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  Shifting Stars

  The Salvation of Tempestria

  Shifting Stars

  Shifting Stars

  The Salvation of Tempestria

  Book 1

  Gary Stringer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Gary Stringer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First paperback edition December 2020

  Cover Design by BespokeBookCovers.com

  ISBN 978-1-8382777-0-3 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-8382777-1-0 (eBook)

  Published by Gary Stringer

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Gathering Storm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 1

  My name is Arshes Megane and I present this in defence of my actions. As I write this, at my behest, Aunt Mandalee has already gone to fetch my father from a critical moment, a thousand years ago. I understand that this Time Intervention is illegal and dangerous. Potentially catastrophic. Yet, I maintain I am right to do this. To me, the choice is simple: sit here, meekly playing by the rules while the world burns, or throw the rulebook on the fire and save…everything. Or try to.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself, or possibly behind myself. That’s the trouble with Time manipulation: it can be hard to tell. Either way, let me take a step back, or forward, take a breath and begin to compose myself.

  The moon is but a silver sliver in a starry sky, as I gaze out of my window. Hence, my desk is littered with lighted candles aplenty and an oil lamp for extra illumination on this page. Of course, I could simply speak a word of magic and light up this room as brightly as if it were Midsummer's Day. Indeed, in this age of magical wonders, there are commonplace spells with which I could transfer my thoughts directly onto magical recording devices. But tonight is not a night for magic.

  These days, there is a small but vocal group of individuals who believe we have become lazy in this modern age and desensitised to the non-magical wonders that have surrounded us for who knows how long. Aunt Dreya would call that ‘sentimental nonsense.’ For her, magic is all; even more so since Ascending to the higher planes. Oh, how I miss her!

  Me? I take a more balanced view of magic. While I appreciate its place in the world and all we can do, tonight, as I say, is not a night for magic. So, I sit at my desk, armed with nothing more than a pen and inscribe the words onto paper, as it was done in ages past – simpler times, when the dew of Creation was still fresh upon the world.

  Please, gentle reader, forgive my ramblings. I sometimes get so caught up in the simple pleasures of this form of non-magical creativity that I forget what it is I am supposed to be writing about. For the record, allow me to introduce myself: I am the only daughter of Daelen StormTiger and Catriona Redfletching. These are names that are remembered with honour in times past, present and, I trust, in the future as well, if you will forgive such crude temporal terms. In case there is ever such a time that the old legends fade and are forgotten, however, let me write further.

  My name is Arshes Megane and I am immortal.

  Perhaps I should have led with that, but there’s a fine line between dramatic and pretentious.

  When I say immortal, I do not mean merely long-lived, but nor should you imagine that immortality is the same as omniscience or invulnerability, though I do possess unique powers and natural defences that I use to protect myself and those I care about. Immortality means that my ageing process stopped more than nine centuries ago and will never restart, leaving me with the appearance of a young woman of around nineteen or twenty. Barring some grand cosmic accident, or unless I fulfil my final destiny, whatever that might be, I shall exist until the end of eternity. Does eternity have an end, or does it go on forever? I do not know. Moreover, it occurs to me that true immortality is something that cannot be proven. Who but another immortal could be around to verify it? Philosophy aside, however, proof or not, I know that it is true.

  How this came to be, I cannot say. A consequence of being born within the Guardianship? The Guardians exist out of Time, and I am so far the only child to be born in its embrace. A legacy of my father? He did originate from one of the higher planes of existence, where Time flows differently. Heritage from my mother's Faery blood? To the Faery of Quarthonia, I am Emryse Amrosia – Ever-Living – the latest of several immortals that feature in song and story, if one is to believe such things. (As a corollary to my earlier musings, I can’t help but wonder, if there have been other immortals before, why have I not met them? By definition, they must be alive somewhere!) Maybe it is a combination of all these factors. Perhaps it is none of them. Once again, whatever the reason, all I know is that it is true: My name is Arshes Megane, and I am immortal.

  Accepting this fact, you will appreciate that I have a unique perspective on the world. That is why I am sitting here, preparing to write this story: no other could.

  I am choosing to call these ramblings, ‘The Salvation of Tempestria’ in desperate hopes that events yet to come will match the title. If anything goes wrong – perhaps the smallest mistake – then as far as this world, this reality is concerned, the events I relate to you will never happen. Yet I swear to you on all I hold sacred – by the memory of my father, through the love of my mother, on the very essence of magic itself – that every word I write is true.

  But I am in danger of starting my story at the end instead of the middle. I understand it is customary to start a story at the beginning, but when one lives outside Time as I do, the beginning can sometimes be…elusive. Besides, sometimes, unless the middle happens as it’s supposed to, the beginning may never happen. So, gentle reader, allow me to present the Salvation of Tempestria, in the middle.

