CHAPTER VI
A JOINING OF WAYS
It was even as Crono had said: as the morning sun broke from the horizon, sending its shimmering light across the dawn sea, they came upon the small encampment. Serge could see little of it before they were upon it, though he surmised this had been done with purposeful intent. In this way unfriendly eyes would have a difficult time finding it, he understood as he glanced out to sea. If that was indeed what Crono feared. It seemed strange that Porre would send warships to seek out four people.
"So, are we leaving right away, then?" Serge asked, unsure as to what was planned for their immediate future. It was with some bitterness that he realized that he felt none of the self-confidence that he had upon his last adventure. Perhaps his time apart from danger had softened his mind. But maybe it was only that there was no pressing danger driving him forward. The last time he had been compelled beyond his control to face the future, and had not made his choices all too willingly. Then fate had chosen him. Now it seemed he had chosen his fate, and that decision did not rest lightly upon him.
"What was that, Serge?" Crono asked, turning to face Serge.
"Are we going to go to sea right away?" Serge asked again as they came into the camp. A small fire from a few nights before and two overturned boats were all that proclaimed the site an encampment.
Crono shook his head.
"No. Not at once at any rate."
"But, the morning tide..." Serge asked, surprised that for all their haste Crono would forego the speed that the outgoing tide brought.
"We can do without it," Crono said. "This is no mean journey we are setting out upon. We sail into a war, if Janus' grim wishes come to fruition."
Crono sat himself down upon the beach-sand near the boats.
"Ah, I merely think that you must still be somewhat uncertain over how suddenly this has come upon you," Crono said.
"It would be useless to deny it to me, Serge, I can see it in your eyes," he said before Serge could in any way dismiss it. "So would I, had I not been fighting a ceaseless war for fifteen years. I am thirty-seven years...it may be old by your reckoning, but I have not forgotten my youth, and my journeys are not lost to my memory."
Janus turned about as he said this.
"Even so, do we have time to tarry so? The Porre armada will be at sea by this time."
"So much time we have, Janus. It may be long years since you last travelled with a company, and surely you never cared much for such things, but you must remember: both weakness and strength is shared by all. Not all are so foolishly self-sure as you are."
Janus shrugged, plainly not caring much for Crono's rebuke.
"As you say it. I have taken you to be my leader in this, your quest. And by your judgement I shall abide, folly though it may be."
"Janus!" Crono replied sharply and stood, catching the haughty dissent in the voice. "I never once begged your company. If you wish to leave, you may do so at your pleasing."
And with this they continued to argue, casting insults and rebukes aplenty, and Serge stepped aside, suddenly forgotten. Not stopping in their vehement speech, the two made ready the boats for departure. Turning them upright they began to order the supplies that had been stored beneath into the hulls of the boats.
"Those two," Schala said, shaking her head and coming to Serge's side. "Those two will never get along fully. They are true friends, but of such different temper that their fate is ever to argue. It has been twenty years since they last saw each other, and still they find a way in which to find flaws with the other."
A wizard and a warrior, two who were for all accounts as varied as daylight is from nighttime, yet at need the dearest of allies and even friends. And now that he saw them all in the sunlight, knowing them for who they truly were, he took careful note of those he travelled with. In the dark night the day before, brightly though the moon had shone, Janus had been mostly a shadow to his eyes. And now that he saw him in the full light of the sun he saw that his grim countenance was not only the work of the dim light. Even beneath the sunlit day the dark glance that he had seen did not leave the wizard's eyes or face. Though, indeed, the night increased his seemingly dark might, he was far from powerless even under the sun. His hands were gloved in dark leather, and he was robed and mantled like the ancient nobility that he was, and with the proud bearing and eyes becoming of it. And he was tall, in height great beyond the measure of any others Serge had ever seen before. In his village Serge was accounted average, but Janus was much more than a head taller than he himself. And the strength he held in his limbs was a like match to his size.
He shook his head, wondering at the circumstances that had brought him into such peculiar company.
And Crono! Less grim than Janus, certainly. And yet, when he looked upon him, he could see more power than was made apparent. If the tales he had heard were true, Crono was no less mighty than Janus. It seemed otherwise at a fleeting glance, but Serge wondered if there was not truth to this. Crono, appearing as some hunted bandit with his travel worn clothes, blade by his side, and scars testifying to countless affrays, seemed as one who knew the world and its ways keenly. One who could fade into the forests as though he were a beast of the trees, and who knew the secrets of hunters and living in the wild. A fearless warrior, hardy and undaunted by hardship. As he had thought upon their first meeting: one who had seen the world, but not yet tired of life.
"So," Schala said, casting herself down upon the sand, breaking between his contemplations of those he had now joined in comradeship, "now we are speaking with each other again, for the first time in months. How has the time apart been to you?"
"Fine," he began, then on a second thought corrected himself. "Well, no, not quite. There were those dreams, and I was restless. But what about you?"
She smiled.
"As you. Restless, mate. Ai, that other world ain't all that different from this here place. But..." she trailed off, pausing in her words in mid-sentence. Then, after a moment of thought, broke out laughing.
"Ah, my apologies. It is most strange. Sometimes I cannot help but talk as I once did, as that vagabond girl Kid. It is always myself, for she is me, but even so it is different. I have two lives and souls in my mind."
She dropped her head in thought.
"Though not as though it were two warring beings," she said, lightly running her slender fingers through the sand. "It is a perfect harmony. Only in my mood can I tell apart who I am at the time," she finished, with a slight frustration on her tone, still casting her eyes earthward.
