The Scattered Bond

By E.D.E. Bell

With the world on fire and the ground crumbling around them, Cor, Atesh, and Jwala struggle to make sense of the lost magic and find something, or someone, else to help them survive. The Scattered Bond, the dramatic finale to the Shkode trilogy, concludes this unique fantasy saga about a split world—exploring themes of identity, prejudice, violence, compassion, and the ways we are all connected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atthis Arts LLC
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945009242

E.D.E. Bell

E.D.E. Bell was born in the year of the fire dragon during a Cleveland blizzard. With an MSE in Electrical Engineering from the University of Michigan, three amazing children, and nearly two decades in Northern Virginia and Southwest Ohio developing technical intelligence strategy, she now applies her magic to the creation of genre-bending fantasy fiction in Ferndale, Michigan, where she is proud to be part of the Detroit arts community. A passionate vegan and enthusiastic denier of gender rules, she feels strongly about issues related to human equality and animal compassion. She revels in garlic. She loves cats and trees. You can follow her adventures at edebell.com.

Book preview

01

The Guiltless Guile of Gons

I will light this place on fire.

Zee raised her wings in fury, expecting her guards to cower. Instead, Hiarqa reared up higher, blathering on about her innocence, while behind her, Krol brooded in silence. Disgusted, Zee wondered if it was possible they could be telling the truth. She growled. Last chance. Who has been censoring my reports? I will enjoy their flattened head as my gatemat!

Sensing your reports? Hiarqa asked. We don’t read them. We’ve brought the reports every day, Cir, straight to you. Just like I’ve said. Krol said nothing, his snout pointing down at the chamber floor. Looking back and forth between their baffled expressions, she reeled in revulsion. Hopeless. It hadn’t been these two, then.

Yes . . . oh never mind. What would either of you know?

Hiarqa sighed and went back to sharpening a menacing-looking set of clawcaps. Krol bowed, relief washing over his dull green face.

Zee had taken Krol with her to the center of Valla to view the new Imperial Arena, built on the same site where the old public one had stood. The previous arena had been dingy and known for its unpleasant odors. Zee wanted to give dragonkind something grand, new, and spectacular—a gift they would associate with Zee’s leadership and greatness.

The area had been cleared for her visit, and after a brief discussion with the construction manager, Zee had strolled uninterrupted through the vast site, satisfaction swelling in her chest.

They’d rushed the construction to her specifications, completing a massive circular venue that allowed an unprecedented number of gons to simultaneously watch a single fight, no gon blocking the view of another. This had been an inspired feat of design: a network of metal beams, webbed out into a layering of perches, some even with scopes to magnify the view of the center.

The structure looked solid, and she felt reassured that the prisoner fights—events designed to bolster her popularity and make others forget that a fraudulent challenge had ever been issued—could commence soon. Zee no longer acknowledged a challenge, nor a challenger. Whoever he was, whoever he thought he was, he was nothing. Zee forced herself to acknowledge this. Nothing. All that mattered was gons remembering their Emperor, adoring her, forgetting anyone else.

No, it wasn’t just that they’d forget the false challenger, they would turn on him. They would pursue him for his criminal interference. Zee imagined the gon who called himself Brother Blaze being torn apart by an enraged crowd. Shaking her wings behind her, she smiled.

Rebuilding the arena had been General Trow’s idea. Gons would travel now, he said, not just for the prisoner fights, but to view the spectacle she had created. They would marvel in its magnificence and remember the Emperor that gave them such treasures. They would spurn any challenger who dared oppose her. All things for Her Powerful, Emperor Zee.

It was on her way out, as she beamed with a newfound sense of her own prestige, that a tattered flyer had caught her view as it flapped in the wind. It pictured a cartoon, showing a misshapen white dragoness draped with saggy green cloths. She wore crooked spectacles, squinting while leaning forward on a thick, knobby cane, a green fog emerging around her. Zee leaned closer to see the details.

