Matthew P Gilbert [Gilbert - Mad God’s Muse

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Many helped along the way. As before, some I have forgotten, and for that I apologize. Some have forgotten me, and for most of those, I make no apology.

• My wife, Jessica, for listening, suggesting, correcting, musing, and sharing the dream with me.
• Everyone who helped go over this until their eyes bled, or listened to me talk way too much about how cool it was and chose to continue our relationship despite knowing the risks.
• Paul Hetzer, whose timely encouragement made all the difference.

Ilaweh teaches patience through frustration.

Prologue

One Millennium Past

A m I a god? It was a strange question to ask oneself, and yet it was not the first time Alexander had done so. Each time he took the Eye in hand and crossed from the mundane world to the green, ethereal realm within, the questions came. Is this the true world? Have I lived my life in some sort of shadow up to now?

That was one way to see it. The same people inhabited both realms. The terrain was unchanged. It was so very like his own world in shape and composition, and yet as different as a living, breathing man was from a skeleton. The world inside the Eye held so much more.

Or perhaps it is simply me that is different. I can see so much more. That felt closer to the truth. To take up the Eye, to walk through the green, swirling mists, was to slip into the mind of an immense being, one completely unbound by earthly chains of gravity or the frailty of flesh. Gone were the limitations of space and time. He could go anywhere, even into the heads of others, with a simple thought. He could see everyone in the world, hear them speak, even speak back to them. Like his vision, his mind expanded as well. It was nothing to converse with hundreds as if each were his sole focus.

I have put on a god's cloak, and now I have his vision and his burdens.

For the moment, he had chosen a position miles above the ground, overlooking the many battles being fought at his direction. There had been no travel time, no journey. He had simply willed it, and arrived. Where his own eyes would have failed him at such distance, the Eye's vision was flawless: the simple desire to focus on a location showed him the most minute of details, even things he could only guess at as a mortal man.

He could see intent, both in men and beasts, colored auras he had come to understand as a code: red was an enemy, green an ally, pink announced wounded, and black was for the dead. There were so many more, some colors Alexander could not even perceive with his own eyes, and each had its subtle meaning, but his goal was simple: everything should be green. That is my imperative.

Satisfied with his understanding of the war, he began to issue orders, calling out through the ether to the hundreds receiving his instructions. Supplies will be needed here. Reinforcements are required on these fronts. Wounded need evacuation. Men everywhere needed to hear his voice to shore up their resolve. He could not lie to them, nor they him when he spoke through the Eye.

And now I live as they do. I share their pain. It is the least I can do.

He flitted from body to body, seeing the battle from each pair of eyes in turn. When his men triumphed, he felt their joy. When they fell, he lived their pain. How many blades had ripped through his guts this day? How many of his bones had shattered? How many cries of agony and fear had coursed through his mind?

How many times have I died?

It was becoming more and more difficult to know where he himself ended, and his men began. Within the embrace of the Eye, it felt more as if he, his soldiers, even his enemies were no more distinct than drops of water in the sea. We all spring from the same well. Our individuality is illusion, just like the distance between us.

Still, each had different tasks. Some missions were more important than others. Alexander strained to isolate the one voice. There.

Forgive me, Alexander! cried the soldier. I have failed you.

Alexander was with him in an instant, blood jetting from their neck in a crimson stream from a vicious javelin wound. Take heart. We are not finished yet. Pink, fading to black. He fell, and that part of his vision went dark.

Who will stand for him? Alexander cried out through the twisting nether. Our need is great! He must not fall!

More voices called back, I will.

Alexander felt the sickness in his gut as strongly as he had just felt the weapon in his throat. Choose one to die. Such decisions were for gods, not men. I have my duty, too. I will not shirk it.

One pair of eyes closed. Another reopened. Alexander hauled the javelin from his neck, then withdrew. This one would complete his task on his own.

From the dim, tiny perspective of his own eyes, he saw his Imperator, Xanthius, enter the command tent, crested helmet tucked under his arm. The old soldier's gray eyebrows arched downward toward his square, chiseled jaw in disapproval. He does not understand.

* * *

Xanthius looked on his Emperor with a despair he tried desperately not to show, but it was a pointless endeavor. Alexander knew everything. That was the horror of it all.

Half boy, half man, Alexander sat atop a cot, haggard and slumped against the tent's central pole, his face lit by an eerie, green glow Xanthius knew all too well. Alexander's long, brown hair hung partly over his face, unkempt and lifeless. His skin was pale and sickly, though at least it bore no sores. Yet. They will come, though, if he continues to neglect proper hygiene.

Alexander stirred slightly. His gaze shifted slowly toward Xanthius, unfocused and distant, as if he were drugged and unaware, though Xanthius understood enough now to know that was illusion. The boy clutched at the Eye of the Lion with skeletal hands, the skin covering them thin as parchment. The bright metal of the small lion's head glowed a soft green, reflecting the light from its normally amber eyes. Alexander gazed into the distance, his own eyes glowing the same soft green as the accursed thing he held.

Can you not see it is killing you, child?

Xanthius had watched this slow death, this degeneration of Alexander's body and soul for months. When they had begun this venture, the Emperor had been healthy and whole, trained well by Ilawehan fighting men. His goal had been noble: avenge his father, retake the crown, and drive the Meite rebels and their wretched 'free men' from the halls of power.

Freedom. A mad illusion. I have my master, as do all men. Even Alexander, it is plain to see.

Alexander turned toward Xanthius, and the glow faded both from his eyes and the lion's, but dark clouds hung behind his vision, still. We are at war. Sacrifices must be made. He offered a thin smile. You, too, looked better when we set out.