Serge looked at her, contemplating the one before him. He could see what she meant. Her face looked just as he remembered; her hair, though loose and un-braided, was little different. Her dress was certainly of a different fashion, but that was a minor matter. For, in passing even he, who knew her better than anyone outside of her brother, would think her only to be the cunning thief who had used the name of Kid. And for a moment he nearly forgot that these were not still the days wherein they had travelled together. Seeing her as she now sat, it was nearly as if the old times came new to his mind as the present, and almost he felt himself urging her on to the next quest set before him. Yet, as she looked up at him, casting her eyes into his, he saw that it was merely an illusion. Surely the fire and headstrong zeal had not departed from her. But now it was mingled with the more mellow look and solemn wisdom of the princess Schala.
"Perhaps," she said as she stood again and kicking the sand absently, "they are merely two parts of my being, akin like the right hand is to the left. Kid is most assuredly what Schala would have been had she been given that life. And had Kid been raised in the court of Zeal, she would have been even as Schala. And so everything that Kid was is part of the mind of Schala. In friendship and the like, I am more like the vagabond child; mark my words, and they seem near always as the princess of Zeal."
She clasped her hand on Serge's shoulder.
"Do not worry yourself with this. I am she whom you remember. My memory is still as clear as it has every been, and not a day that I have ever spent with you have I forgotten. But if I can hardly know my own self better than what feeling brings me, I cannot and will not wish you to understand. I only wish you to see me still as your friend."
In her voice he heard the will of Kid, while the words were spoken with the eloquence of the princess. His most beloved friend she had once been, and he would not now nor ever betray that friendship. Most especially not when she had so earnestly recalled to him his old comradeship with her.
"Of course," he said, meaning the words with full assurance in his mind and heart. "'Till the ending of the world, best of friends'. We promised each other that long ago, and I'm not about to forget that."
She nodded slowly.
"Best of friends," she echoed, though in her voice he caught a glimmer of something hidden and almost sad. But of what he could not mark nor understand, for with a smile she turned from him looking back to the boats where Crono and Janus were still locked in argument as they prepared the boats. At last, frustrated by his friend, Janus walked over to where Serge and Schala were speaking.
"That man," he muttered to his sister, "is ten-fold more stubborn than I remember him."
Schala grinned wryly at him, crossing her arms.
"And I am sure he would say a like thing of you. Tell me, just what have you found disagreement about?" she asked, stealing a small smile to Serge that told him that she knew full well that it was some trivial matter.
"The provisions, my sister. He," he flourished his hand over at Crono who, seeing this, scowled faintly.
Not caring to return the glance, Janus continued:
"He, as a fool, insists that we may leave most of them here, and says that we do not need them. I am not one for over-caution, yet does it not make more sense to carry all of what we have, in case of need. It is a half months sail to Guardia, and we have little enough as it is."
Schala sighed as she rose, having expected something trivial of this sort.
In this case," Schala said, "I would rule against you. We have enough in supplies to last us twice the distance," she said, pointing over to the nearest craft. "Samite robes and a crate of black tea? What do you need that for, brother? It will make our journey all the swifter to travel lightly, and I deem that speed in this case is a more valuable asset than having a full belly or pristine raiment."
Janus raised his voice in protest, but Schala silenced him with a raised hand.
"You may be an excellent sorcerer, master of magic, and whatever else history has shown you to be, but you are not all-wise," she fixed her eyes on her brother. "Take another's advice in matters beyond your knowledge. And I could say the same for you as well, Crono."
"I do, when it pleases me," Crono replied with a smile, looking up from the packing.
"And so does my brother, it seems," Schala muttered under her breath so that Janus could not hear.
"No matter," she said, pacing about the nearest boat, "simply pack what we need without argument. How you two ever made peace long enough to defeat Lavos is a mystery beyond even my understanding," she added with jest.
Wisely taking the advice given to them, both continued the preparations in silence. They stowed packs of dried meats and fresh fruits gathered from the surrounding forests, the latter to ward off blight of scurvy on such a long sail; spare clothes and a myriad of varied trappings that lay strewn about the beach camp were cast into a pile to be left. Last of all they took to packing the weapons they carried with them.
Crono brought out his sword from the scabbard at his side and flourished about.
"Ah, how I hate the feel of this sword now," he said, shaking his head, "Do you remember, Janus, when I could find no better weapon than this?"
Janus thought into the past for a moment.
"No," he said at last. "That was before we met, I think."
Janus took the weapon from Crono's hand, and peered down its length.
"A good sword in its own right, though it carries no name. A captain would be glad to carry such a well-made brand in these days. It is of lodestone?"
Crono nodded.
"Certainly. Forged by Melchior. Not his finest work, but of greater worth than most fashioned in these later days. This is the first time I have taken it up in many a year."
"Whatever for do you now? You possess mightier weapons. Why bother yourself with such a petty blade then?" Janus asked, looking up in frowning question upon his friend.
Crono laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
"For memory, perhaps. It recalls to my mind long passed days, when I was no more than a little child, lost in the world, trying to do battle with whatever evil crossed my path. When I take it up, I can somewhat remember those days. The seeming freedom, and the clear-minded joy of victory and adventurous journey, untrammelled by the concerns that come of wisdom. Though they are lost in time, memory yet holds them, and in wielding it I can recall it in some guise."
Serge, who had been listening silently till then, now spoke up.
"Of course!" he said, standing. "What I wouldn't do to hold the Masamune again. It still makes me sad that I lost it in that last battle of mine."
Behind him Serge heard Schala laugh lightly. He turned to face her.
"What's so funny?" he asked, thinking that it must have been his words that had brought about her laughter.
"The Masamune is lost?" she asked, though quite lightly, as if it were less a question and more a jest.
Serge looked at her in bewilderment.