It appeared to be an advertisement, marked on top with the symbol for five chips. Emblazoned across the bottom in comic-style talonstrokes lay a single sentence.

I am Brother Blaze!

What is this? she demanded of her massive guard.

Valley humor. They call it Emprimer Zee. From Lluwt’s gala, Krol had begun, reaching to tear the sign down, then snapping his snout closed at the sight of Zee’s expression. No, Your Powerful, it’s nothing, he’d backwinged, apparently realizing that Zee might not appreciate the joke. I’ll have the broadcast cancelled immediately, Your Powerful. I’ll kill them all! Just say the word. Krol snarled, his arm still extended. We’ll find them!

Zee took a breath. What did he say? Broadcast? Is this not a comic?

Krol’s expression gave her the answer she did not want to hear. Burning the flyer with a quick burst of breath, she ordered their return to her chamber, hoping to find what Hiarqa and Krol knew of this treason—of which her daily reports had made no mention—in private. Another mistake, as she could now see. Zee needed to stop making mistakes.

I should burn them all down, she roared. An image of her forces storming through the markets of Valla killing traitors leapt to mind, and she shivered. No, not now. Not when she was so close. Killing civilians would not help. She needed to be popular. More popular than the impostor. The prisoner fights would start soon. Then they would see who was a joke. Then they will see! she shouted.

Gathering her breath, she raised a silencing claw toward Krol and stared at Hiarqa. Brigadier Hiarqa, when the criminal invaded Director Lluwt’s manor, how was he costumed?

Krol opened his mouth and Zee roared in his direction. He leapt to attention.

Your Powerful? Hiarqa offered.

How was he costumed?

Like you, Your Powerful. Except, not. He was painted white and covered in towels. You know, that white paint that gons put on first, to cover the old stuff. He said he was you. Hiarqa hesitated.

Zee took a very deep breath. Summon Lluwt to me. Now.

Your Powerful, I assure you I was as appalled as anyone, Lluwt sniveled. Zee spread her wings and rose high upon the Ruby Throne.

Liar, she hissed.

During the long wait for the wealthy metalworker to appear and explain his treason, Zee had made a few changes. First, she had ensured proper uniforms attired her guards. Krol and Hiarqa now displayed the clear rank of Brigadier atop a grand Imperial armor. Rather than allowing them to lounge about like street fighters, she had positioned them to each side of her. The Ruby Throne had been returned to its place of prominence, and the other furnishings pulled away, out of her sight.

I assure you, on this I would not jest, Emperor, Lluwt continued. Blaze’s invasion of my home was as much an insult to me as it was to you. I tried to detain him, but he fought my guards without mercy. A true disgrace, indeed.

How many died?

Emperor? Lluwt tilted his snout.

Your guards. How many died trying to prevent his escape?

Lluwt shifted. Your Powerful, as you indicate, I had need to replace many guards that night. It was a travesty. I agree with you this Blaze is a farce. He embarrassed me as he disrespected you. Lluwt’s snout twitched.

Yet you did nothing about it. Whom do you support? Her eyes met Lluwt’s, and she felt as though he could hear the unspoken question. It was, after all, the only question.

There is no cause for concern, Emperor. I, and my unions, have always held loyal to the Ruby Throne, I can assure you. Lluwt shifted a bit. However, there is a troubling issue discussed among gons of my line of service that would solidify that support. Lluwt cleared his throat.

He allows me to be humiliated, then he implies a demand? In my own throne room? Zee considered her options, wondering what Lluwt’s gold-strewn cape would look like, filthy from the grime of Prisonslope. Zee narrowed her eyes, which the insolent Lluwt seemed to take as permission to continue.

"The Imperial siphon on raw and phase-one metals is a burden to those who wish to honor you with innovation and stability in this troubling time. Relieving the siphon would enable our continued advancement of methods to mitigate the effects of the Avalanche and calm the concerns of your subjects.

