Chapter 70: 70. Two Options

Excerpt from Sivilyi’s ‘The Winged Sage’s Proverbs.’

“When one entrusts their choice to fate, one chooses passivity. When one chooses passivity, one does not wipe themselves clean of the consequences of choice. Instead, one chooses the end of potential, and suffers the state of the here-and-now.”

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Bad luck.

Somewhere in the space between unconsciousness and consciousness, that thought had drifted into place. Yenna was so frequently in the wrong place at the wrong time, and no more absurdly so than this time. Through a fog of drug-hazed memory, Yenna put together the pieces of what happened—she had stumbled on anaesthetic-numb legs and slammed face-first into the glass tank of green fluid. If she had stumbled any other way, she may have simply fallen to the ground, perhaps landed alongside Jiin where she would be able to steady herself against the surgical bench.

Of all the places I could end up, how is my luck so bad that I knock myself out right in the middle of a fight for my life?

Finishing that thought with the mental equivalent of an exasperated sigh, Yenna’s mind kicked itself into a frenzy. A half-second lurch of panic had her mind blank, remembering the precipice she stood upon—I have to get up, I have to stop Mulvari!

For all her resolve, Yenna realised she was still in that odd state before true consciousness. Her mind worked, not hindered by dream-like haze or the actual haze of mind-altering drugs, but it wasn’t connected to anything. Total sensory deprivation gave rise to another panic that couldn’t be matched by a pounding of a heartbeat, a sharp intake of breath—just a mind in total isolation.

A cool breeze blew by. A heady smell of soil and wildflowers brushed across Yenna’s noted lack of sensory apparatus, an inexplicable sensation that promised calm. The gentle ‘shush’ of a mother to her child, it insisted that Yenna relax and allow someone else to deal with it. However, Yenna was now aware that she wasn’t alone—that some being could sense her thoughts enough to comfort her into quietude. She wasn’t going to fall silent and trust everything would work out. The lack of control rankled her.

Hello? Yenna called out, her thoughts swallowed by a dark void. Who is out there?

In response came the rustling of wind through fields, the warmth of life-giving sunlight, a splash of cool water to quench one’s thirst. There was a promise there too. 

Just reach out and pick up a tool, promise to tend the fields and you shall reap the fruits of your labour. It was odd—definitely a thought in Yenna’s head, but not her own. Perhaps you should relax by the bench for a while? Have a break, and let someone else take care of the work.

Demvya? Yenna put two and two together. Had her contact with the glass provided the spirit an escape route? Goddess, actually. Her thoughts muddling together, some Yenna’s own and some not, the mage gave a rather pointless harrumph with her lack of harrumphing organs. If we’re going to communicate, we can’t do it like this or I’ll just get confused.

“Pray, how is this?”

Yenna blinked at the sudden light—actually blinked, with real-enough eyes. Her sight adjusted quickly, too quickly for this to be properly real, not that the sight she saw left any doubt.

“What… where are we?”

“Within thy mind, a stolen moment. We mustn't be long, but this shall suffice.”

The goddess Demvya sat before her on the other side of a table that suspiciously lacked detail. Around them was a startling tableau, like someone had transported parts of an overcrowded study into the middle of a farmer’s field. There was a rough circle of polished wood floor, with filing cabinets, drawers and shelves placed haphazardly where a wall might have been. Beyond, dirt and saplings, rolling hills and gentle summer sunshine, the most idyllic of rural summer’s days. A metaphor—a bridge between my thoughts and Demvya’s. …Are my thoughts seriously a study full of filing cabinets?

“Yea. But it is not important. Thou’rt in danger, and thou’rt weakened. I wouldst take thy place for the moment, but I shall not do so by strength of force. I shall not suppress thee.”

Yenna tore her eyes away from the strange sights and looked back at Demvya. She was still as beautiful as the last time Yenna had seen her, back when they traversed the mind of the water elemental. She took the form of a fine kesh, with long silver-white hair threaded with gorgeous white flowers cascading over rich, dark skin. Eyes of liquid gold regarded Yenna—awaiting an answer.

“A-Ah, yes, well, I’m not, um.” Yenna frowned, chewing over the problem. “Not comfortable with handing over control. U-Uh, you said we were in a ‘stolen moment’? Are you controlling my body right now?”

“The discipline of thy mind is impeccable, in its capacity to make haste of thought. I have… utilised it, soothed its demonic sting with my power of succor. We may speak, though not for long.”

Ah, Yenna nodded. Borrowing my mental acceleration gives us a bit to discuss things. Best not to take too long, though.

“Okay, well. What’s the situation right now? I… suppose I have kind of saved you? But I still need to help Jiin, and Valkh is just outside—I have to, well, defeat Mulvari.”

