Journey Beyond the Edge

“What does sin-cro… sin-cro-nize mean?”

“Like singers finding the same beat. They sound together and complete one another, like music.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Is it like joining in with a song you’ve never heard before, simply because you like it?”

Eric nodded.

“And what does that have to do with memories?”

“You belong to your world, and an eastern bazaar belongs to it as well. Think of this as a verse you recognized by instinct.”

“You are such a strange man, Eric. Who are you really?”

“What matters is that I am not your enemy. Come. We should hurry.”

“How can I trust you when you don’t trust me?” Maniva pouted.

“I will tell you tonight. It is a long story.”

“Then tell it in a few words. I won’t move until I know.”

The northerner considered this for a moment. Then verses reached her ears:

Now he is Shadow—

a shadow without a soul.

All Five Gods are dead;

they are no more,

and Magic has departed.

Only Her trace

exploded through the worlds.

The chosen bear the mark of shards.

Through night he wanders,

searching for the light.

Unseen, through all eternity,

he walks.

Now he roams

from world to world,

still hoping to discover

another soul

in whom the sacred fire of Magic

yet glows like a dying coal.

“Now come. The finest workshops close at noon. We have very little time.”

The northerner turned abruptly and strode into the maze of stalls.

Ten minutes later, they reached the artisans’ quarter. There were no street vendors here, no hawkers deafening passersby with their cries. The roar of the market had dwindled almost to silence, and the street stood nearly empty. There were only the craftsmen’s homes and their wares.

Guards in full battle armor stood here and there, bearing enormous forged shields and long spears. Several noble citizens strolled decorously among windows flung wide, behind which artisans had displayed their masterpieces.

The healer stopped at a window filled with fabrics and gestured for Maniva to inspect the goods.

There was everything imaginable: brocade embroidered in gold, silk finer than anything she had ever seen, even sailcloth as thick and strong as armor. At first, the girl did not understand what the northerner wanted of her. Then he pointed to a bolt of the finest, nearly transparent material, and she was struck speechless.

It seemed woven by goddesses. Arabesques of unknown runes intertwined in strange patterns, glittering beneath the sun and blooming into flowers of unearthly beauty.

A dark-haired girl with dozens of thin braids emerged from the hovel and unwound the fabric with a cat’s quickness. Its enchanted pattern shimmered in the sunlight, yet in shadow the cloth appeared completely transparent.

“Arnodorian silk. You will find nothing like it anywhere else,” said the shop’s gray-bearded owner. “Soft as a second skin, light as a spiderweb.”

The braided girl placed the fabric in Maniva’s hands. The merchant had not lied. It weighed almost nothing, and touching it was intoxicatingly pleasant.

“Strong as dragon scales,” the weaver continued, while the girl stabbed at it with a pair of shears.

Maniva did not know what she was expected to do. But the eyes of a woman accustomed to rags burned with longing to possess it.

Eric watched her as if waiting for something, his face masked in indifference.

“The pattern is woven from adamant,” the merchant said. “The sorcerers of Garaer spin its threads from moonstones. See how it shines beneath the sun, like your companion’s silver hair. One could make armor from this cloth—or a nightgown fit for the princess of Agroba. The High Priestess of the Faceless herself wears a chemise made from it, and she is the greatest beauty in the Sultanate.”

Maniva pressed the material to her cheek and nearly wept. Its touch was as tender as a mother’s kiss.

“Careful! Soil it and you’ll have to buy it,” the gray-bearded merchant called arrogantly.

Maniva began to return the bolt, but the northerner’s voice made her press her face into it once more.

“Look closely, my lady. You will be the one wearing it. You must conquer the heart of the ruler of Nuskam.”

Then he turned toward the merchant.

“You judge customers by their clothes instead of the weight of their purses? Reckless behavior for a tradesman.”

With those words, he jingled the coins in a large, weighty purse.

The merchant’s practiced ear recognized the sound of gold. But the purse had already vanished into the healer’s pack, wiping the smile from the old man’s face.

“How much?” Eric’s voice was cold and indifferent.

“For you alone, honored sir, I will part with the bolt for three hundred dinars,” the merchant said conspiratorially.

“For that price, old man, one could buy a war galley. Have you added an extra zero?”