It would also, of course, amplify the loyalty of the advanced metals industry and set an example for other industrial centers as well, to ensure a proper display of adoration. In the moments that followed, Lluwt scratched a claw against the floor, belying his patient expression.

Her heart felt like it might stop.

Zee was losing. She felt it now, understood it. She’d let things pass far too long without consequence for these gons who presumed to interact with her as an equal, who mocked her with their half-hearted words and pretentious nods. She almost called for Dronna. It was an old habit, one almost, but not entirely, broken.

Hiarqa and Krol then. It would do them good to remember their own loyalty, to remember their place as her servants. Her warriors.

Brigadiers. Kill him.

Lluwt stepped back, clasping himself in fear. Her guards hesitated, turning to look at each other, then at their Emperor. Zee’s arms shook in rage. Was I not clear? She would not ask again. She glared ahead with her teeth separated and allowed a burst of flame to escape her lips.

Hiarqa moved first. Blades sprung from her clawcaps with a metallic zing. Understanding, Krol pulled a curved blade from against his leg and strapped it to his arm. Both stepped forward with slow, menacing steps, savoring the moment.

Zee rumbled in delight, the power of the Ruby Throne pumping back into her veins. The power of the Empire.

They attacked. Hiarqa shot backward as a crackling noise echoed across the room and flashes of light bounced around the chamber. Krol leapt forward with a growl before toppling to the side and slamming into the wall. Without a chance for Zee to realize what could have happened, both of the massive gons lay still on the stone floor. Zee gaped in disbelief before turning her view back to the gateway.

There Lluwt shook in fear, his claw resting against a bulky metallic device on his arm that released a wisp of smoke. He met Zee’s eyes. He turned his claw, the device responding with a click.

You call your . . . guards, Lluwt stammered, you’ll be unconscious before they reach me. You may survive. You may not. On the other claw, I may make it out. I may not. But, let’s be reasonable. You let me leave without incident, and I won’t say a word about our unfortunate disagreement. And . . . if I don’t make it home, I’ve already ordered my techs to release something on every soundbox on Arev. Something you can’t afford.

What? Zee tried to imagine what the shivering gon could mean, this manufacturing Director, a wealth-hoarder who sat on his fat haunches and did nothing but piss in his gold. She needed to gather herself. He is nothing. I am the Emperor.

You have nothing.

I do, Zee. I have your secret. And I’m prepared to release it.

Zee’s eyes sprung open. She tried to calm her expression.

Yes, Zee. That secret. Tell me, would you like Arev to know? Would any gon support you then?

Zee swallowed her gasp. That secret? He could not know of Emperor Maho’s murder, but Lluwt’s tone was certain. And did he know of Maho’s poisoning, or of Dronna’s strike on Maho and her family as they slept on their own sleeping stones, preventing the Imperial Duel from ever taking place? But—there were only two gons possibly still alive who could know this.

Dronna. The violent General who had stood by her side for decades, who had slipped in her duties and left in her own shame and desperation to redeem herself. Zee had not heard from her General for months, but she believed her to be alive, probably out searching to kill the false challenger. But, no, Dronna would never tell.

And Jelt. The young dragonan Zee believed to be the criminal Dronna sought. Somehow, Maho’s tiny grandwhelp had been rescued from the slaughter that night, before Dronna had killed everyone involved. He had grown up in an Imperial youth facility, far from here. She could not prove this, but her instinct told her Jelt, the one named Survivor in the old language, was real. And that he was her shadowy opposition, out to avenge his grandmother’s death.

The thought chilled her. Yet what could he know? What could he prove? A whelp just torn from his mother’s doomed body could have no memory of the event. He could not know.

She started to recall the of-age note they said had been left for the abandoned whelp, started to replay her theories. But Lluwt, his arms still shaking and his claw still resting on the unknown device, stared at her with unbroken resolve.

Maho’s story could never be told.

