Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [69]
Dartun considered himself the best cultist around. He could not only use relics, but modify them, developing his own devices from the ancient wonders. He could combine them, could manipulate the different technologies for his own research and, over his abnormally long lifetime, he had made countless notes, developed theories, tested them, tried to fill in the numerous gaps in knowledge. He had pushed the boundaries of what was known and, by doing so, blurred the boundaries between life and death. But there was something evading him that he wanted to achieve. And he wanted to attain it more than ever because of his sudden awareness of mortality.
This is the way my world ends, he reflected: not with a whimper, but with a fucking big bang.
Again, today he had contemplated the signs of his aging.
Deeper lines in his face.
Gray hairs.
Aches.
Cuts and grazes on his skin.
These were the legacy of mortals, things he hadn’t been used to. Every time he identified one of these minor deteriorations, he would stand still and examine it for the best part of an hour, trying to accept the fact that he was dying. It took over nearly every part of mind-space. There seemed no room to think of anything else.
He finally placed the relic to one side, walked over to one of his numerous bookshelves, selected a notebook. From another shelf he drew a map from a large stack. Then he lit three lanterns, placed one on his desk, set to work.
Last month he had suffered a migraine for two days. His first such inconvenience in hundreds of years.
The main subject of concern for everyone in Villjamur, on Jokull island, and every other island of the Empire, was the Freeze—the ice age, long predicted by astronomers and historians. But it had to have its good points, and for Dartun, it meant that he could finally investigate one of the celebrated myths of the world.
The Realm Gates.
The mythical doors to other worlds. It was said that the Dawnir built them, the race that constructed the islands under the red sun, to link worlds with others. Some priests whispered that there would be direct access to the realms of the gods, some said that instead you could walk straight to the realms of hell. No one seemed to know for certain and, as a result, many assumed that they were simply stories spread by Jorsalir priests. Dartun himself had spent hundreds of years documenting all the historical accounts available. But he had access only to what the empires of the west had detailed, a skewed history. The nations of Varltung and further east passed on their history by word of mouth only, by the warmth of a fire no doubt. Romantic, Dartun thought, but it only gives me one side of the picture. He had, however, pieced together the rough location of where he thought the Realm Gates lay. That meant traversing endless water, over the seas to the north of the Empire’s domains, way beyond Folke and far north of Tineag’l. But the Freeze had now caused the formation of thick and stable ice sheets. It meant he could now explore those regions more easily, without being knocked endless days off course by the hazards of rough seas.
The coming ice age meant he was finally able to travel to other worlds.
The fact that his immortality was fading only spurred him on to achieve this quickly, didn’t it, because there was no more luxury of time. So he would soon be leaving Villjamur accompanied by members of the Order of the Equinox, some who had already left in advance. They’d find new worlds to the north. And there was always a vague, desperate hope in his mind that somewhere in these new worlds would lie the technology to help him prolong his life. He had little else to bank on.
There was a knock at the door, and he looked up in surprise. “What is it?”
“It’s me, Verain,” replied a female voice.
He registered her slender figure before her face; as he tended to do, even though her face was equally exquisite—slender and symmetrical features beneath rook-black