"Isn't it? I barely remember leaving the Tesseract, when everything was done. I can only think that I left without it. I hated to lose it, but maybe that was the cost of saving you."
She laughed.
"But Serge! Surely you don't think I would allow such a sword as the Masamune to perish, do you? It had a life of its own, and I was unwilling to simply allow it to remain in that place, no more than I would have left you or your comrades there. And beyond this, it may yet have deeds to do."
She knelt down and reached into the boat beside her, drawing out a sword. And yet unlike any other sword that had been seen in this world in any other time. It was as a quarter-staff, with a sharp blades formed as leaves fastened to either end. A style of weapon that no other wielded, but he himself. A swallow, he named it. As the bird which was its namesake it was swift. But the Masamune was no ordinary swallow made of wood and steel, such as he had crafted or commissioned of craftsman before. No, it was a far greater weapon than any ordinary smith could fashion.
"Do you know the story of this weapon, Serge?" Schala questioned, tossing him the sword, which he caught by the leather-enwound haft.
"A little," Serge replied, spinning the weapon about in his hands for the first time in many months. Balanced most perfectly upon the centre, it was ever so light, as if it were a mere branch . It seemed near glad to be held in his hands again, and Serge though he could hear joyful whispers echo in his mind as his fingers grasped it.
"Made by the same smith that made Crono's Rainbow, right?" Serge said, contemplating the shimmering blades that danced with sunlight. A gleam that no dirt nor stain could blemish, nor could blood stain it, not while the one who wielded it strove for righteousness.
Schala nodded to his reply.
"Yes," she continued, "it was forged by the great Melchior of the red rock that humans have called dreamstone. Crafting in his forge in Zeal the great smith had fashioned a red knife, to be the bane of all evil forevermore. From this hope of his, by the power of the stone of dreams, were born the beings of the knife. They were Masa and Mune, brethren spirits, from whence came the name by which it has been known. These are but names in translation; in Zeal the elder was known as Selinros, which signifies 'mighty dream', and the younger as Nephilnash, or 'angel of the wind'. The knife itself was named Nephilsaeros, the 'great-sword of angels'. However, the blade was but a passing form. For when at last put to the great test, by Crono no less, when in ancient Zeal he essayed to halt Lavos, the knife changed. By the will of hope that Crono bore when wielding the blade, it became the Holy Sword Masamune, Evil's Bane. Lost to the eyes of history for a time when caught in the ruin of Zeal, it came through the years to Guardia. And here it became the weapon of the champions of Guardia. Alas, in this role the sword did not fare well," she said, pausing in her pacing talk to run her fingers along the blade. "The good knight Sir Cyrus, seeking out the sorcerer Magus, found his evil magic too much, even for the Masamune."
Janus sighed in frustration, as if vexed that such things were once more brought to attention.
"Must I always be reminded of my past so, sister? You say that as if I were some heartless dark lord that Cyrus justly sought to put to an end. I was in no wise kind or forgiving, I will not lie about that, but all light had not abandoned me. And I could not well let Cyrus strike me through. Very good that should have looked: 'Here I am Cyrus, I wish you to kill me in recompense for the evil I have done. I will not defend myself; I see the error of my ways!' Do not make me laugh. It was by his own folly that he sought me out."
Schala shook her head.
"Your past will forever haunt you, as does mine. Yes, you have atoned for your evil, my brother. But the past does not simply fade. What you did ever remains, the good and the evil alike. As my tale was saying," she continued, pausing for a moment in an attempt to recall what she had last spoken of, "in this confrontation the blade was broken. For many years it remained so, its power scattered. Then came a great paradox: Crono reforged it. For you see, he had not yet then come to Zeal, nor seen its birth."
Crono shrugged, looking with some wonder upon the selfsame sword he had once used in the guise of a dagger.
"Yes, it is strange what befalls those who seek to cross the roads of time. I suppose it was fate."
"Perhaps." Schala responded. "Truly, it would be strange that such a thing should have chanced without the will of fate. But whether it was by accident or purposed to be, the rebirth of the sword was achieved. And once again the mighty of Guardia carried the sword: first, the hands of Glenn of the South Marches, who accompanied Crono. Then, by the champions of the court for centuries. But, when at last Guardia fell, it was lost."
She looked to Crono questioningly, as if entreating him to continue the story.
"Do not look to me for answers as to this, Schala. I know less of this than you. We fled the castle scarcely with our very lives; we did not have rescue the sword, and left it behind. I have no knowledge of who took it, or in what manner it became the evil sword it was thenceforth."
"I had hoped you knew," she said, sighing with disappointment. "It is a matter that has long eluded me and I much desired to understand. No-matter! In the end, you, Serge, restored it to it's true being. In repayment of this debt it took you to be its master and, as you well know, took the form that you favoured, and that it now holds. For, as I have told you, of old it was the embodiment of the two righteous spirits: Masa and Mune. Masa, the elder brother, who is the power of good that seeks to victor over evil. Mune, the younger, is a spirit of wisdom and understanding. Together the powers of might and wisdom are most difficult to overcome. But for long there was a third absent from the sword. For it had been three, not two, that were born of the mind and wishes of Melchior. This was Selinirë, in the high speech of Zeal: 'the maiden of the dream'. For she is a spirit of dreams and compassion, and nothing evil can corrupt her. When you returned the sword to its true and noble form, she awoke from slumber, vowing ever after to keep her brothers from evil. And so it is the sword you hold now: a sword of great power, and far-seeing wisdom, and gentle compassion. A greater union can scarcely be found, and in this fashion it is truly the foe, rather the bane, of all that is evil."
