Order of shiran elven wo.., p.1
Order of Shirán: Elven Worlds 1, page 1
Order Of Shirán
ELVEN WORLDS I
R.K. LANDER
Copyright © 2023 R.K. Lander. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Naz’arán. Click to enlarge.
In loving memory of
Captain Edmund Kent
You dreamt of wings and flew. Life took them away, but death has given them back. Fly free at last, dad, back to the stars you loved and beyond.
Contents
1. Order of Dominie
2. Order of Shirán
3. The Choice
4. Enlightenment
5. Shields of the Mind
6. For All Elvendom
7. Desperate Measures
8. The Dominie Code
9. Arzenon
10. Kal’hamén’Ar
11. The Blue-eyed Raven
12. Origenta
13. Origin
14. Confinement
15. Dohai
16. Guiding Light
17. Guilty
18. Consequences
19. Shattered Rules
20. Angels
21. Acceptance
22. Return to Life
23. A New Order
24. Liminality
Also by R.K. Lander
About R.K. Lander
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Order of Dominie
To the north-west of the Divine Isle of Estuary lies the Source, elven gateway from the first world of Bel’arán to the second world of Naz’arán. It is a path only the dead can take. But before they can live again, they must travel through the realm of the Order of Dominie: Resurrection, where the spirit regains its conscious self. Revival, where memories return. Academy, where knowledge of the new world is imparted. It is a necessary journey, taken by the guiding hand of the Order of Dominie.
Order of Dominie. High Master Dominie Sebhat.
Frontier, Estuary, north-eastern Naz’arán – Second World.
“It is the way of all elves who walk the Short Road. There are no exceptions.”
Master Dominie Benzir leaned forward in his seat, inquisitive eyes glued to the master theorist who was pacing before his avid students. Brow furrowed, words flowing skilfully, eyes fixed on a world that was not here, Sebhat, leader of the Order of Dominie, had thoroughly captivated his audience of tutor and mentor Dominies.
Sebhat had travelled from the Source itself, where the buildings of Resurrection lay. He had stopped at Revival, then Academy, and finally here, in Frontier, first and only city in Estuary. This was where the students of the Order of Dominie took their first steps upon a ten-year apprenticeship towards mastery. Indeed, so far, Sebhat had said little that Benzir didn’t already know. He was a master Dominie, had come only to listen to the words of an unrivalled metaphysician and thanatologist, subjects that fascinated Benzir more than any other, even wine making.
But Sebhat was more than the high master Dominie. His fiery red hair and purple eyes were a testimony to his nature.
He was a demi-god.
Master Dominie Benzir had been guiding spirits back to life for many decades, had achieved the highest rank that existed within the Order of Dominie. But Sebhat was the true genius. His wisdom, his deep empathy, the passion with which he spoke, and his oftentimes subversive claims, made him one of the few elves Benzir truly admired. It also made him dangerous to know, for how does one hide things from such a perceptive soul?
His eyes wandered over the avid crowd of mentor and tutor Dominies, their awe-inspired faces, tentative hands rising or slowly dropping in disappointment when someone else was singled out to question the greatest high master Estuary had ever seen.
Other masters had come too, those who were not currently guiding spirits in Rival or Academy. He knew many of them, even liked a few of them. But none were his friends.
“What of the Divine Ones? The Beranor and Berator?”
Benzir looked at the young tutor sitting in the third row back, red tinge to his cheeks, hands fiddling with the buttons at his cuff. He’d surely only been in the Order for a few weeks, the concept of Beranor and Berator and what happened to them after death was still fresh, almost magical.
“Aria, god of Bel’arán chooses her divine servants in life, but it is in death that they are given the choice to become Liminal. Should they refuse, they will pass through Resurrection and Revival, then Academy and Frontier, just like anyone else. Upon their Enlightenment, they will cross the Sundering Mists and live their lives in Naz’arán however they choose. But should they accept Liminality, they must evolve.”
The young Tutor’s eyes flared, and Benzir knew he wanted to ask about the Shirán. But self-doubt and surrender were easy to spot for one as experienced as Benzir, and when the boy’s shoulders slumped and he sat back in his seat, another voice rose over the quiet murmurs.
“How can we tell what choice a Berator or Beranor took?”
Benzir sat straighter in his chair, looking from the hopeful tutor to the master theorist. Sebhat’s head tilted backwards, eyes closing. Exasperation, Benzir could see it in the set of his features. The young ones always wanted to know about the Order of Shirán. It was fair enough, he supposed. But there were so many other fascinating subjects on which to interrogate the master. However, far be it from Benzir to draw attention to himself.
“It takes experience and empathy to identify a nascent Liminal. It takes patience and a superior sense of observation and logic. But should you suspect they chose the path of divine service, you must report it to a master or even to myself. We will guide you. Suffice it to say that once Enlightenment graces them and their past life emerges, they must travel to Origenta.”
