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“Fitzroy?” Kip gasped as he stumbled through the sudden and unexpected portal.
“Here,” Fitzroy assured him, with a hand on his shoulder to help him find his balance.
“Thank you,” Kip murmured. Their surroundings were beginning to register. The two of them stood in a busy, brightly lit square bordered by impossibly high towers. The many colors and flashing lights made Kip’s head swim a little. The people around them rushed or wandered past, their voices echoing across the area. No one seemed to be noticing them, or at least not in such a way as to deem them out of place.
“Oh,” said Kip. “Ysthar.”
“Indeed,” Fitzroy replied. He appeared to be scenting the air. Kip breathed in, himself, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the fumes that Ystharian vehicles emitted.
“Something is wrong,” Fitzroy said.
“Well, they are gradually destroying their world with pollution–”
Fitzroy shook his head. “Something else.” He took another deep breath, closing his eyes this time. His eyelids glowed faintly. A sudden gasp. “The lord of Ysthar is not here,” Fitzroy stated flatly. “I’m certain of it. There are signs, among the lords magi. He yet lives, and he has not abandoned his world, and yet he is simply… not present.”
Cliopher had been watching the square, and the people crossing through it. “Something is wrong,” he said. “These people–Ysthar may not be as socially advanced as we are on Zunidh, but–the last time I was here, they were making good progress, at least. And yet, these people–it reminds me of after the Fall, once the shock had worn off, leaving only the daily necessities of life, and a kind of pervasive despair in the back of all our minds.”
Fitzroy grimaced, no doubt recalling his own awakening after the Fall.
“Lord of Zunidh, Viceroy of Zunidh!”
The high-pitched voice caught both of their attention. It emanated from an approximately head-sized light that descended from above them until it stopped at about Fitzroy’s eye height.
“A messenger,” Fitzroy said to Cliopher.
“Yes!” cried the voice. Cliopher, squinting, thought he could make out the silhouette of a tiny body hovering within it.
“Lord of Zunidh, Viceroy of Zunidh,” the messenger said again. There was a pause. Fitzroy regally inclined his head.
“The lord magus of Ysthar begs a boon of you, in his absence, and of what kith and kin of yours you might rally to the cause. Furthermore, he promises to repay what aid is given with gifts of equal magnitude, upon his return.” The messenger paused again, and this time Cliopher got the distinct impression that it was reluctant to speak. But it gathered its courage and continued. “It is an acknowledged possibility that he may not return. There is an additional request in that case.”
Cliopher nearly recoiled in shock, and felt Fitzroy grow still and grim beside him.
“Tell us,” Fitzroy commanded, “what does your lord bid you ask of us?”
“That you aid and safeguard his world,” the messenger said. “And hold back its people from despair. He understands that you may make choices that he would not, should you do this. He accepts this.”
Cliopher took a deep, calming breath.
“And the additional request?” Fitzroy asked.
“That you locate a suitable heir, should the worst occur.”
“Of course,” said Fitzroy ironically, “since I’m questing for heirs anyway. What’s one more?”
“And where,” Fitzroy asked slowly, “is the lord magus now?”
“He is at war,” the messenger replied. Cliopher felt the hair along his arms and at the back of his neck rising in response to that statement.
“He goes into battle against the Greatest of the Adversaries, the one whose shadow lurks beyond the stars. Even now he stands between Ysthar and that destruction.”
Fitzroy bowed his head solemnly. “Then he is our hope.”
“As you are his,” the messenger replied. “Will you help him, Lord of Zunidh, Viceroy of Zunidh?”
Cliopher cleared his throat. “To be clear, he asks this boon of both of us?”
“Yes. Our lord believes that specifically your aid, for the people of Ysthar, is the equal of that which the Lord of Zunidh can provide.”
Kip was temporarily speechless. Fitzroy was grinning at him. “So, Kip,” he said, “do you think you’ve got it in you to hammer together another world government? The people of Ysthar are sorely in need of your skills.”
Kip sighed. His island was waiting for him. And yet, there was the need of a whole world, missing its lord--a piece of its very soul. Not to mention the promise of a boon equal to reforming an entire world when the lord of Ysthar returned (when, not if).
“Perhaps I could do it faster this time,” he said. “After all, I’ve had practice.”
“I have no doubt, beloved,” Fitzroy said, draping an arm across Cliopher’s shoulders. “And I will do everything in my power to help you. And then we’ll go home.”
Cliopher shoved away his concerns about how long that might take (there would be time, he would make it so), and nodded firmly.
“We’ll do it,” Kip said to the messenger.
“We will,” said Fitzroy.
“Then we of Ysthar are grateful,” the messenger announced. Two small sparks separated from its light and drifted down for them to catch; tiny, glowing roses, the symbol of Ysthar of the magic. “We’ll be in touch,” the messenger added, much less formally, and began to drift upward. Cliopher and Fitzroy watched it ascend past the towers, until it was indistinguishable from a shooting star.
“Well,” said Cliopher, looking around him once more and dusting off his robes. “I suppose we’d better get started.”