Gons would never support her then. They would storm these slopes, demanding her death. She could almost see their phantom shapes, waves of nameless gons overtaking her guards, demanding her hide.

Zee wanted to add some threatening words. She wanted to say Lluwt would die on his sleeping stone also, that she would pursue him with all her force. That he would rot in a corner of Prisonslope, or that Zee herself would see to the gon’s ruin. But the tine of smoke curled from the device. In her side vision, Hiarqa’s maroon leg jerked upward, slamming back onto the floor. Pain shot through Zee’s limbs at the mere suggestion of such treatment.

Go. Now.

Lluwt did not wait for more. He turned and raced from the room like the coward that he was.

Zee felt she should add something, and she scrambled for the right words, yelling after him down the corridor. One wrong step, Lluwt! Just one! It was all she could think to say.

Growling at the fleeing figure, Zee rushed to inspect her guards, twitching against the floor. They were alive, curse it. No matter. They’d failed to protect her. They’d be demoted and assigned to guard duty in Prisonslope. It was a sentence in itself. She’d make sure she never saw either of them again.

Only one gon could fix this. Only one who was here, anyway.

Zee tapped her mansk and summoned General Trow.

Ssarh was starting to think that Jelt wasn’t a very nice gon.

As they’d been planning their masterpiece exhibition, Ssarh had wanted to focus on every last detail of the performance: the lighting, the costumes, and the timing that would pull the audience into an experience of pure art. Not these shoddy shows Jelt had orchestrated, but an epic event. Ssarh lived for these details; he breathed them and exuded them. Art comprised his soul.

Jelt just wanted to talk about Emperor Zee. He wanted to write scripts that sounded more like a soundbox rant than a theatrical soliloquy. Ssarh didn’t understand. They were following Gourva’s advice on how to be famous as a performance artist, not making a political statement.

Or were they?

The more Ssarh thought about their plans, the less he understood them. Why not tell Zee what they were planning? Why risk any chance of her misunderstanding, and deciding to throw them both in Prisonslope before they could offer an explanation? Shouldn’t their script praise her, hoping to win her favor? Maybe even an Imperial Grant? The more Ssarh thought about it, the less it made sense.

Why had they spent the spring hiding in tiny caves? Why did Jelt murmur in his sleep? Why must his friend always be so rude? Jelt wouldn’t even talk to Ssarh anymore. Not like he used to. Not like when they were in school.

The problem was, this left Ssarh only two options. Either Jelt was a very stupid gon, or Ssarh was being played by his very best friend. Ssarh couldn’t believe the second. Jelt had been there for Ssarh when he had been at his lowest. Jelt had believed in him.

Without warning, a deafening crack filled his ears. He caught his balance as the cave jolted from side to side. Little pieces of rock broke from the ceiling, disintegrating into a powder that clouded the already stuffy air. Jelt cackled with strange inflection as Ssarh drew back, covering his snout.

Ssarh stared from the dark corner as Jelt welded two metal rods into a joint with a short burst of breath. The puff of firelight reflected in his rounded eyes, revealing an expression as sinister as it was sincere.

Jelt was not that good of an actor.

His heart breaking for the third time in his life, Ssarh gathered his things. There wasn’t much to gather. Ssarh didn’t have a chip to his name, and the tiny cave lacked room for anything but essentials, anyway. A few moments later, his bag clipped on, he squeezed past Jelt and out onto the landing. He raised his wings to fly.

Where are you going?

Ssarh hesitated. He knew he should leave. But Jelt had asked him a question.

I’m leaving, Jelt. I’ve figured it out. This isn’t about art anymore. This is about your obsession with the Emperor. Or something like that. Well, I’m not going to Prisonslope. Gentle winds, Jelt.

You’re not going anywhere.

Ssarh knew he should leave.

I’m stronger than you, Jelt. You can’t stop me.