Benzir observed Sebhat closely, saw the calculated way he had answered, enough to satisfy a tutor, insufficient for a master like himself. There would be time enough for the students to learn of the Shirán and their liminal ways. Too much too soon was never a good thing, not here in Estuary, not ever, he reckoned.
“Master Sebhat. Why can the reborn not be prompted to remember? Why must the process of Enlightenment occur spontaneously?”
Sebhat’s heavy gaze landed on the curious woman with a hawk-like nose and slanted eyes. She startled, swayed backwards in her seat, unaccustomed to the burden of wisdom in the master’s purple eyes.
“You should not fear me, tutor. You will guide many Belaics on their roads into Naz’arán, some of whom will be illustrious thinkers, mighty warriors, commanders of kingdoms and empires. Your wisdom – your empathy – must shine, for it is the only thing that will comfort them in their time of need. But as to your question, I wonder if you can answer it for us.” Sebhat turned from the enthralled tutor and locked gazes with Benzir.
The master Dominie tried and failed to look away, pursed his lips and rode the waves of indecision and surprise as neutrally as he could.
Sebhat smiled kindly.
Benzir cleared his throat and stood. “Their return must flow from the soul. There is a mechanism in the mind that seems to understand what can and cannot be assimilated, when it can be accepted and when it cannot. Immortality itself can only be endured if the burdens of the past can be carried, tolerated and understood, softened into something that can be controlled. Recalling a past life must be on the spirit’s terms, and is sometimes slow, other times swift. But every memory must be digested and internalised, stored away before the next one can be tackled. It is our job to ensure an adequate pace, with sufficient time for emotions to be handled. You see, the death of one’s own body is surprisingly hard to come to terms with. The weight of pity is sometimes insurmountable – indeed there are Firstworlders who never leave Revival or are sent to Confinement. Always remember that the death of an elf is never fortuitous. It is always traumatic. It is that trauma we must deal with, the grief it evokes, teach our spirits to bear the burden of memory, learn from it, enable them to continue. And…” Benzir glanced at Sebhat, found him staring out of the window. “And, there is evidence to suggest that forcing Enlightenment may damage the spirit’s ability to remember in the future. What would have flowed naturally with time, becomes stilted, fragmented.”
A respectful silence followed in the wake of Benzir’s words, and Sebhat stared hard at him. “You have read my treatise. And so tell me, master Dominie. How does the reluctant spirit make you feel?”
Benzir steeled himself, because Sebhat’s eyes seemed all-knowing and yet unreadable – even to him. The question was an odd one, but he’d try to answer it all the same. “Feel… it makes me sad, although I can never show it. It makes me wonder at the workings of the universe, of why elven resurrection should be this way. It makes me question immortality and continuity, whether it would not be best to die and begin again, as I believe mortals do.”
Silence fell over the room, the murmurs and the hushed conversations nothing but whispery echoes in the wake of Benzir’s voiced ruminations.
“And yet mortals would have our continuity, our inborn immortality. They want it; indeed, they kill for it.”
“Oftentimes we want what we don’t have.” His words had come out too fast, too curt. He stopped, calmed
Gasps sounded around the lecture hall, but Sebhat held up his hand for silence.
“And you, Master Benzir? Do you understand the implications of continuity?”
Benzir took his time answering. “Beyond the accumulation of wisdom, no. I don’t understand. All I know is that I don’t want to die. But that is not logical unless I can explain why I don’t want to die. Some souls in Confinement beg for oblivion, would take their own lives if we allowed it. I sometimes wonder whether we should.”
He’d said too much, turned away and sat down abruptly, fiddled with the papers on the desk before him.
Sebhat nodded slowly. “Excellent observations. You have the makings of a theorist.” Sebhat turned, rich brown boots thudding over the raised wooden platform, black robes swishing around them. Humble attire for a demi-god, thought Benzir.
“We are immortal, and nay, I would not trade that in exchange for a simpler transition from one life to the next. It is this very transition that speaks to us of the workings of this universe, the place that envelopes the elven worlds. Mine is the onus of studying it, understanding it. Yours is the duty of easing that transition, welcoming and tutoring the Belaics who come to us through death. One day, it may be your turn to walk that tortuous path into Yul’arán. And yet, you will know there is life on the other end, that there is meaning to our journeys. We must only find out what it is, and thus, understand continuity, and why we instinctively want it.”
A bell tolled from beyond the double doors, and Benzir’s head whipped to the entrance, eyes glittering, anger spiking almost out of control. He wanted to slam the door shut, lock it and melt the key. He wanted to smash the bell into the wall, break it to pieces… he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and when next he opened them, the room was bustling with activity.
The tutor and mentor Dominies rose, grabbed their books and papers and made for the platform where Sebhat waited patiently. Benzir listened to their excited chatter, watched their waving hands, flashing eyes and furrowed brows. Sebhat had inflamed their academic minds, and Benzir knew they would be talking about the demi-god’s visit to Academy for months if not years to come.
