan. Zhuan has no such limitations.

“We’ll begin experimenting tonight,” Mirian finally said. They would take small steps to build trust for now. She would watch Zhuan and assess her. If she can really direct Zhighua’s capabilities on the scale she’s implied….

Mirian needed to start thinking on those kinds of scales. She could direct Torrviol to do what she wanted. But think of how many factories Baracuel has. And how many people are in Palendurio and Alkazaria….

“Good. I’ll have the protocol sent to you, as well as some more notes on oneiromancy. Now, I really am needed to direct operations.”

“Very well. I’ll get back to my research.”

Mirian headed back to the archives. Perhaps they had information on nearby Labyrinth entrances. Then, it seemed she had a book to read.

***

The week passed quickly. Mirian spent most of her days reading up on the piles of translated scrolls that kept piling up in her room and slogging through Zhuan’s book. 

At nights, she and Zhuan explored the dream. However, the experiments Zhuan had planned couldn’t be run. They could both consistently visit a location within it, but from what they could tell, time wasn’t always synchronized. They couldn’t simply decide to visit each other. She’d hoped they’d unlocked a simple tool, but this too would take practice to master.

If it can be mastered, and it isn’t all at the whim of the Ominian, that is.

Then it was the day of the expedition north.

Mirian wasn’t sure what she’d expected. A few hundred people, perhaps. She knew there’d be neat organized lines of marusaurs and grizzled caravaneers like Han Feng. She’d known that Zhuan Li was busy sending endless correspondences, attending meetings, and visiting different places in the city. She’d known from Gabriel that the Akanan officials in Benansuo were “panicking quietly,” as they realized they could give all the orders they wanted, but fewer and fewer people in Benansuo were following them. Gabriel had said, “I told them, ‘don’t worry, the higher-ups are already aware. It’s being taken care of.’ You think glyphs are magical, try using those words. Gets ‘em every time!”

What Mirian didn’t expect was the scale as she looked out that morning from her tower. “Gods above,” she breathed. The streets by the north gate were packed full of marusaurs and people. They were organized in dozens of columns, with different banners flapping about in the wind. There weren’t hundreds of them—there were thousands. It looked less like an expedition, and more like an army—and she’d seen the Akanan army marching enough times to know.

By the time she made it down to the streets, Zhuan was walking through one of the central boulevards between columns of carvaneers, arcanists, artisans, and riflemen.  As the woman passed, she saw the people stand up a little straighter. Saw their eyes, passionate with respect. She knew those gazes; she’d seen them on herself after the Battle of Torrviol, seen them on soldier’s she’d led. Seen it from the Praetorians after they’d helped her put down Apophagorga.

Perhaps Gabriel was right, and Zhuan’s philosophy contradicted the way that she actually worked. But whatever she’d done here, something had worked. The kind of respect and loyalty here was not something people gave away without reason.

A gong sounded, and the expedition began to depart north. As they walked, a flotilla of some hundred barges and boats moved up the river alongside them, old spell engines glowing as they moved them against the current.

As Mirian began to approach the gate, an Akanan man wearing a suit, followed by two soldiers, ran up to the guard by the gate. “What is this?” he asked in Eskanar. “Is this a trade convoy? Does it have the permits? I haven’t seen anything go across my desk. Halt them at once!” he said.

The gate guard shrugged. “I was told they had permission,” he said, accent thick.

“By who?”

Another shrug. “He had the paperwork. The stamps were legitimate.”

“Close the gates! No one else goes through. By order of Commander Tillard!”

“Do you have the order?”

“Yes!” He took out a piece of paper and waved it at the guard.

“Oh. I can’t read Eskanar,” he said. “This needs to go through the Bureau of Policy so they can translate and seal it.”

“This—it’s a legitimate order! Per the treaty, for matters of security of Benansuo, all groups of—you have to tell them to turn back! Who’s your commanding officer?”

By then, Mirian had passed by, and the conversation was fading. Funnily enough, she’d seen that sort of trick before. Under the command of the Akanan impostor, the Torrviol guard had done similar things to stymie investigation and delay all inquiries. If Zhuan had spread that sort of behavior across the entire city, the Akanans simply didn’t have the manpower to force compliance—yet with no violence and each person following the letter of the law, it would be hard to mobilize any sort of response that didn’t seem like an overreaction. Though, with an expedition this big departing, it would be hard to maintain such a dynamic.