  *****

  As I gaze through Time to that moment, gentle reader, I can see that Daelen has agreed that it would be best to camp for one more night and begin the final push to Kullos' fortress at first light. Since there are no more plans to make, while the others head for their tents for the night, the shadow warrior has chosen to go for a walk alone to relax. He knows it will probably be his last chance to enjoy something so simple.

  Even with all his power, the great shadow warrior always took pleasure in the smallest things.

  That is a side to my father that people often do not appreciate. Perhaps it is his influence, as much as my mother’s, that compels me to write this story in such an archaic manner as ink inscribed onto paper with a pen.

  The shadow warrior has been walking for close to an hour, when he comes across a female figure standing in the moonlight, dressed in white body armour much like his own, with white boots and a purple mask that conceals the upper part of her face.

  “Greetings, Daelen,” she offers. “Ah, but it is good to see you like this again; it's been a while.”

/>   I can see he recognises her. Almost. Something about her causes Daelen's memory to flashback to when his current mission all started. She looks very different, but somehow, her aura is the same.

  “You’re her, aren’t you?” he says, at last. “You’re the one who woke me from my rest and made me aware of the threat and the power of Kullos in the first place. Who are you?”

  Considering how to answer without revealing too much too soon, her mouth twitches as a very old memory flashes through her mind. A thousand years ago from her perspective. Just a few days from his.

  “You once referred to me as an Assassin Peacemaker,” she replies at last.

  “Mand—?”

  “—Don’t say my name!” his visitor cuts him off. “You don’t know what terrible trouble you could cause. That’s why I didn’t use it myself. You asked who I am, and now you know, but I'm not who you think I am…or maybe I am, in a way, but never mind, there will be time for explanations later. Assuming there still is a later. Right now, I need your help.”

  Ever stubborn, Daelen wants some answers right then and there.

  “But how can you be here?” he demands. “When I left, you were asleep back there!”

  “Oh, don't worry, I still am,” is her reply, “and I'm not here…that is, rather, I am here, but you are not. Yes, well, it's a bit difficult to explain, really.”

  Ah, gentle reader, that is so typical of my dear Aunt Mandalee, the White Assassin. She often said she dearly wished these things weren't so hard to explain. Even now, I know she sometimes wonders if she makes any sense at all. She's too hard on herself. She never chose to be a diplomat, a teacher or a politician. She became a demon hunter, an assassin and a Cleric of Nature. How strange it is that she is the only one of the original Three Guardians still in the position, at least she was until she agreed to this desperate act. I'm sure any rational person would have placed wagers on her being the first to resign. Of course, one wonders what exactly counts as reason in this irrational world, but that, gentle reader, is a subject better suited to my philosophy texts. For now, I have a story to tell.

  “Look, if you’ll just come with me a little way further into the woods, we’ll be able to speak more freely.”

  “Alright,” Daelen agrees and extends his arm for Aunt Mandalee to take as they stroll along.

  She smiles at the gesture. It’s a rather old-fashioned tradition, from her perspective, but she can see no harm in indulging him.

  *****

  After walking for no more than five minutes, the woodland opens out into a clearing and Mandalee declares that they have arrived.

  Releasing her hold on Daelen’s arm, she at last removes her mask so he can see her face. A face that appears about ten years older than when he last saw her an hour ago.

  “You're from the future!” Daelen realises. “You're a future M–.” He catches himself. “A future version of the woman I know.”

  Mandalee pulls a face.

  “That is a very crude description, Daelen. The reality has to do with the true nature of Time and its relative spatial dimensions, but I can't tell you about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You're not ready for it. Your entire home plane of existence isn’t ready for it yet.”

  “Are you really so advanced in your time?” Daelen breathes in awe, trying to imagine a future where the knowledge of mere mortals might surpass that of his people. It’s hard for him to imagine how such a thing is possible.

  “Yes,” Mandalee agrees, “as a matter of fact, we are. In some ways, at least.”

  “If you are so advanced, how come you need help from someone as primitive and backward as me?”

  “Now, now, Daelen. Be nice,” Mandalee chides him gently.

  “Sorry,” Daelen apologises. “That was uncalled for, wasn't it?”

  “Yes, actually, it was. To answer the essence of your question, though…well, for now, let's just say the danger we face is unique to your own experience. Will you help us?”

  Daelen gazes around the clearing in which he is standing. It surely reminds him of Catriona’s Meadow, except he knows it’s entirely the wrong world for that. He feels there’s something else about it, something strange – it’s been nagging him since he first entered, but he can’t put his finger on what it is. That’s making him irritable and stubborn.