"Some rightly name it to be the mightiest sword in all the earth, Serge," Crono said. "It even surpasses this, my own sword."
Serge stole a glance over to him and saw he, too, now held a sword. As with his other weapon it was ever so slightly curved. Yet it seemed to hold a hidden power many times greater than the other blade, even as its owner was greater than he made readily apparent. And neither did it have the dull grey sheen of beaten lodestone that the other bore. Upon its shimmering sides colours danced faintly, as if a soft rainbow had alighted upon the metal.
"What is it?" Serge questioned. "That's at least partially made from a rainbow shell, unless I miss my guess."
"You do not. It is forged of both Malechost, that is Sunstone, and rainbow shell. A potent might when wielded by one who knows it. It has been my companion for well near twenty years now," he said, contemplating the weapon's blade with something akin to reverence.
"Twenty years? I'd guess you're pretty good with it, then." Serge said.
"Let us see, shall we? Serge," he said, looking up to face Serge, a strange gleam of excitement in his eyes, "on you guard!"
So saying, Crono raised his weapon in challenge.
"What? You want to fight me?" Serge asked, surprised by the sudden invitation to combat.
Crono nodded, a wry smile upon his face.
"To see how skilled you truly are, and if the tales of your strength not fable," he brandished his sword about once, and set his feet ready for battle.
Serge looked to Schala, wondering what to do. But she merely shrugged, calling this his choice.
Now, a battle he had not faced in many months, and though his arms rejoiced to once more hold the Masamune, he felt them unready to fight. However, he would not deny Crono's request of a friendly duel, nor would he wish to simply back down weakly. Moreover, he now thought, perhaps a practice such as this was what he needed, to bring his mind back to how it had once been.
"All right," he said, a confidence returning to his voice. He closed his eyes, and memories of every battle he had ever faced coursed through his mind. Before him stood all the enemies that he had ever sought to do battle with. Monsters and dragons, undead and living, and many more besides. He reopened his eyes, and nodded, telling Crono he was ready.
He leaped forward, spinning his weapon about him. For a moment Crono was startled by this swift and skilful handling of such a weapon, and he brought up his sword in defence only a moment before Serge was upon him.
With a shrill clash that echoed loudly along the otherwise quiet beachfront the two gleaming blades met. For a moment their blade-edges were held fast together, and neither would yield to the other. But only for a moment, and Serge had a certain advantage in his two blades. He spun the free end about: at needs Crono swept his weapon in a parrying stroke, and leaped backward. Crono then looked to his own attack. Nimbly leaping back a dozen paces he bore his sword ready. In answer Serge held the Masamune crossways before himself, ready to counter any mighty stroke or deft blade twist dealt against him. But even so the attack came upon him much more swiftly than he had anticipated. Brandishing his sword about Crono came flying upon him with much greater speed than Serge would ever have accounted of one even so skilful as he. It was as if the very air lifted him up in its swift wings. Dropping soundlessly as a cat on the sand behind Serge, Crono swung with his sword. But Serge was not wholly caught, though he was much startled, and brought his sword behind him, turning aside Crono's blade.
"Good," Crono said, nodding in approval. "You very swift, indeed. It is, then, as I have heard, then. You are truly a master of that sword."
He paced lightly about Serge, his eyes ceaselessly searching his opponent for a chance weakness.
Serge, too, did not idly stand, but whirled his sword about his fingers, keeping its speed prepared.
But for all of the skill and might at Serge's command, it was to no avail. With a deft spin and slip of his sword, as swift as the very wind that blows unexpected with the onset of a storm, Crono struck. The Masamune took the first blow, but with the second Serge felt its shaft wrested from his grip. He fell back to the sand, startled as Crono leaped forward.
With a final stroke, Crono brought the Rainbow flourishing about his head, stopping its glimmering blade but a hairs breadth from Serge's neck.
Pausing for a minute, he laughed, then spinning his sword about once thrust it back into its scabbard.
He reached out a friendly hand for Serge, pulling him up to standing.
"You needn't feel bad, Serge," he said, seeing Serge somewhat undone by his loss. "It has been many years since I last fought a swordsman as skilled as you are. And you must remember, I have been fighting without rest for the last fifteen years."
Janus, coming up beside Crono, gave him a vexed look.
"Modesty is not needed here, Crono. You lost, Serge, because it may well be said that Crono is the best swordsman the world has seen in nearly four hundred years. In all of history, only the great Sir Glenn could match him in a contest of arms."
"Sir Glenn?" Crono asked. "There was a time when you did not speak so favourably of him. I think that 'that accursed, sword-brandishing , little fool' was your more common name for him."
"There was a time, Crono, when he was my sworn enemy. And I deem that in true skill you have long since surpassed him. Only by virtue of the Masamune, which he then wielded, could he have hoped to best you."
Crono shrugged it aside.
"Perhaps. But those days in which we journeyed together with him are now long gone. Time is not the road it once was to me, and Glenn does not live in this age."
"And it is the poorer for it. Serge now bears his weapon, though I doubt that Serge could ever hope to become as great as he was," he said in memory, then continued quickly seeing Crono about to speak. "Do not begin again on that old feud I had with him. That I long ago put to rest, did I not? I admit now he was a most skilful swordsman."
Crono nodded, waving a hand dismissively as he turned from facing him to Serge.
"Old friends never forgotten, Serge. As you no doubt know," he said, with the touch of a question in the way he said the last words..
"Yeah, I suppose," Serge answered in response to Crono's words. "Your friends scattered throughout time. Mine, between two worlds, and don't remember me."