Jelt laughed. I don’t need to. You’re not going anywhere because you’re a criminal.

A criminal, Ssarh repeated, trying to understand. But everything we’ve done has been together. You said Zee wouldn’t mind.

"Don’t you know, Ssarh? Are you really so stupid? Everything you’ve done has been a direct crime against the Emperor, and I’ve documented every moment of it. Even if you killed me right now, I’ve left evidence for Zee to find that implicates you. That means it says you did it. Imperial Treason.

The Theatre, the challenge, Lluwt’s gala— I’ve pointed it all back to you, and to you alone. The file’s filled with all sorts of proof. It’s got your name, your history, your clawprints, even a sample of your lifeblood I drew when you were asleep. You’ll never live a day in peace again. If you leave, Prisonslope will be your best option. I’ve got a plan, Ssarh. And the only way out is to stick by me.

You’re not really my friend.

Oh, sure, we’re great friends. Again, Jelt cackled.

Ssarh felt like the little landing dropped out beneath him as he tried to understand. Even if he had the will to fly, he didn’t think his leaden claws could push him into the air. A whole file, about him? It didn’t seem like he could sleep through having his blood drawn, but how else would it be in Jelt’s file? Well, what’s your plan? he asked in a shaky voice. One of his wings twitched against his side.

Oh, that’s easy. You’re going to kill Zee.

Qoro, Lluwt called from his office.

Grumbling, Qoro strolled into the room to see what Lluwt needed this time. He couldn’t clearly see the object he tossed between his claws, but the glint suggested a silverpiece of some sort.

Lluwt had visited the Imperial Slopes; perhaps Zee sent him back with a trinket. Qoro wasn’t interested in it, nor did he want to hear any of his dreadful stories about Zee and her latest machinations. His favorite broadcast came on shortly, and Qoro didn’t want to miss it. Whatever Lluwt wanted, he’d better be fast.

I don’t want to talk about it, Lluwt said.

What? You called me in. What do you need? Qoro said, impatient.

Lluwt stared away without answering. Well, then. Qoro turned to leave.

Remember what I said before?

Qoro stopped, annoyed. You’ve said a great deal before.

Lluwt still stared at the wall, and Qoro grew concerned. This wasn’t right. Lluwt often held aloof, but never at the expense of his own affect. Qoro hoped it was something small; as much as Qoro tilted his snout at Lluwt’s antics, he loved his mate with all his being. It hurt to see him so unsettled. Maybe the broadcast could wait. Sorry. I mean, what did you say?

That someone should challenge her. Someone legitimate.

You? Qoro asked. Zee? An Imperial Challenge? Yes, we did discuss this before. He didn’t like the idea of his mate battling anyone to the death, despite his confidence that any one of their puppies could defeat Zee, as small and withered as the old gon was. He still didn’t like it. Qoro hesitated. Are you thinking about it?

Maybe. But not now. Lluwt turned to meet Qoro’s gaze, his eyes flashing. Let’s watch them destroy each other first. See how it goes and work from there. Here.

Lluwt reached for a sheet of note paper and scratched down a number. Deposit a few bars into this account. Leave no trace. He clawed the paper over then stepped from the room. With worried eyes, Qoro watched him go.

Turning them back to the paper, Qoro did not recognize the account, but he was used to Lluwt’s anonymous donations. He’d deposit the bars tomorrow. Hearing a familiar chorus from the other room, he shrugged his wings and went to go catch his broadcast.

The technician glanced around in concern as the Brigadier left the small room and the gateway closed shut, leaving them alone in a back chamber of the Imperial Slopes.

Your Powerful, I can’t see the controls with my nighteyes, she murmured. I’ve got a spare light; may I turn it on?

Nonsense, Zee snapped. You probably gave birth to this device yourself, and I do not mean metaphorically. Now, play it.

The technician shrugged as she fumbled with the controls. The soundbox trembled on the stand.