“Consider the quality. There are two hundred dinars’ worth of adamant in it, without even counting the labor.”

“One hundred,” Eric replied after a brief pause.

“Surely you are mocking a poor old man.” The merchant put on an injured expression. “Two hundred ninety. I cannot go lower. I paid two hundred eighty myself. The purest adamant. This is a respectable shop. The High Priestess herself—”

“Adamant is black. Mithril shines silver. Either you were deceived, or you are deliberately trying to deceive me.”

“Metals are not my specialty, good sir. I am no smith. I may have been mistaken. But the fabric truly is strong. Not even your dagger could pierce it.” The old man refused to yield.

“If nothing can pierce it, how did you cut it and sew the priestess’s chemise? Come, Maniva. There are other fabric shops here. Perhaps their merchants are more honest!”

Eric nearly shouted the final words, attracting the attention of a guard.

“Very well, most honored sir. For you alone, I will surrender the material for two hundred eighty.”

“One hundred fifty.”

“You will ruin me. I have a family. My daughter needs a dowry. My eldest is preparing to marry, and I must gather coins for the bride-price. My wife is ill.”

Maniva reached into her bag, but the Viking’s hand stopped her.

“One hundred eighty—if the cloth withstands a blow from my dagger,” Eric persisted, drawing the weapon.

The guard at the corner lowered his visor and began walking toward them.

“Let us agree to this: if the cloth holds, you pay me two hundred fifty. If it does not, you take the bolt for nothing.”

The merchant had barely finished speaking when the healer’s dagger effortlessly sliced away a corner of the fabric and returned to its sheath.

The merchant lost the power of speech. He clutched his head, muttering again and again, “They cheated me…” Tears of despair gathered in the old man’s eyes. “I invested everything I had in that material. I am ruined.”

With a victorious smile, the Viking took the bolt from the dark-haired assistant’s hands.

“Greed destroys. You have lived to gray hairs without learning the simplest truth. You should have accepted what you were offered.”

Clutching his heart, the old man sank onto the bench beside the entrance.

“I will pay three hundred if you make my companion a dress from this cloth by evening,” Eric said with a grin, addressing the dark-haired girl.

The old man could not believe what he had heard. His daughter looked at him. Then, scarcely believing their fortune, he nearly dropped to his knees before the strange healer and his companion.

“She will sew it, great lord. She will. What style does my lord desire?”

Eric nodded toward Maniva.

“I’m not accustomed to dresses. I’d rather have something simple. A shift, perhaps, or a wrap.” Her face shone with happiness.

The purse of coins landed on the counter with a heavy slap.

“Make her a wrap—something like the toga nobles wear on Khmarg. Comfortable enough to sleep in, yet respectable enough for an audience with the sultan on a sunny day.”

Eric turned to Maniva. “Come. We’ll find something better suited to travel. The leatherworkers are just beyond the alley.”

Reluctantly, Maniva surrendered the fabric and hurried after the northerner.

The teahouse welcomed them with the enchanting fragrance of meat and onions sizzling in a vast cauldron. An enormous, corpulent man wielded a cleaver with surprising skill as he chopped carrots.

At his nod, a large-breasted woman of about thirty-five hurried toward the guests. She seated them upon a peculiar raised platform covered in cushions, with a carved table on short legs at its center, then rushed back to the kitchen.

The northerner settled calmly among the cushions and gestured for Maniva to join him.

“Don’t be shy. Make yourself comfortable. This is Ostos. People eat seated here, and they take their time.”

With childish enthusiasm, Maniva hopped onto the platform and dropped beside him.

The girl paid almost no attention to the sideways looks from the other patrons. Eric could not say the same.

“We’ll eat, collect the dress, and buy you clothes for the road. Then we’ll visit a jeweler and wash properly at the baths. I know a place—Anan’s. Magnificent pools, hot water, incense. You’ll like it,” the Viking said dreamily.

Maniva’s happiness vanished. She lowered her head in sorrow.

“What happened, child? Why are you sad?”

She did not answer, only looked away with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t go silent. What is wrong? Where did your good mood go?”

“I thought you were different, but you’re just like every other man.”

“Slow down. What exactly happened?”