"The ways of fate are hard, are they not? Especially for those called great. Those whom God loves he punishes, or so it may seem if one were only to look at an account of the fortunes of heros," he trailed slowly from his deliberations, taking a glance out to the sea. "Well, delight in the company of some at least that know of you. And do not forget that they too shall fade, even if you remain," he added bitterly, a cloud passing over his face as a sudden memory returned anew to his mind..
"You speak of Lucca?" Schala asked in such a way that Serge could well see she already knew this to be the answer.
Crono nodded, sighing ever so slightly.
"Yes, Lucca. Lucca Ashtear, Serge, though I doubt you would not have heard of even her surname. Too late did I come to save her when she was taken by that accursed abomination Lynx. The regret that I allowed my best friend to die shall ever haunt me. Two there were that remained with me after all was finished. That we at needs were scattered to our native times, that was bitter enough. But that I needed lose those that still remained with me? Now but Marle and I live in this time."
"She was my foster mother, Crono, as well as your friend," Schala responded reprovingly. "In grieving her death, remember you neither wept solely nor most heavily."
Crono cast a look across at her, meaning to protest this. But upon meeting her eyes, he despaired of his argument. As a mother, dearer than any friend, had Lucca been to her. That loss had nearly slain her, and only through hopeless will of vengeance had she continued with life.
Crono sat down heavily on the earth, thrusting his sword into the sand, quivering at his side.
"And you Serge? Any you miss?"
"Many and always, now that I remember," Serge said, smiling sadly.
"That rogue pirate Fargo, for one. Not a few times did he save my life in a fight. And Norris, for another. To think that we spoke with each other just two days ago, like complete strangers. Then I would've sworn any oath that I didn't know him. That two who went through so much shouldn't have any memory of their friendship...that's bitter."
From where she leaned aside a boat Schala spoke up.
"And Kid?" she added, with a laugh. "Her you don't miss at all, then?"
Serge chuckled.
"Kid? Of course. Though not now, anymore. She's come back to me at least, haven't you?" he said, smiling to her.
With a faint glimmer, hinting almost of sadness, Schala smiled.
"Perhaps she has."
----
Finally, after further packing, mingled with much reminiscing, they set out. Truly, they had missed the morning tide, and so their leaving was less swift then it might have been. But in his heart Serge thanked Crono for his thoughtful delay, though at what cost it may come he knew not. If nothing else his mind seemed somewhat more at ease with what was now chancing. For the first time in months Serge, with his back to the boat and staring absently at the shimmering sea, was sure of who he himself was and what was laid upon him. And yet he could not quell some rising regret that plagued his mind. He looked out at the sea about him.
Across the endless seas the boats swept, the coastlands of Serge's home island passing by swiftly to their left hand, in the west. To the east the boundless sea sat in calm midsummer grace, the blue sky reflected as in a mirror on its glassy surface. To the south and west led the way back around the island, and back to his home. But now his course went opposite, to the north and east, to where this tale now led him. Wherever it was, it was far away from his home, and more than once he caught himself glancing back across the water in longing. But his village was now many miles distant, and nothing but the water and eastern coasts of the island met his eyes. And so he contented himself with the company that he now had. In one craft Schala and Crono sat with Serge. Janus, whose wont it was to oft sit alone in deep brooding, perchance even profound, thought, was in the other.
Not that Serge would have spoken much to Janus as it was. Even had he tried, he greatly doubted that the wizard would entertain him with trivial speech. Though not unfriendly to him, he could well see that he had not the desire for such things.
"So, Crono. Tell me about Guardia," Serge asked, having no better question of his comrade. It was their goal, at least for the time being, yet he knew little enough about it. None of the islanders, himself included, cared overmuch for the affairs of the mainland. In isolation from the rest of the world, the archipelago of El Nido had existed alone for thousands of years, and would have remained so for much longer but for the coming of Acacians, and later of Porre.
"Guardia?" Crono replied in thought, sitting back at the stern of the boat, resting his hands lightly on the tiller.
"What is there one can say about one's home? It is not much like these islands, I can tell you that much. Firstly, it is not so infernally warm," he said wiping his brow with his sleeve and staring up with a harsh look upon the midday sun. "Much too warm for my liking. But that you know of course, for Guardia lies much to the north of this land. Here winter is as summer, and the change of season is only marked by the sun. In Guardia, the leaves of autumn flare up in gold and crimson. You truly miss that beauty in this land of eternal summer. And then winter! Soon you shall know what that truly is, and you will see snow. I cannot fathom you returning home before next spring. Winter is too near at hand, and it would be perilous to attempt the journey at that time of year."
"I suppose," Serge said. "What about your people? I imagine they are somewhat different than the people that are my neighbours here!"
"Ah, yes, certainly. As different as one human may be from another. Indeed, our customs and such are likely strange to you. But how differs the heart of one human from another? Not much! But I would tend to say that they are more welcoming of foreigners than are your people. Though not so of late. Occupation has a very harsh way of changing a people, and seldom is it for the better, unless it is the resilience and fortitude it breeds."
"Porre arrived there, what, fifteen years ago?" Serge asked, seeing the talk shifting now towards the recent history of the land, and that which nearly concerned them and their quest.
Not allowing Crono to answer, Schala said:
"Yes, they did. And Serge, I can well see why you are asking him all of this. But a few hours journey from your home, and already you miss it. You are trying to drown your homesickness in idle speech."
Serge shrugged.
"I can't help it. But talking about other places might be good. If nothing else, I should hear about where I'm going."
She turned up her hands, and shrugged, yielding.
"Perhaps. Remember, however, that you have come along with us of your own accord. Take faith in that thought, and do not doubt your own convictions in this choice."
For a moment none of the three spoke, and Serge found himself silently contemplating the words she had spoken to him. But after a moment Crono once again took up speaking, turning the conversation back towards his land.