This is . . . a white market network, you said? Not an Imperial one? The thought that such illegal networks existed still sickened her, but she felt a sense of liberation talking to the young gon as if they were friends. Maybe she should ask her name. It would soon be over, anyway.

Yes, Your Powerful, the gon stammered. Are you . . . sure about this? Your Powerful? You are aware of the broadcast? She bowed several times in the darkness, looking more like a pheasant pecking for food than a gon having the privilege of meeting her Emperor. Zee chuckled, and tapped the nervous gon with her wing.

Yes, I am certain. Also, thank you, techie. For your help. We have made great friends.

Yes, Your Powerful. Well, alright, then.

Clanking around the knobs with her claws, a familiar hum emerged. The technician stepped back against the wall as the broadcast sounded across the chamber, beginning with a chorus of four singing voices.

Emprimer Zee. Emprimer Zee.

The supergon adventures of our Emprimer Zee.

She’ll stun you with her wrinkly snout.

She’ll smack you with a scarf.

Her shiny spikes will trip you up.

Her breath might make you barf!

The wily, zany, challenges of . . . Emprimer Zee!

Zee’s limbs wobbled beneath her as the song ended. Before she could collect herself, a high-pitched screechy voice rang out, echoing across the tiny chamber.

Well, hiiiiigh . . . low! I’m the Emperor! Won’t you join me for today’s episode? Today, it’s—Bathtime . . . with General Dronna!

Zee did not hear the squeaky noises or the honking of horns as the episode began. Turn it off. Turn it off.

The technician jumped forward, knocking the entire device over in her efforts to silence it. The soundbox clattered to the floor, and, for one moment, the room fell silent.

Zee tapped her mansk.

The gateway swung open, and Brigadier Ubiq strode into the room. Zee waved an arm at the officer as she passed the quivering gon and stepped out into the corridor.

The terrified screams of the young technician were silenced by the slicing sound of metal against metal and the thump of the gon’s headless body against the floor. Zee stretched her white wings, filling the narrow corridor and then strolled back toward her chamber, hardening the resolve within her with each step. Two Chiefs stood at attention as she passed. Feeling generous, she offered them a quick nod.

Emperor Zee was back.

Destiny never held any appeal for me. Why the idea excites others so much is outside my comprehension. Elitism, at best. Cosmic privilege! You give me destiny versus choice—I’ll take choice every time.

When I was young, I wanted to be a scientist. Imagine if someone had communicated to me then, don’t bother. It’s your destiny. Don’t apply to school. Don’t cry in your galaxy over every heartbreak. Don’t stay up all millennium rereading your thesis for any final errors. If my future were destined, would I have done any of these things? You see? I’ll tell you something. Everything I’ve ever earned, I’ve earned with my own ten hands.

And here I wait, in the final moments, watching this triverse collapse, overwhelmed by the weight settling around me. Wouldn’t it be easier if I could lay it within destiny? A world destined to die. All I have done is witness what was meant to be all along. These creatures were where the universe needed them to be, and now they are called back.

It is more painful to say it was a choice. Terrible pain that rends my every thought. I chose to take my children here that day. I chose to focus away while they played and joked around. I was careless. It was my choice—my action or inaction—that leads to the death of billions of primitive beings, depriving them of their own eons of growth.

I did this. No one else.

02

The Written Word

Perhaps the thing should just be destroyed. Jordan stared down at the book, loathe to even touch it. A well-meaning clerk had brought the vile volume here to the library to be catalogued amongst the tomes of history, and now he was stuck deciding where to place it.

He couldn’t blame the clerk, exactly, though he could by all certainty question his judgment. University policy held that any discovered book should be checked against the records and stored in the tower appropriate to its category of knowledge.

But this wasn’t knowledge; it was smut. Villains Amongst Us, the title warned, a vilification of the Shkode, his own people, written by the mobs that wished to destroy them without basis. Too many of his friends had died at the hands of these zealots that called themselves Restorers. Truly, they were the villains. This book should never have been brought here. But here, I suppose, it is away from those it could influence.