“I thought you were a man who kept his word, but you scatter promises you never mean to fulfill. I could have bought it myself. What good is gold if I’m not allowed to spend it?”

“You mean the pineapple? We will buy one. Your gold is special. Those are Amosian coins. You’ll need them to purchase passage into the palace at Nuskam; Asmodeus’s chambers are guarded day and night. Travelers between worlds are not especially welcome in that reality. Any other coin would be more likely to take you to a dungeon than home. Forget about your money until you reach Angren.”

“Do you mean to sell me to him?”

Eric burst out laughing.

“I don’t understand you at all,” Maniva continued. “You call a harbor whore the ruler of a country that doesn’t exist, then haggle with a tailor, yet pay the full price when you could have taken the cloth for nothing. You’re deadly dangerous, but for some reason I feel perfectly safe beside you. What kind of creature are you?”

The woman in the white apron brought a large platter of fragrant samsa, their golden sides and flaky pastry promising delight. A teapot appeared beside them, along with two peculiar cups and a bowl of sweets.

Eric said something in a language Maniva did not understand and handed the woman a pair of coins. She nodded repeatedly and hurried out of the teahouse courtyard.

“First of all, that was not Arnodorian silk. It was ferro cloth. Eat your samsa.”

“Samsa…” The girl savored every syllable as though tasting it. Something about the word felt profoundly familiar—so familiar that her mouth began to water.

“Meat pastries. They’re made with mutton fat. Once it cools, it will be inedible.” Eric bit off half a samsa at once and continued while chewing. “Ferro thread is a rare material, won with enormous difficulty in only one world. The stubborn filament drawn from immense mineral masses is used to make both armor and the only weapons capable of cutting through that armor. Perhaps six or seven smiths know the secret—certainly fewer than ten. The knowledge passes from generation to generation, only within their families.”

“So your dagger…” Maniva whispered.

“Yes. A gift from my old friend Heras, a master from the village of Utar. This dagger will pierce any armor—anything at all, provided the blade is long enough. So the cloth is worth far more than he asked, especially with defensive and strengthening runes hammered into self-repairing enchantments. Believe me, that fabric is worth an entire fleet. Do you understand?”

Eric had plainly worked himself into a fervor. He showered her with words she had never heard, but Maniva listened without revealing her confusion. She simply admired this oversized man, who now spoke with all the passion of a child.

“When properly worked, ferro thread is stronger than diamond, adamant, or mithril.”

“I’ve never heard of ferro. But I have heard tales of myth-ril and adamant.” Maniva sank her sharp white teeth eagerly into the side of the eastern pastry.

“Hardly surprising, considering the labor involved and the rarity of ferro masses. Even the finest smith may spend a full year making a single set, perhaps longer.”

“And where did you learn the art of love?” Maniva asked with a sly smile, turning the conversation toward a subject she understood better.

At that moment, a young man in very strange clothes joined them at the dastarkhan. Maniva had never seen anything cut in such a fashion. His light white shirt was covered with unfamiliar plants, while his trousers barely reached his knees.

“Well, what have we here? Eric, is that truly you?”

The guest snapped his fingers, and time froze around them. He smirked when Eric favored him with nothing more than a glance.

Maniva could still hear and see everything, yet not one muscle would obey her. It was as though she had been imprisoned inside her own body.

“What do you want, Iblis?”

“I brought your order. The dress.”

“I did not ask you to. We could have collected it after supper.”

“Only the Chosen are worthy of wearing that cloth, Eric the Wanderer.”

“Is that why your secret worshipers sell it in the marketplace?”

“That is another matter. Let us return to your companion. The spirit of death has already told half Bohemia how you promised to tear his plot apart.” The man in the peculiar clothes studied Maniva appreciatively. “The Dragon’s Mark would look perfect against such lovely breasts. Don’t you agree?”

“I do not.”

“A pity. Defying gods is an expensive habit.”

“Is that a threat?” the northerner growled.

“Give me the maiden. Her story may never be born at all, and here she is almost home. What makes me any less worthy?”

The guest transformed, revealing his true diabolical nature. The air filled with the stench of sulfur.

“Mortals must—” the horned creature began.

“No one owes anything to anyone!” Eric roared, striking the table with his fist.