"Yes, Serge, Porre arrived near on fifteen years ago. For many years they had amassed their armies. Once, during my travels, I went there. Now there is a land unlike Guardia! Warlike, militaristic, their people watched all the while with uneasy eyes by those in power. Soldiers with rifles tread all the streets. They fear their own more than they tremble at any army. But no wonder, with such a people, that they sought to broaden their power. Only too late did we see their strike."
He sat back, and it appeared to Serge that a bitter memory crossed Crono's face.
"Yes indeed," Crono continued, closing his eyes, "much too late. Late fall, fifteen years ago. 1005, by the reckoning of our Christian calender. Who's fault it may be, none can rightly say. Likely no one is to blame, or at least not wholly. Spies we had, but from them we heard naught of warning. Then upon the morn of midsummer we received tidings of dread: a fleet of great galleons had landed upon our southeastern shores. An army was upon us even before we saw the warning of war."
"Did you put up a fight?"
"Did we resist? I should not call myself a true child of Guardia if I had not! Yes, we went to war. I did. My friends and all the knights did. Even Marle, both my wife and the crown princess, did, though her father the king did all he could to keep her from it."
He laughed in memory.
"But her will is stubborn; I've learned that very well since. A grand battle that was, and doomed to fail. To rally the peasants of an entire land is no small matter. An army of only three thousand we had. Three thousand against their two. Perhaps in better times this would have guaranteed the victory for us. But we were ill equipped, and they had brought with them inventions of war new to the eyes of my people: for the first they saw guns, and in dread of them they faltered. In desperate defence Marle and I stood with the castle till it, too, was overwhelmed. What a sight that must have been to those attempting to gain it. They did not count upon our magic, I think, and the siege of the castle was certainly much more difficult than they had anticipated. Through lightning, winds as cold as a winter storm, and fiery tempests burning hot as hell they fought. But no magic could stay their onslaught. We were overcome in the end, and so much was lost in those days. But four days, in truth that is all it was, and all of Guardia was lost," he buried his face in his hands over the bitter memory. "And the loss suffered by its people was far greater. Fathers slain, children that never returned home from the war, and husbands struck down in droves as they fled in terror. Our own son, a child not two weeks past his first year, was lost in those days."
"Could you not travel through time to avert the disaster?" Serge asked, wondering why the great hero who had surpassed time once could not have done so again.
"Alas, no. Perhaps that may have been one thing that would have saved my land. And the great relic of our journeys, the time ship called Epoch, was indeed in our keeping. Safe we had hidden it, to guard against just such a day. Yet at the last it, too, failed us, and nothing we could do would reawaken its power. This, even as the invaders stormed the battlements. Time would not allow itself to be traversed in such a way again. Fate did not wish this, I suppose, and the Epoch could never work contrary to fate. Our last hope lost, we fled the castle in stealth but moments before the conquering armies, leaving it to those accursed legions to occupy. Then, for several months, I led a band of outlaws, as they called us, in opposition to the invader's armies. Knights, squires, and simple peasant folk that gathered about me in the short days following the ruin. But it is not easy to provide for three dozen soldiers when on the run from an entire empire. So Marle and I disbanded our troop, set out on our own, and we have been warring steadily in stealth against Porre for fifteen years now. But now that she is captured, I am at a loss as how to continue my struggle, and perhaps only through open war can my end be achieved finally."
"Would your people rally to your cause, Crono, if you raised the cry?" Schala asked, and it seemed she was cautious, if not worried, over the thought of war.
"Most certainly. But a word from me, and they would rise up in two days. Not without reason does Porre fear my people."
"Then, my friend, you may have a chance. The zeal of a people is a most difficult power to overcome for any invader."
"Then you really think you'll go to war?" Serge asked, both excitement and fear entering his heart over the thought of joining in full war.
"I see no other way. And as the prince of Guardia, I am bound find a way."
Schala nodded, but her face did not lose her disquiet, and she remained silent.
"Schala," Crono said in reply to her mood, "I am not a fool. This path I will not set out on lightly. I know that in my youth I would have recklessly gone to war, without much thought to the future. But I am changed now: in mood, wisdom, even speech."
He lifted his hands to his eyes and glanced at them with amusement on his face.
"Though my mind is not the only thing that has aged. I grow old, slowly, but with as much assurance as the coming winter my age comes upon me. I can feel it. I am not as strong as I once was."
He stole a smile to Serge.
"Take comfort that you have so many years before you yet."
Serge took a discerning glance at Crono. He was of the kind that did not take kindly to growing old, and feared age and its weaknesses more than death itself. He wondered how he himself would feel at that age. Would he also fear it, or would he take comfort in growing old?
"And you, Schala?" Serge asked, casting his eyes from Crono over to her.
"Me?" she said, surprised. "I know I seem scarcely out of childhood, but my mind feels as old as time itself."
She shook her head as if in weariness.
"You forget the ageless years I spent in the Tesseract. The cost of all that knowledge I gleaned from that was the memory of a pain beyond all other reckoning, and too much memory is a burden to the mind in and of itself. Even as the earth must sigh in weariness as the eons of its life pass, so, too, I tire of my life. Mortals souls were not intended to live such lengths, to know so many things, for even life tires and can seem as a burden."
Serge raised his brows in surprise.
"You think you've lived too long? There's nothing that you want to live for, or to do anymore?"
She paused in thought for an instant, then shook her head.
"No, not too long. What I have yet to do is to live a full mortal life as do all others of our race. I did not say I wish to die, only that some days the burden of knowledge can make one wish for a rest from all thought and reason. A scholar's curse," she added with a wry smile.