The Restorers sought to return Teirrah to its presumed age of glory, to an era of peace and prosperity before the Great Nova erupted in the sky, rending the land and plunging humankind into darkness and war.

But the records from that ancient time were largely destroyed, and now the accounts drew more from fantasy than knowledge. And so their claim that women had caused the Great Nova, and thus women must be controlled to prevent future betrayal was nonsense on its face.

Yet people bought into it, unnerved by the struggles of the last few centuries. Jordan’s heart wrenched watching women further subjugated and demeaned while the Shkode, men and women together, were murdered one by one.

Jordan, who went by the rural Iordan then, had not been born into the Shkode, but had felt called to them as a child, when a band had visited his parents’ farm. After they had left, he couldn’t stop thinking about their message of peace and oneness, and when the farm passed in safety to his older brother, he and his sister had left to find them again.

And they had found them, nestled in the rich hills of Farmstate. There, he had learned things that entranced his young mind. That dragons were real, and had worked together with humans until the Great Nova tore them away. Where, the Shkode could not say, but the hope remained, even more than three hundred years later, that the dragons were still alive.

Maybe the dragons were not here on Teirrah anymore, but in another form perhaps. Somewhere within the lost magic, waiting to be discovered. In his meditations, Jordan had often been taken to another time. He even wondered if that was where the dragons had gone—to another time.

His gift had been noticed right away by the others: frequent visions, often attached to an object, which showed him the events of another year or even era. Sometimes he saw the past and could describe how it was to fly with a dragon or wield magic of great power, even though he could not determine how to harness that power himself.

Other times, he had seen the future. These insights, of a land crumbling to ruin and other scenes so dark he wished not to remember them, had given him an early reputation among the leadership. And, without revealing their purpose, they had sent him here. Forever.

Jordan often felt guilty about being assigned to the University of Teirrah, built against the most striking landscape of Farmstate. Here, with his own office in a locked tower, he could study in secret, without great risk of discovery. This was his assignment, yet it felt cowardly. His friends, out there searching for answers, were dying in numbers faster than they could spread the word.

The Shkode were losing, and Jordan had no idea what to do about it.

These thoughts fresh in his mind, he felt compelled to destroy the horrible text straight away, before its lies could infect anyone’s mind. He glanced at the large candle next to him, and the metal tray shielding the table from stray flames. They were touchy about flames in the library, for great reason, but Jordan was afforded a few luxuries. Or got away with them, anyway. Hesitant, he pinched the side of the book between two fingers and raised it into the air, twisting it from side to side to view the cover.

He rippled from within, filled with the familiar sensation of transport. He had not expected it, but then, he rarely knew when a vision would catch. He breathed to calm himself and waited until he felt the ground stable again. He opened his eyes, to find himself still here, in the same room.

The book was no longer in his grasp. Instead, a small hooded figure held it close, as though it were a treasure. While the person’s face was hidden, she appeared female by the shape of her body beneath the brown robes. Jordan blushed. Knowing she could not see him, he circled her with interest. He peered in what would normally be quite a rude way under the large hood, to see a feminine face with dark skin, an attractive wide nose, and wisps of orange hair.

It is she! The woman of his visions. Alert, captivating eyes, blazing with energy. The one who murmured in her sleep about finding the scrolls, tears soaking into her pillow as she tossed and turned. The one who knew a dragon.

In his time here, he had often tried to seek the location of the scrolls, to aid her, should the occasion come to pass. She appeared in such dire need, and he was compelled to assist. It would not hurt, he reasoned. They had placed him here for his visions, after all. He was only using them. And, besides, he could seek the knowledge no other way. Even if he found where they were, he was not supposed to leave.