Maniva blinked.

The guest plainly noticed.

He sprang to his feet.

“One way or another, she will be mine. And you will regret refusing me.”

The demon swept his membranous wings and dissolved into space.

The spell broke, and time resumed its course.

“What was that?” Maniva asked when she could speak again.

“It does not matter. We must hurry. Gods do not make empty promises.”

The northerner closed the door of their room, then used greenish chalk to draw strange symbols upon the jamb and the window frames.

Their chamber in the caravanserai was spacious enough, though neither its furniture nor its decoration could be called luxurious. Yet feather mattresses lay upon the beds, and to Maniva—who remembered sleeping on nothing but straw—the sight seemed fit for a queen.

“A real feather bed!” The girl sprang onto her feet and dropped onto the mattress again. Her laughter, soft as the murmur of the first timid stream of spring meltwater, filled the room.

“Are you all right?” the Viking asked.

“The Princess and the Pea. I’ve heard that tale so many times. For as long as I can remember, I dreamed of sitting on a real feather bed just once. It’s wonderful. Thank you—and thank you for the pineapple too. It truly was like magic.”

“Magic…” The northerner rolled his eyes. “Says the girl who crossed the boundary of reality under her own power. If not for the comb, I would still be searching the forests of Saxony for you.”

“Speaking of the comb, why did you give it to me in the harbor brothel?”

“It is your comb. Matter from one reality is drawn like a magnet toward matter from the same reality. That is also how I found the cloth for your dress.”

At those words, the girl rose from the bed and turned in a circle to display the garment once more. The splinter’s light was very weak, making the fabric nearly transparent and concealing none of her charms. Her blue eyes shone with genuine happiness.

“And if I’m not the woman you seek? What if I’m only a whore from… what was it? Ambrosia?”

“Amosia,” Eric corrected. “Incidentally, doors and mirrors are the simplest ways to travel between worlds.”

“Any door? Even a wardrobe door?” Maniva asked, sitting upon the bed. Candlelight washed over her body, outlining her nipples through the transparent gown.

“You should not have refused traveling clothes. In that dress, by splinter light, you might as well be naked,” the Viking muttered, losing the thread of his thought.

“Do you like me?” Coquetry rang in her whisper. She saw the answer in the blush spreading across the face of the seemingly unfeeling, savage Norseman. “I’m a harbor prostitute. In my old life, I spent only a few hours each day wearing clothes.”

The Viking clenched his jaw. He remembered their night together and longed to repeat it.

Maniva rejoiced. She was not alone in being tormented by desire for this mighty and very strange northerner—if northerner he truly was. She decided that did not matter now. She was desired. Dreams came true.

Mischievous happiness flashed in her eyes, and she pretended renewed interest in his explanation.

“Forgive me. What were you saying about doors?”

“Doors. They are the easiest way. Come here. Check your bag again. Is everything inside—the comb, the coins?”

Maniva nodded.

Eric drew the sheathed dagger from his belt and offered it to her.

“The Black Paladin will come to Amosia. Learn to wield this. The fate of the entire world will rest in your hands.”

Maniva accepted the gift, immediately drew the blade, and pressed its point against the northerner’s chest.

“One should never entrust such a dangerous weapon to an unfamiliar woman,” she whispered.

The Viking merely smiled.

“A weapon does not kill. The person holding it kills, Maniva. One day, you will have to fight gods—and not only for your own life. Put the dagger away before you hurt yourself by accident.”

The blade returned to the prison of its sheath.

“Are you not afraid of death at all?”

“How shall I put it?” The man stroked his beard. “Let us say I am afraid of a life lived in vain.”

Eric resumed rummaging through his bag.

“Where are they? Never mind. I’ll find them later. Now, back to doors. Behind any door—and especially a mirrored one—you may imagine the place you wish to reach. Mirrors are easier because you will look the same in every world. You need not remember the particular features of the door through which you will pass the Veil, only what lies beyond it. Give me your hand. I’ll try to step directly into the Tower.”

Maniva obeyed.

Eric closed his eyes, pushed open the wardrobe door, and attempted to walk inside. No portal appeared. His forehead struck the wardrobe’s back wall with a solid thud, and he fell to the floor. Thick, dark red blood began dripping from his split brow.