"But most people would give all they possess to know even a small part of what you know. You have a lot of knowledge and wisdom of things."
But before she could reply, the voice of Janus broke.
"This seems to be a most pleasant conversation that you three are having. But perhaps you might be better advised to tend to more pressing matters, such as evading that galleon that lurks behind us."
As one the three of them turned, their eyes sweeping the distant horizon that lay behind them.
Serge frowned, for only the unchanging sea, bordered in the west by the shores of El Nido, met his gaze. And his eyes were as keen as any, so he wondered of what Janus was so urgently warning them.
"I don't see anything, Janus," he yelled across to where Janus sat alert in the other boat.
"Why, of course you do not!" Janus called back with some annoyance. "Do you doubt me, Serge? My mind looks farther than your eyes can see: the ship remains behind the horizon. I did not say I could see it, but I feel its shadow nearing in my thought."
Turning his tiller he quickly steered his boat in beside the other.
Crono shook his head.
"It is no worry to us. Serge and Schala are skilled mariners. We should be able to evade it with little difficulty. And even if it does come to battle, I trust the four of us should have the better of it. Yet how they have managed to track us this far is most strange to me."
"Not strange," Schala said coming to the stern of the boat beside Crono, concern in her voice. "Sorcery, Crono. Their captain is no fool, whoever he may be. It is not only mariners but magicians, perhaps the Black Wind themselves, that follow us. I deem we shall have much trouble in outracing that ship."
This adventure of his was not beginning well, Serge thought unto himself.
"Isn't there anything you can do to make our chance better? Schala or Crono? Janus? Call upon some wind to give us speed, maybe?"
Janus shook his head impatiently.
"They will have given thought to that already. I know you are a skilled mariner, Serge, but this is greatly beyond you."
Crono, turning his gaze from the horizon where he had vainly been attempting to gain a glimpse of their pursuers, looked in question to Janus.
"And your advice in this matter, my friend?" he asked, to which Janus replied, after a moment of thought:
"We must find a harbor to overnight in. Through sorcery we can give them a hard pursuit for several hours at the least, which will be enough to find some place where we may go ashore and evade them."
Crono nodded to this advice, for it seemed wise to him. By land they had a greater chance of eluding those that sought them.
"Serge, what island is there near here that we may come to soon?"
Serge looked about in thought. To the distant west the cliffs of the mountainous regions of east El Nido met the sky.
"To the southeast is Marbule," he said slowly, taking thought to what he knew of the many islands that lay in El Nido, "but it'll be well into the night before we can get to it, and we'll have to go quite near to that ship following us if we want to go south. And the demi-human mystics control Marbule. I don't expect them to welcome us with open arms."
Schala shook her head.
"They despise Porre far more than your people, Serge; they would harbour us as fugitives from the Empire."
"Nevertheless," replied Crono, "it would be an impossibility to now gain it. There are other islands about us: what of them?"
Serge nodded. In whatever manner the demi-humans might greet them, it was only a slight chance that they could even gain it. And so he dismissed any hope of it, and thought further.
"Let's see: there are a few small islands straight ahead. None of any real importance. At least no one lives there, as far as I know," and then another thought came to him. "But there's a good chance northeast. On that heading, in three or four hours, we'll reach an island which has a hidden fort built on it. It was built a long time ago by the captains of the Acacia Dragoons when they still existed; I know where it is, and I think we'll find it safe there."
Crono nodded.
"Very well, Serge. We will go northeast."
"I disagree," Janus said suddenly, even as Crono moved to turn the tiller. "If we were to sail a few more hours along that very same course, we would come to another island. I believe it would serve us better."
Both Schala and Crono looked over to Serge, awaiting his reply to this sudden counsel. As it was, he did not in the least consider it even worthy of consideration, for he knew well what Janus spoke of.
"Janus, you're saying we should go to the Isle of the Damned?" he said with broken and unsure words; Janus only nodded, with an unchanged countenance, causing Serge to continue bewildered: "Whatever for? It'll nearly be night by the time we reach its cursed shores."
He shifted his gaze to Crono, shaking his head. "I say we make for the Acacian fort."
"And I know otherwise," Janus called back. "There is something you have overlooked. What chance do we have of hiding from sorcerers even in a hidden fort, unless it is covered by enchantment? This Dragoon fort most certainly is not. Even now our pursuers track us from beyond sight. Think of how much easier will it be on land. And to take refuge in a hole: we will have secluded ourselves in a trap of our own making."
"Then you can hide us," Serge said, unwilling to change his counsel.
"Yes, and no, Serge. I can cast a shroud of darkness over us, and make us unseen, certainly. I can weave us a cloak of night, so that to the eyes we will be unseeable. But this isn't a child's game of hiding and seeking. What should be more obvious than a darkness into which they cannot see? Most assuredly they will not know precisely where we are, but they will know we have taken refuge on that island by nature of my enchantment. I will not be able to disguise it for what it is, not from another sorcerer.
They will know, and feel the shadow in their minds, even as I feel their searching gaze upon mine now. So I say: take my counsel, Crono."
Serge fixed a sharp gaze upon Janus.
"Have you ever set foot on that land? The Isle of the Damned is an unholy place!"
"So it is," Janus said calmly. "And I can assure you that in my life I have walked through lands far more evil than this isle. But the truth of the matter is I believe those sorcerers that follow behind will find it very hard, indeed, to track us there, amid all the dark magic that rests upon its shores."
Serge merely shook his head in disbelief.
"I'll have you know that I went there once," he said, scowling at Janus. "Only because I had to, and in the daylight. I'll tell you that it's evil enough even under the sun. How much worse it'll be at night," he shuddered, "I don't even want to imagine. The dead don't have any peace there. And I don't want to tangle with those ghosts again."