Demvya nodded. “Though meanest to kill him.”

“Kill?!” Yenna blanched. “I… I…” 

If I have to, is what she wanted to say. But, could she?

“Thou wouldst wish it another way, but thy foe is not one for acquiescence. I have seen the measure of such a fiend—they speak with honeyed lies, they cower upon the mercy of their betters, and always, always they shalt strike thee the moment thy back is turned.”

The spirit of the harvest spoke with all the grim determination of a goddess of war. Still, there was a softness there—pity, perhaps? It filled Yenna with a curious shame.

“I… I have to try, don’t I? To lock him away, see him punished for what he’s done. To just kill him would be…” Too easy? But, too easy for who—him, or me?

“Thou needn’t commit the act. I bid you, rest—allow me the hands with which to hold the tools, and I shalt perform the act. Thou mayest close thy eyes and cover thy ears, and I shall see to the reaping. I needest of thee only thy consent.”

That’s even easier, isn’t it? Yenna’s lips parted, ready to agree. Once again, she found herself before a precipice. Too easy. To let Demvya kill him, and wash my hands of the whole business. Blood on my hands all the same—to agree is to murder him as surely as plunging the knife in his chest myself. I’m a teacher, not a killer, damn it!

Yenna’s thoughts were interrupted by Demvya extending a hand. Her outstretched hand was stained ever so slightly with dirt, as though she had been working the fields at some dainty remove. She gestured, a universal sign for hand me that. Yenna looked down at her own hand, her knuckles white around the handle of a hand-scythe. A common farming implement, made so sinister in context—it stood for the answer to the question.

Will you kill him, or let someone else do it?

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For a moment the scythe seemed as reprehensible as the quicksilver dagger. A tool for killing, for the ending of life itself—Yenna couldn’t abide by that, even if Mulvari was a villain. Who was she to be the judge of his life? Who was she to decide whether he should die or not?

Yenna broke it down to a simple problem. In her hand the knife, and two sets of people before her. On one side, Mulvari, a man who had brought harm upon her friends and openly intended to bring more, to say nothing of the suffering he had already caused. On the other side, a nebulous group of future victims—Yenna couldn’t say who they were, who they might be. Could they be innocent bystanders? Kidnapped like her friends, like herself? Or perhaps they too could be villains—greater ones, a kind of cold, mathematical balance. No one could say. Yet, there were still two options.

One life ended, certainly. Or the possibility of many more. Once again, the knife in her hand—sink the blade into Mulvari, or allow him to kill countless more?

No, there is a third option. Yenna’s brow furrowed, and her head started to hurt. Time was running out, even with Demvya’s help. The third option is to throw the knife away. The details are… unclear. The metaphor falls apart, doesn’t it? But even if the future is unsure, I want to live in that world where a third option exists.

“Make thy decision, swiftly.” Demvya’s voice was pinched with urgency. The warm sun above them was setting at an alarming rate.

Yenna looked at the scythe in her hand, rose to her feet, and threw it far into the field. Her heart pounded in her chest as she extended her hand to Demvya.

“I’m not going to kill him, and neither are you. We’re going to work together, goddess, to find the outcome of the third option.”

Demvya hesitated for a moment. She looked at Yenna’s hand, at Yenna’s face, at the world fading into darkness around them. Then, she nodded and placed her hand into Yenna’s.

Reality crashed back down upon them.

—

They were back in Mulvari’s inscribed chamber. Not that we ever left.

In the brief time Demvya was in charge of Yenna’s body, she had managed to disentangle herself from the wires and rise to her hooves. Yenna’s face still stung where she had collided head-first with the thick glass container, but her body didn’t feel lethargic and—apart from the obscuring mist of rainbow-coloured clouds—her vision was back to normal. The whipping wind of her Joy-infused barrier was still doing its work, but the only reasonable explanation Yenna had for the lack of poison in her system was that Demvya had cleansed her somehow. An unspoken affirmative nudged its way into the back of Yenna’s thoughts—comforting, but somewhat creepy.

With all of her faculties returned, Yenna stepped away from the tank—away from Jiin’s still unconscious form. This poison was no doubt seeping into her exposed flesh, but if Demvya was capable of cleansing it from Yenna’s body then there wouldn’t be a problem. At least, after they dealt with Mulvari himself.

As if on cue, a round glass bottle came sailing through the air towards Yenna. The bottle had two differently coloured fluids within, two reagents intended to react upon the destruction of some internal partition. What would happen when it broke? Able to slow her thoughts again, the mage could predict that her Joyous barrier would knock it aside—but from there, where would it go? It was likely that it would be flung into a nearby wall to deliver its foul payload against inert stone. However, there was a nonzero chance of it launching towards Jiin, or splashing to the ground at her feet.