  “In case you've forgotten your history, I'm in the middle of something important right now.”

  “Not from my perspective, you're not,” Mandalee counters. “Look, if you help us and we succeed, I shall return you but a moment after we left, and you can get back to fighting Kullos. It won't affect you in any way.”

  “And if we fail?” Daelen asks, fearing the answer he knows is coming.

  “If we fail, my friend, nothing you do here will matter.”

  “It doesn't seem like I have much choice,” the shadow warrior grumbles.

  “Of course you have a choice,” Mandalee counters. “But within the parameters of who you are, I agree – there’s no other you could make.”

  “You've changed,” Daelen observes.

  The assassin shrugs. “Happens to the best of us, dear.”

  *****

  He couldn't have failed to notice how evasive she is, and there’s a casual flippancy in her voice that the Mandalee he knows would never have used. The Mandalee he knows is a throw-caution-to-the-wind young woman who often uses ‘get very drunk, armed to the teeth and go for it’ as the way to catch her mark. What Daelen doesn’t know is that for so long, she has been the White Guardian, not the White Assassin and that has led her to adapt.

  Living outside Time, she has aged no more than ten years in the traditional sense, due to accumulated days within the Timestream. Even so, one day, a few years ago, when I asked her how she was truly feeling, she admitted to me, “I feel old.”

  As an immortal, gentle reader, I am beginning to understand what she meant.

  After she has assisted me with this Illegal Time Intervention, she has vowed to resign from the Guardianship, both in protest at the others’ refusal to act and, as she put it, “Because it’s time,” which is a strange concept for one who lives outside Time, but I could see the sense of it.

  Take it from one who knows: Timelessness is wearying.

  If all goes well, Mandalee will return to the timestream to live out the rest of her natural human life. It is my hope and my prayer that she will recapture her youth and rejoin the hunt. When I project that possible future, the early signs are promising. Her feline friend Shyleen's coat seems to already have a new glossy golden sheen to it, as well.

  Yes, no doubt her resignation is the best thing for her, even though I know it means I will lose her as I have lost everyone else.

  As I have said, I am not merely Timeless; I am immortal. I just wonder, gentle reader: how exactly does one resign from immortality?

  *****

  Accepting her plea for help, Daelen says, “Alright, are you going to open the portal, or shall I?”

  “Portal?” Mandalee looks amused.

  “Yes, you know, to travel to your time.”

  “Portal?” she repeats, laughing despite the seriousness of the situation. “My goodness, how quaint! I'm almost tempted to let you do it, just for the experience, but now is not the time for such crude techniques. We don't use portals anymore, my friend.”

  “Then how do we get to your time?”

  With a smile, she replies, “We're already here.”

  “That's why this place feels strange! I've walked through this forest so many times, and I don't remember ever noticing this place before.”

  “That's because it doesn't exist,” Mandalee explains.

  “You mean, it doesn't exist in my time?”

  “It doesn't exist in any time.”

  “Then, where are we?” Daelen looks confused. “I mean, this ground we're standing on, where is it?”

  Mandalee sighs;
exasperated. “It's nowhere! I told you – it doesn't exist!”

  Poor Mandalee. It’s like trying to explain the Origin of the Universe to a baby. Daelen is simply not sufficiently developed to cope with it. So many of what are considered the most basic root concepts are beyond anything the shadow warrior has had to deal with, and Mandalee has neither the time nor the patience to take him through nursery education.

  Trying to rationalise it, Daelen asks, “Are you saying this glade is an illusion?”

  “Oh no, it's real; it just doesn’t exist. Look, it all comes down to the manipulation of spatial dynamics and dimensional harmonics to annexe a section of spacetime. This place is special because it’s Timeless, but similar annexes are routinely created. It’s simple enough – delicate and intricate, but not hard. Any other questions?”

  “Just one, about Time travel: you act as if it's commonplace.”

  “It is,” she replies.

  “Since when?”

  “For the Guardians, from their creation – it’s a natural consequence of existing out of Time. For the members of the Higher Council, over a century. For your average wizards, druids and clerics, about half that time. Then in recent years, basic observation-only Time travel has been available to all for recreation, vacations and study.”

  “That’s impossible!” Daelen insists. He’s obviously finding it very hard to adjust to a world that has left him behind. “I would have noticed! Where are all these travellers from the future? Why aren’t they all over the place? Why haven't I met any, apart from you?”

  “Oh, the arrogance!” Mandalee rolls her eyes. “I had almost forgotten that about you. I often used to wonder if the real reason you left your plane of existence was that your ego grew too large and it just sort of spilt out like an overfilled bathtub. The reason you haven't met any other Time travellers is that, except for the Guardians, nobody has ever gone back this far.”