However, whatever political problems the city would face were behind them. All that mattered now was the Viaterrian ruins, and the Zhighuan Gate.

***

Over the next few days, the expedition wound its way up the northeastern roads, this time, moving their way up the eastern tributary of the Dahua River. Setting up camp was an involved affair, with the start of the line beginning to set up tents an hour before sunset, and the end of the line finally settling into the camp two hours after. At first, the whole scene was one of chaos. Some of the people were experienced in setting up organized camps, while others clearly weren’t. Arguments broke out, but they were quickly settled. A dozen organizers roamed around, and soon enough, the tents began to settle into a neat grid, complete with paths and periodic cooking fires where they set up canopies over portable glyph-stoves. The whole time, barges and boats disembarked with supplies, including food for the expedition, and feed for the marusaurs. Then they floated back down the river to retrieve more supplies from the city.

For the most part, Zhuan didn’t need to do much. She still talked with captains and logisticians, but it was clear the expedition, once established, was mostly operating without her need to constantly influence it.

Whatever I decide, it’ll be useful to know how to organize people like this, she thought as she watched. She had helped organize the militia of Torrviol and design battleplans for the Fort Aegrimere Division, but the militia had never been capable of any tasks more complex than defending prepared fortifications, and the army had been trained long before the cycles had begun. She was operating within a pre-prepared framework.

Here, though, I doubt there’s been expeditions of this size or complexity. Zhuan had to figure out how to create this. How does she leverage the bureaucracy? How exactly does she cut away the influence of other leaders? How does she gain their trust? And how much of that is based on the starting conditions of Zhighua, and how much of that is replicable in Baracuel?

But there she went again, making a thousand plans, ready to learn a thousand things again. Focus, she told herself. Perfect the leyline regulator first. Then you can figure out how to build it. 

When she met up with Ibrahim, he was chatting amicably with a group of Zhighuans. The easy laughter looked better on him than the grim determination. He waved Mirian over. “Isn’t this fascinating?” he said. “You’d think they’ve been training for more than a handful of weeks. And much better discipline than most irregulars.”

Mirian nodded. So he’s still thinking about building his army.

The Zhighuans finished discussing the training methods, then could see the Mirian wanted to talk without them, so departed.

“It’s a pity this wouldn’t work at all in Persama,” he said as they left. They began walking slowly through the camp as Ibrahim continued his inspection.

Mirian recalled one of the sections she’d been reading of Zhuan’s book. “Her claim is that her methods are generalizable.”

Ibrahim shook his head. “If only. She has a remnant structure here—a functional middle layer of the government that the Akanans took advantage of so they didn’t have to build their own. They cut off the head of the snake, and grafted their own head on. The body still functions. Persama doesn’t have that. When Baracuel came through, it cut apart the body entirely, leaving a dozen new serpents to squirm in the sand. The grudges and tribalism can be overcome, but not by using an existing framework. That said, I’d invite her to try. It would be fascinating to see what she’d do, and what could be learned from it.”

“I’m more interested in how she could scale production without the ability to train artificers.”

Ibrahim snorted. “God’s will will become clear in time.”

Change takes time, Mirian thought. Ibrahim had finally realized that grinding armies to dust wasn’t the only way to proceed, but he still clearly believed that the Ominian would intervene when a certain set of objectives were achieved.

It is possible, Mirian thought, considering her reflections on her hypothesis about the two-dimensional nature of time for the Elder Gods. If They died on a certain place in the fields of time, that it happened in the past doesn’t preclude Them from acting in the future. They circuitous route They took to Their past death may have taken them through a specific future They were looking for that we haven’t seen yet. She thought of the priest of Carkavakom, who’d had a message from the Elder God—that the Gods thinking and experience of the world was so different that it was impossible to communicate directly with them. But leaving our task open to interpretation—it leaves too many possibilities. And there must only be a finite amount of time to work, even if we don’t know how much yet. The fires on the burning tree were growing. That was clear enough.

There was a diplomatic way to ask her next question, but Ibrahim was as subtle as a hammer, and he wouldn’t appreciate dancing around the topic. “Have you changed how you think of Gabriel?”

Ibrahim was silent. They continued walking.