Bad luck.

The thought sprung to mind again—Yenna had been exceptionally unlucky lately, more so here, wherever here was. Leaving things in the hands of fate was starting to seem a more foolish choice by the minute. After all, when preparing an experiment, a researcher minimised the variables. If a nonzero chance of failure could be reduced to zero, it should—no questions asked. So, Yenna reached out and caught the bottle.

A part of Yenna’s mind screamed in abject terror, awaiting a rain of acid or alchemical fire. However, Yenna had caught it between her fingertips—it hadn’t been moving very fast, and mental acceleration made that act easy. Careful not to catch it with her palm, to avoid the slim chance of it breaking on impact, Yenna now held a very dangerous object and eagerly wished to be rid of it.

“...Hm? What are you up to, witch?”

Mulvari’s voice echoed through the room, though the direction was so much clearer now. He was barely inside the mist at all—now that Yenna knew where to look, she could even see his outline. It was bulkier than she remembered, the scrawny man likely wrapped in laboratory safety gear. Likely he had expected a crash of glass, perhaps a scream of pain or blossom of fire—his voice carried with it the distinct disdain of a nonzero chance of failure rearing its head.

I can use this, Yenna realised, her eyes falling on the flask in her hand. Not as a weapon, but as proof.

“I am far stronger than you can imagine, alchemist.” Yenna’s voice came out low, her nerve-riddled shakiness metamorphosed into a fascinatingly intimidating shudder.

Mulvari responded with silence, and Yenna saw his form shift in the fog—his footfalls were quiet, the trained steps of someone used to not being spotted. When he spoke again, his voice echoed oddly against the walls—as though he stood back in his original position.

“Is that so? A spell to quench my flames? So much bluster for one whining like a stuck animal a moment ago. Come then, strike back, witch.”

Yenna couldn’t see the alchemist’s face, but she could hear the smug grin on his face. Come on, attack where I was, so I know where you are. Leave yourself open, and I’ll be victorious.

Knowing where to look, Yenna could see him edging around, closer and closer. Mulvari was using the tank to conceal his approach out of the thickest parts of the mist, sure that his trick had worked. He hadn’t thrown his voice with magic, just the simple trickery of a performer at work. Mundane arts weren’t to be underestimated—a lesson Yenna was already well aware of. Still, magic was nothing to disregard.

Holding the bottle of potentially-explosive chemicals in one hand with extreme care, Yenna wove a simple spell to cause it to float up and over to Mulvari’s old position. The spell had very straightforward instructions—once at the destination, wait for a signal before cutting out entirely. With both hands free, Yenna conjured up her knife to create a new spell circle. A careful weaving of a familiar spell, the mage nonetheless held it. Timing would be everything.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mulvari almost at the tank. The fluid within the tank obscured even more than the mist, but the man’s silhouette was unmistakeable. He was so close now, close enough to strike—a tiger lurking on the edge of vision. Yenna’s nerves rattled against her resolve, but couldn’t shake Demvya’s soothing presence. The spirit sat at the back of the mage’s mind, her warmth and guidance radiant, the promise that she could take over if it all got too hard. Yenna felt like she understood a bit more about Jiin now, and used that goddess-granted courage to resolve to speak to the stonecarver about it when they got out of all this.

“Mulvari, you’ve made your mistake. I know exactly where you are.” Yenna grinned, feeling foolish—sometimes, the cheesy lines from all those adventure novels come in handy. “Now, have a taste of your own medicine!”

With the flick of a fingertip, Yenna signaled the spell holding up the flask. A half-second of silence was broken by the brilliant bang of an explosion. The mist rushed away from the blast, though its fiery heat dissipated harmlessly into the walls and floor.

“Fool!”

Mulvari jumped out from his hiding place and, with all the speed and grace of a hungry tiger, pounced towards Yenna. His face was obscured by a thick mask, eyes visible through thick circles of glass set into the rubber. Yenna watched them go wide with a sickening sense of satisfaction as Mulvari walked right into her spell.

Releasing the spell circle could be done as fast as thought, even faster with anticipation of events. A glob of magical mud caught the man square in the chest and soaked up the churning, violent tide of magic as it expanded. Resembling a massive catcher’s glove, the spell held Mulvari fast even as he squirmed to get free. Yenna’s confidence nearly broke at the sight of the man’s thin arms bending unnaturally to get free, but the mud was much faster. The Certain Fetters had encapsulated him perfectly—a proven hypothesis, all variables diminished to zero.