Jordan’s blessing was his curse. Ordered to stay in the history tower for as long as he lived, safe, in comfort, and surrounded by knowledge and study, he was thus prevented from interacting with his people, prevented from sharing in their cautious exploration of the scrolls and the philosophies they described.

This woman, she haunted him. He had seen her again and again, first as a child, reading and searching. Then as an adolescent, and later an adult. He had seen her in brief snippets, wielding her powers at times unwittingly, at others with great force and intention. He knew she was Shkode, and more powerful than anything he had sensed in his years here. He just didn’t know how she and he were connected. He gazed at her in awe.

Jordan reached to touch her, but hesitated. He loved this woman, but only knew her in visions, without her awareness. It was not right to reach for her so. He lowered his hand to his side and scanned the tower room, cursing the magic that would send him someone such as this, but never to hold. Never to know.

This was not the reaction of a Shkode, he knew. The magic was not to blame for his yearning. Only I am to blame. He steadied himself and took in the room around him.

He had never before seen the history tower itself in the future. He didn’t doubt which floor he was on; it was the same where he had just stood, radiating with golden light from the tall windows.

Books lined the curving shelves, even in areas that were empty in Jordan’s day. He scanned her unusual clothes. Unlike his own plain garments, these robes from another day fastened together with small elements of metal, more refined than any he had seen even by skilled crafters.

The woman gasped, and Jordan jumped. She stared at the book’s first page, a look of horror frozen onto her face.

He laughed at his own jitters as well as in sympathy at the woman’s reaction to the book’s illustrations. I know, friend. I know.

The woman flipped through the pages and then closed her eyes. At that moment, Jordan noticed the man pacing behind her. He looked familiar; he could have been one of his nephews. The man glanced around with an aloof expression, unaware of the power radiating from the woman to his side. No, not unaware.

The room began to shake, and then it stopped. Jordan was back in the same room but in the present, and the book had dropped from his hands onto the floor. The woman was gone. Determined to see her again, he reached for the book, gripping it.

The woman returned, now atop a shelving ladder. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes set with such determination that Jordan stepped backward, tripping over his own feet in his haste. The book in her hand, they moved, together now, to a small room. Her hair was braided back again, and she wore a soft pantsuit with touches of embroidery. A bright fire danced in the corner, and the book lay open, with the woman’s bare hand resting upon it.

I don’t care what you say, she said to the empty room, her voice echoing from the brick walls. Fire is not evil. I am not evil. Perhaps I am a Shkode, but I am not evil.

Jordan, overwhelmed by the spirit of this stranger, began to cry. He wanted to reach her. He wanted to know her. Life, how can you do this to me?

She hesitated, staring at the back binding of the book. He peered over her shoulder to see. A note was written there, in a hand similar to his own. The woman, her own eyes glistening with tears, picked up a pen, and, her hand shaking, scratched out the mark of the Shkode. Below it, she wrote one line:

I am here. I am sorry if I am too late.

No. The spelling was odd, but the symbol was clear. Yearning to see more, he stepped forward and then realized he was back in the tower, the book still in his hand. He lifted it and turned it around in his fingers, but no visions came to him. He nodded.

The woman’s spirit blazed so strong, it seemed her presence lingered here, even now. He wished he knew her name. Jordan’s hand moved forward to where she had stood. Again, he drew it away.

Laughing, he had an idea. What if this woman was the one to save the Shkode? No, not just the Shkode. Teirrah. She could do it; he knew it. She could be the one to mend the world. If only he could tell her.

He had seen her powers; she could stretch them further. Why else did she appear to him, again and again? Belief was a powerful force; Jordan knew this. If they could not burn together, then she would burn alone with the added strength of his flame, and he would die someday, also alone, content in that knowledge.

This woman, she could do what the others could not. He knew it. If only she could know it too. Yet, not too much pressure. Just a nudge.

Inspecting the book, he stared at its back binding. A plain yellowed vellum, it— No, it had been paper in the vision. The Shkode never used vellum, and he would have