“I cannot understand why he was named Chosen. I cannot put into words the hatred I have for that man.”

Then he was silent again.

So he was at least considering why his enemy might have also become a Prophet. Of all the Prophets, Gabriel did seem to be the odd one out. Most of them had a personality of relentlessness. Liuan’s was defined by cunning, Ibrahim’s, but its straightforwardness. Jherica’s was unassuming, but theirs was still there; they would pursue the truth through a campaign of research and experiments until they had an answer.

Not Gabriel though. He seemed to give up quickly. But perhaps not all of us were chosen to succeed. After all, the Ominian hadn’t opposed her when she removed Troytin’s temporal anchor. Were Gabriel and Ibrahim supposed to duel like Troytin and I did? Or is he supposed to teach us some important lesson?

Or maybe it was madness to try to understand the Ominian’s intent. Maybe, it had been as random as the drops of rain that fell from the sky. Or maybe there’s another reason I’m missing. Some criteria that isn’t as apparent.

“Have you continued practicing arcane magic?”

Ibrahim shook his head. “Soul magic. Much easier.”

“You have a focus?”

“Sure.” He held up a purple crystal teardrop attached to a bronze chain that he’d been wearing around his neck. His loose shirt had hidden it.

So he also asked Zhuan for one.

“Have you practiced controlling yourself in the Ominian’s dream?”

“Yes. A useful tool. If only I had one in Rambalda.”

Mirian nodded. He still doesn’t know about soul-binding items. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She was considering telling him—but there was still a risk. He hadn’t given up on his task of destroying Baracuel yet, and if he was going to be her enemy, she didn’t want to empower him. “Once we find the Zhighuan Gate, perhaps we can get them distributed. If we can learn to meet in the dreams, we can coordinate better. Give each other updates more often. Teach each other more.”

The other Prophet gave a noncommittal grunt.

The conversation died out after that. The next day, the camp began to start packing up before sunrise, slowly disassembling itself and moving back to the road.

Ibrahim continued to talk with Zhuan and her people, eager to learn procedures, even if he was uninterested in the reasons and ideology behind it. 

Gabriel, when he wasn’t cavorting about the camp, was more interested in arguing with Zhuan. More than once, they got into a shouting match, but afterward, when she checked in on them, they both said they were ‘fine.’ Gabriel said it was an invigorating argument, and it was always good to practice talking to fools. Zhuan said that it was good to sharpen her rhetoric, and that conflict between opposing forces was inevitable, and that was the only way the dialectic would resolve.

Gaius, for his part, never joined in any of the arguments, even when another Prophet prodded him. When they met privately, he put up a zone of silence and said, “Naluri, the construction of a society has a complexity that makes the most complicated spell look like playing with wooden blocks. Like with magic, take what is useful, discard what is not. Zhuan is right about that you have an opportunity to test things in a way no general or king has had before—except for the other Prophets. Ibrahim is right that the long term consequences are impossible to determine. As for the methodology—I don’t know who is right. I tried something much like what Ibrahim has and failed. But I was never able to act with the power of empires, like Gabriel has. It may be necessary, because there may not be time to do anything else. Zhuan is… her heart is good. But revolution is, by its nature, a messy, unpredictable thing. The people of Zhighua and Persama are ready for it, but that’s also because of the boot of empire on their neck. Is Baracuel ready? Is Akana?”

Mirian could only agree. She understood magic far better than people, and magnitudes better than she felt she understood the flow of history. A spell only had so many variables, and she could count them, glyph by glyph. A country—there were just too many.

So she continued to read, continued to contemplate, continued to plan, and continued to practice.

Her little practice sessions drew quite a bit of attention. Even though she kept her intensity exercises small and concentrated, there was always a crowd of onlookers who liked to watch and gawk at the way she juggled the fundamental forces, the rapidity at which she spun spells, and the sheer power in the tiny orbs she conjured.

Her practice sessions with Ibrahim were even more popular. She used a borrowed sword—she was keeping Eclipse hidden—and they rotated through using different dervish forms, going through exercises that Rostal had taught them both. It was more of a proscribed dance than combat.

Then, it was time for her last practice, as she and Zhuan sought each other out in the Ominian’s dream.

A few days later, they reached the last fortification between civilization and the Jiandzhi. Then, they began their push towards the Viaterrian ruins.