“You have a question, master?”
Benzir’s head shot up, only now realising he had floated away on a cloud of thoughts, not all of them good. Master Sebhat was looking down on him in curiosity, not a tutor, mentor or master in sight.
Benzir stood, fiddled with the tie of his black sash. “I have many, high master. But one would lead to another, and another. You would never be free of me should I ask but one question.” Benzir smiled but Sebhat did not.
“Then I will return one day, seek you out so that you can ask, and then, perhaps, you will allow me to ask you.”
Benzir frowned, shook his head. “What would the High Master Dominie ask of one such as me?”
“There you are; you asked a question. What are we to do? I hear you make excellent wine.”
Benzir’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Well, I enjoy it, probably a little too much.” He chuckled.
“Ah, true mirth, that is a good thing. When next I come to Frontier, or perhaps you to Resurrection, you must invite me to a glass or two or your special brew.”
Benzir’s smile widened, his eyes softening. He wanted to clap his hands together, dance a jig and throw his arms out to the wind. Instead, he shoved his hands into his ample sleeves and bowed.
Sebhat’s soft smile faded, and he turned. Benzir watched him leave, but the closer the demi-god got to the door, the more urgent was his need to call out.
“Master.”
Sebhat turned, mildly surprised.
“Where do the elven worlds end, do you think? Is there peace at the end of our roads?”
Sebhat stared back at Benzir, and in those millennia-old eyes, he saw passion and compassion, he saw wisdom and he knew his knowledge surpassed the frontiers of his own will. Sebhat understood what Benzir thought he hid so well, and yet he said nothing.
“That is a good question, the same question I ask myself every day. And if it is relevant to the immortals, so too must I ask where the road of a mortal leads, whether there is a place for them after death that does not drive them to destruction. It may prove to be the end of this centuries-old war we wage in the south.”
“Do you think it may also apply to the mortal elves? Those who chose to die?”
For just a moment, Sebhat’s face fell, and a terrible grief washed over him. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the practiced façade of the High Master Dominie.
“Who can say? I cannot. And this is, perhaps, the most fascinating question of them all. Immortal elves, capable of returning from death. Demi-gods whose Enlightenment is instant, their minds intact and unchanged, and gods who never die. What is the key, Benzir? Will mortals one day be immortal and this war we wage become irrelevant? Until we understand this, mortals remain the catalyst for war on Naz’arán, a war the revenant demi-god seeks to perpetuate.”
“You do not name him,” murmured Benzir.
“And I never will.”
Benzir shook his head. “It boggles the mind and yet, if I were not needed here…”
Sebhat cocked his head to one side, red hair spilling over his shoulder, down to the thick leather belt around his tunic. “You would dedicate yourself to study?”
Benzir knew he was staring, but for a moment, he was spiralling into a tunnel of mystery and the unknown, falling into a world beyond the mists of his own limitations. He jolted, blinked. “Yes. Yes, I would.”
“I must return to Resurrection, but when you are free of your next spirit, you must visit. When next we meet, I will ask you a question.”
Benzir tried to read Sebhat’s intention, but the head of the Order of Dominie was too skilled, and he bowed reverently. “Whatever it is, I will answer.”
Sebhat nodded. “I am partial to Scandic wine.”
Benzir smiled as he watched the master leave. He meant what he had said. He would dedicate his life to metaphysics, to thanatology. But as to Sebhat’s promise of a question, he wondered if he could answer, whether he would confess his true nature – that he was a coward – that he didn’t deserve immortality. He had asked Sebhat a question, whether there was peace at the end of the elven worlds. What he had really meant was whether there was peace for himself in this life.
Ea Uaré, Bel’arán – First World
Falkite Captain Lainon slashed downwards, cut into his opponent then danced sideways, watched him crash to the forest floor. Another Calrazian was upon him in seconds. He feinted left, lunged forwards and skewered his enemy, dodged the fountain of blood that spewed from his mouth.
“Tensari?!” He yelled over the shouting, the clang of steel on steel, the screams of agony and desperation, heard her answering warning.
“Three left.”
Lainon dodged a blow, rolled over the ground, and pounced back to his feet. Holding his blade across his face, he countered a strike and sidestepped. Using his opponent’s inertia, Lainon kicked out and pushed him headfirst to the ground, stabbing downwards through his back. He turned, sharp eyes watching as his patrol finished the last of the enemy, a large group of Calrazians they had stumbled across on their way home. To one side, Falkite Lieutenant Tensari stood breathless but otherwise perfectly healthy. Lainon smiled, watched her return it.
He glanced at the sun. “We are close to Ea Nanú. Fancy a trip to the giant trees? A glimpse of Green Sun and his family in the boughs?”