"Are you so much a child to doubt me? Look in my eyes; do you think that I fear darkness or the spirits of death as others do? I may be redeemed from my former darkness, Serge, but do not think for a moment that my powers are lost to me. There are oaths such as even the dead need obey, and such spells I know. Whatever wraiths haunt that land, they will cross me at their own peril."
"I still say this is a bad idea..." Serge said, though his argument was not as strong as it had been, and he saw Janus' counsel winning over his own.
"And I should say that we are running out of time," Janus answered with some annoyance, pointing to the distant horizon at their backs. A black sail was scarcely visible.
For a few seconds Crono looked between Serge and Janus. Then finally he spoke, though it was certain that he was not wholly confident in his choice.
"Apologies, Serge, but I must agree with Janus. Whatever danger the dead may pose for us, I deem it less than that which we are in from that ship."
"Ships," corrected Janus, standing up carefully in his boat, his keen eyes searching the horizon, "at least five."
"What?!" Crono cried in surprise, turning to see what Janus had seen.
Now the single black sail had been joined by four others. And upon each of these, distant though they were, could be discerned the emblem of Porre West Navy. A crimson chimera.
"Have they sent their entire island armada to hunt us down?" Crono murmured, some distress in his voice. But Janus for his part merely laughed.
"Five mighty warships to catch two boats? Isn't this a situation worthy of a jester's tale. But at the least we now know how greatly they value our capture."
And shaking his head, he sat down.
"Let us now make for the isle that I spoke of, Crono," he said with his common self-assurance.
Slowly taking his eyes from the stern, Crono turned to the front of the boat.
"Very well. We have a mighty race before us. Serge, you and Schala are the most skilled mariners among us. One to a boat. You, with me. Schala, take the rudder your brother's."
Nodding, she leapt nimbly into the other boat, taking the tiller from her brother's hands.
"Going to call a storm, Crono?" Serge asked, preparing the sails.
Crono shook his head.
"Me? Most certainly not. I am a warrior-magician, not learned enough for such subtle use of enchantments. Were I to do this thing, we should rather be sunk to the bottom of the sea than sped upon a favourable course."
He looked over to Schala.
"Schala, if it please you, call the wind," he commanded
She nodded, and at once took up a narrow gaze to the distant clouds, which now sat in calm grace amid the blue sky.
"Let a favourable wind come upon us," she whispered.
Standing, she held out her arms, and threw her head back so that her eyes looked only upon the sky.
"Ched es omiera alach sol es aipates," she began, her voice deepening as the words escaped her lips; a true spell of ancient power, one as he had never heard from her before. It was the skill and learning of the princess Schala, not Kid, that now called out to the heavens.
"Es omiera degrat taureti sol es nimos,
Sai hael elth, nash entra es senar ander," she continued, and Serge saw the before still water ripple with the smallest of waves. On his cheeks he felt the light touch of a gentle breeze.
"Dainash entra es nichaiet michash,
Icham saia elth arenith,
Ched elth tëi petaw minos saiao,
Etarë areni sol antos saiao."
Now the clouds, before still and calm, began drifting apart in wisps. Across the surface of the water the little waves had now risen in size, lapping loudly against the boats. What had before been no more than a whisper of a wind, barely felt even on his face, now rose steadily. It caught full in the sails, and they strained at their masts for the sudden shock. With a quiver the two crafts leaped forward across the sea, the ocean spraying into their faces. And so was the chase joined, for within minutes a pursuit wind drove the following ships swiftly in their path.
ON THE LANGUAGE OF ZEAL
The language of Zeal, such as it was spoken in the High Court of that ancient kingdom is known by few in later days. Only the most learned loremasters endeavour to learn it among men, though it might be said that it lives in some guise, at least, among the Mystics, for they hold the tongue of Zeal as their formal speech, and that which they use to speak among their many races. When Schala speaks it she, being born of that ancient house, speaks it with the old dialect, that is nearly rendered as follows:
r- Always spoken as a trilled r.
ch- Always pronounced as the ch in the German words 'buch' or 'nacht.'
VOWELS
i- Always pronounced long, as the ee in 'beet.' If at the beginning of a word and together with a vowel, it is always pronounced separate. Thus in the Zeal form, Ientad is said, roughly, ee-ent-ahd.
o- Always spoken as the o in the word 'bode.'
a- Always short, and spoken as the u in 'must.'
e- Always short, as the e in 'beg', save for when it is ë (most often when e ends a word), in which case it is spoken as 'ay.'
u- Always long, like the oo in 'boot.'
y- Equivalent to a short i, like in 'bit.' It is used whenever the short i sound appears in English translations, but in the Zeal script it was simply rendered as a short i.
j- This is merely an accentuation of the i when it begins a word alongside a vowel, and was not a separate character in the Zeal script. Thus Janus, in Zeal, was not Jay-nuss, but rather ee-ah-nooss, roughly speaking.
DIPHTHONGS
ui- A diphthong pronounced similar to 'whee.'
ei- Near in sound to the e when it ends the word, it end on slightly higher a sound than 'ay.'
ai- Always spoken together, like the short i in the word bite
ae- Identical in sound to ai, it is but another rendering. In the Zeal script there is a separate symbol for this sound.
ao- Pronounced as the ow in 'cow.'
Whenever there is a ¨ above one of these two vowels together, the vowels are to be pronounced separately.
All vowel combinations apart from these were naturally pronounced as separate.
NOTE: I may have forgotten some in this, and I apologize for that.
(Last Edited August 28, 2004)