Book 8: Chapter 90: The nether
Just as the few times he had travelled through a portal, Martel felt like he was floating in water. He resisted the panic that threatened to overwhelm him from the sensation of drowning; holding his breath, he realised that he did not require it. However deeply uncomfortable, nothing happened to him, keeping his mouth closed.
Next, he no longer floated, but found solid ground beneath his feet. And he finally looked around. Above him, three suns shone in the sky, bathing him in a constantly changing light, switching between red, blue, and white. Not just suns, not only daystars, but the Stars themselves. Malac, Perel, and Glund. Martel stared at the latter and felt the connection; the celestial body that had blessed him since his birth.
Otherwise, the land was desolate. Not a single blade of grass. Martel could not even say that one grain of dirt lay beneath him. He simply stood on – something, surrounded by eerie light.
But in the distance, he saw a building, and he knew in his bones that it was his destination. It seemed far away, and he wondered why he had appeared in this place; perhaps an unconscious choice by his mind. Close enough that he knew the direction to move, far enough to give him time to adjust to this new world.
If his arrival had been noticed, it had not caused any alarm. Nobody came out of the structure in the distance. It would appear they had time aplenty to wait for Martel; understandable, given time was endless, according to Nebo. Nothing else to do, he began to walk.
Martel could not tell how far he had to march, or how far he had come. He felt no weariness, nor thirst or hunger. He might have been walking for a minute or a millennium; he would have felt no different. He did not know either if he actually approached the structure; perhaps it had always been this far from him, and he would walk eternally without ever coming closer to it.
At some point, Martel did notice a change in his surroundings. Specifically, beneath him. As he looked at where his feet had trod, he saw grass grow in his steps. At least it had that shape; none of the sprouts looked green in the strange, ever-changing light.
“You bring what you are into the Beyond,” he muttered, and as he realised his own voice was the first sound he had heard, he flinched. Like with much else that Nebo had told him about the Nether, Martel had not really grasped the meaning.
As if a spell of silence had been broken, another sound reached Martel, and perhaps the last he had expected. The quiet croaking of a frog. Bending down, Martel pushed some blades of grass away to find a small amphibian regarding him calmly.
“You look just like the frog I had as a child. My first friend,” Martel remarked. He placed his hand next to the creature. “Would you like to come along?” With a confirmatory ribbit, the frog jumped into his palm. “Very well, then.” Martel pulled his hood down and placed the frog inside of it. “Let’s continue.” Traversing the strange landscape with few changes besides the pulsation of the light’s colours, Martel kept his eyes on the structure ahead of him. He could not tell if it was a castle or a hut; only that something lay ahead of him, and it was imperative he reached it. The frog croaked its agreement.
What was real in this world of waking dreams? In his hand, he wielded a black staff that he used for support as he walked; he had brought it with him from the other place, he remembered. Yes, memories surfaced of how he had received it. A journey to distant islands. In his pocket, he had a folded piece of cloth. He had not conjured that either, unlike, he suspected, the small amphibian travelling in his hood.
Yet he understood that in this place, there was no true distinction between real and false. Though the little frog only existed because of Martel’s will, it was a real creature in this moment. The fact that it would cease to exist, should Martel’s will falter, was not proof of its false status. In this moment, it was as real as he was. This place was eternity, but everything lived only in the moment.
Struggling to absorb these realisations, like a slippery fish trying to escape his fingers, Martel continued.
How long had he stood before the gates? Martel could not tell. He had no recollection of approaching the great castle, although he knew that he had wandered the Nether to reach it. It felt as if he had always found himself standing in front of its foreboding entrance.
Bending his neck, he could not see the tip of its towers as they rose against the horizon. Nor was there an end to the walls as they ran to his right and left. It was a castle the size of a city, or the world entire.
He saw no banners to proclaim ruler or realm. Only perfectly hewn stone upon stone, raising the walls and spires endlessly around him. And the gate itself, though it looked like wood, had none of the flaws or veins of genuine timber. It was the idea of a gate made incarnate, and while made from wood, Martel knew his spellcraft could not burn or destroy it, not outright. His fire, no matter how hot it ran, could not set this material ablaze.
The structure was all magic, and its power, its indestructibility, was determined only by that. It was shaped and kept by a will stronger than his, at least stronger in this place; formed after endless time spent in the Nether, whereas he was little more than a guest. Unbidden at that. If Martel wanted in, he needed an invitation. “Moloch,” he called out, “I’ve come to treat with you.”
Without a sound, the gate swung open.