Pressing a handkerchief to the cut, Eric tried several more times, with no greater success.

The girl rose from the feather bed and approached him.

“I am too old to believe in miracles. You tried, and I am very grateful for everything—the dress, the strange fruit with its strange name, and the beautiful tale about traveling between worlds. You saved me from a monster and stopped those warriors from violating me. But I truly do not believe in miracles.”

“Finding yourself in this city did not trouble you? Nor the creature that attacked you?”

“Sailors told me about cities like this and terrible water monsters too. I had never left the walls of the harbor town before. I thought Ostos was farther away, of course. Once a foreigner came to me whose skin was dark as oak bark. He said he came from a city like this. Perhaps it simply takes longer to reach by sea? What I mean is, you don’t have to do any of this. I will do anything you ask of me anyway.”

The girl leaned toward Eric’s lips, but he merely drew her against his chest.

“I do not want it to be out of gratitude.”

“You truly are a strange man. You awakened the woman in me. I want you…”

Maniva’s whisper was cut short by a deafening crash as the entrance door flew from its hinges.

Chapter Seven: Uninvited Guests

Three men in very strange clothing burst into the room. For some reason, they reminded Maniva of beetles, with black backs and white bellies.

Eric immediately shielded her with his body.

“Leave, or you will regret it,” the Viking all but growled.

“Damned Coven. What luck. The informant was right.” The shortest of the three wore a peculiar hat shaped like a cooking pot. He drew a strange metal tube mounted on a carved wooden grip from inside his coat and aimed it at Eric.

The girl’s heart hammered with the premonition of disaster.

Eric did not react.

“I am Inspector Winnegat. In the name of the Holy Beacon’s Covenant of Inquisition, you are under arrest. You stand accused of interspatial magic, sorcery, and corruption. You and that mavka will come with us.”

“You and your curs are going to turn around and get the hell out of here while I’m still asking nicely.”

“Not very bright, are you? But what can one expect from a savage barbarian? What did this witch promise you, that you would risk your life against three inquisitors?”

“So… now I know what happened to the door.” Eric moved between Maniva and the intruders once more.

At the mention of the Holy Inquisition, Maniva was seized by blind terror. A moan of despair escaped her throat. She remembered girls writhing in the flames of inquisitorial pyres.

Her hand found the northerner’s gift.

Better to deny myself paradise through suicide than endure the inquisitors’ torture chambers. People said not even Hell contained torments so ingenious.

“Silver bullets, barbarian,” Winnegat continued. “Neither spells nor magic can save you from them. But if you refuse, so be it. He needs only the woman.”

The man in black shifted the tube toward Eric.

A deafening crack sounded, and smoke engulfed the room.

Eric compressed like a spring, then felled Winnegat with a sweeping blow that slammed him against the floorboards. His companions instantly drew their own tubes. Two more reports thundered, and the smoke became impenetrable.

Something invisible whistled past Maniva’s face and buried itself in the wall, leaving a neat round hole. She drew the dagger and held it before her in trembling hands.

Eric is alone in there against all those bastards. If he falls, they will tear Maniva apart in the Inquisition’s dungeons.

She clenched her teeth.

“Hounds of Iblis,” Eric snarled as one of the fallen men rose, twisted his displaced head back into place, and charged the northerner again.

Winnegat only laughed.

“Maniva—the window! Run!”

Eric’s shout awakened something ancient within her. His fearlessness before the god’s immortal messengers—and his willingness to sacrifice himself—restored her strength.

Suddenly, her fear vanished. Confidence, courage, and valor seemed to pour into her through the blade. She could hear the breath of the fighting men with perfect clarity.

She could feel their hearts beating even through the curtain of smoke.

Maniva plunged into the fight. The dagger tore open one inquisitor’s side and found another’s heart.

Nearby, stool boards cracked as they smashed through Winnegat’s skull. He fell again, but regeneration had already begun knitting the damage closed.

The struggle subsided into groans and the crash of falling bodies, then into pleas for help and a dying man’s rasp. The Viking’s enormous shadow moved through the smoke.

“Immortality does not protect you from pain, does it, Winnegat?”