Chapter 647: Six to nine months
Mason sat with the elven elders who’d banished his wife, and drank tea. After a few more bouts of subtly and not so subtly calling him a species-wide threat, a predatory ‘blood diluter’, and an upstart human peasant not long for the world, it wasn’t so bad. At least they had snacks.
The elves watched him eat non-stop with a kind of cultural horror. But he was hungry again, and he decided the best chance of a positive outcome was him being full and on his best behavior.
“These cookie things are pretty good,” he said, mouth half full, trying to get back some goodwill. By the thinly veiled disgusted reactions, though, it hadn’t gone very well. He sighed.
“Well, it was a lie anyway. I can never taste elven food. But I still appreciate it.”
He wiped his hands and took a breath, glancing at Dariya, then at the arch mage.
“Another doom is coming. We’re talking months, not years. We stop it, or we lose the prime. I can’t imagine that’s good for your half-plane existence.”
The council members stared with a confusing cocktail of loathing and acceptance.
“Sharisse cannot exist without the prime,” Arch Mage Holbron confirmed, looking pointedly at another member of the council, as if this was already a point of contention.
“He probably has the same dreams as our Lore Keepers,” said the high priest with a skeptical tone. “We’ve heard such things for decades. You know as well as I that the gods fill our sleeping minds with….”
“I can give you the precise date range, if that’s helpful,” Dariya said, as if getting bored. “My mistress has known for years.”
This time Mason joined the elves in their annoyed stare. The old seer looked more smug than anything, taking one of the cookies as she looked between them without a word.
“If you have that kind of specific information,” said the arch-mage in a calm tone, “is there some reason you wouldn’t have shared it with us?”
Dariya snorted.
“Yes. Because you all-knowing, all-powerful wizards wouldn’t hear anything the priestesses of Luna say. I could have shouted it every day from every rooftop and you wouldn’t have heard. I’ll tell you now because I think maybe you’ll listen.” She paused and chewed her cookie with a sigh. “Six to nine months. No more. Before the next solar cycle. The gods agreed long ago.”
The high priest snorted, looking relieved as he gestured a hand at Dariya.
“There is your ‘specific knowledge’. Ancient fables. Mythology. The gods don’t toy with the planes like children, Dariya. We’ve moved beyond such a…juvenile understanding of existence. You sound like the tribesmen still living nomadic lives in swamps and forests, thinking every storm is a sign from the gods.”
“It’s fools like you who’ve nearly destroyed our race,” Dariya said with disgust, as if debating with the man weren’t worth her effort. “People like you who’ve angered the gods and cursed us.”
Mason mostly just focused on the time range. Six to nine months. He’d hoped for maybe a year, but now he assumed it was the minimum. Better to assume the worst and treat every day after that as a pleasant gift.
It was still plenty of time, considering how much had happened in less. But it was also hard not to notice roboGod was basically waiting for half of humanity to be either very pregnant or freshly burdened with newborn babies.
Something about it had Mason clench a fist. Their synthetic overlord had basically forced them. Had amped up their ‘will to procreate’, given out fertility titles and created sex objectives and God knew what else.
Why? All to get their women knocked up at record speeds so it could…what?
Threaten them or the babies with death, thought the ruthless piece of his brain, bile rising in his throat.
He knew it was the answer immediately. Their synthetic overlord understood mankind all too well. It took the people young enough to care about the future, and amped up their libidos.
It wanted the stakes as high as possible. It wanted them to survive through the shitstorm so they’d be thankful, so that they’d love life and start again. Then it would put a gun to the heads of their infants. Once it had their attention.
The son of a bitch. The apathetic, evil schemer fuck. Floating there like it didn’t know exactly what it was doing.
It wanted to see what they’d do. How far they’d go. This fucking thing. And he’d taken the bait, hook, line and sinker.
“Lord Mason?”
Dariya’s voice. He’d momentarily forgotten where he was. He blinked and found the elves all staring, looking…concerned. Apparently he’d ripped off a chunk of the table. He set the broken wood down and cleared his throat when he realized he’d been growling.
“Sorry. It’s not you. I’m just…tired. Of being treated like a pawn in some god’s game. Of my people dying and being threatened with more death. I want an end to it.”
The arch-mage, at least, seemed to soften. They all sat in silence awhile, each seeming lost in their own thoughts.
“We don’t have the power to fight a god,” the arch-mage said finally. “Divine seed or no, there is no future if my people are killed before we can renew ourselves.”
Mason understood that. Humanity had solved the problem long ago. You sent the men to die alone.
“We can take your women to the fey, before the end. I’ll ask Cerebus to agree and protect them. He owes me. Leave a few young men behind. The rest prepare to fight. If we fail, your people still survive.”
The elves mostly looked stunned at his bluntness. The high priest snorted.
“And you’ll leave most of your kind too, I suppose. Ready to make a generation of half-bloods? To destroy everything our ancestors fought to preserve?” He turned to the others. “Even if we entertain this ‘Doom’, I don’t trust this man. He’ll look to betray us and take our women for himself. Hasn’t he done it already?”
“I’ve given the House of Anshan hope, if that’s what you mean,” Mason snapped.
“Ah yes, the poor lord Anshan.” The priest sneered. “His memory ruined, his once great reputation now a legacy of dishonor.”
“You abolished his house. I gave his daughter a future. I’d say I did him less damage.”
“Enough.”
The arch-mage put a hand to his face, and Mason took a steadying breath. He wasn’t here to pick fights. Convincing some priest he was an idiot wouldn’t make any difference to anyone. He met the elven leader’s eyes.
“None of my kind will run. If the prime is destroyed, so are we. All of us. Unlike you, we aren’t all plane hoppers. We have nowhere else to go.”
His words hung in the air, and he slid the artifact across the table.
“My wife would want you to have this. I promised I would do everything I could for her people, so I will. Maybe you can figure out how to use it.”
He stood, trying not to think roboGod had a point when he saw these elves—that by giving them all children, it was forcing them to imagine a future to fight for. To break them out of this frightened state of selfish interest whether they liked it or not.
The elves looked at a loss, like they weren’t sure how to react.
“To any of your people who would fight, they’re welcome in Nassau anytime,” Mason added. “I imagine the wizards of the portal city can figure out how to get there. Are you ready, Dariya?”
The oracle swallowed and stood, looking at him with a hard to read expression that might have been genuine appreciation. He wasn’t trying to win friends, though, he needed soldiers. An army of elven wizards.
But he could see Dariya was right. He wasn’t going to convince them now, or with words. They had to fight for themselves. They had to want to. Without children or futures to imagine, they only looked to their own lives. And in that context, why would any man face his doom?
Their continued silence was hard to read. It was partly just surprise, maybe, but he decided it was something like…shame. It embarrassed him to see it as much as it probably embarrassed them to have it seen.
He turned from the small meeting room, gesturing Dariya back to the room he’d entered. It was going to be awkward if his plan didn’t work, but he expected it would.
Once in the larger area, he turned on Apex Predator’s active and watched as plants and even small trees started growing through the floor, walls, and ceiling. Even Dariya stared in wonder as life burst through everywhere, vines slithering down the walls.
The council had followed to stare, eyes roaming the room with incomprehension, the seed in the arch-mage’s small hands.
“If we don’t meet again,” Mason said, looking back at them. “Good luck in the fey. I’ll tell Cerebus you’re coming. You should have a hundred years of peace. After that, I expect the rules will change again. You’ll have to adapt. I know you elves find that difficult. Goodbye.”