Chapter 564 — The Choice

The dragon's fleeting shadow vanished beyond the horizon. Apart from a handful of people, almost no one would ever know that a legendary race was watching this land. The world turned on as it always had; the great sun rose and set day after day, the weather warmed day after day, and summer drew steadily nearer—it seemed that in the blink of an eye, spring was over, gone in such haste that it left one at a loss.

The flames of war in the eastern Holy Spirit Plain, which had already been rekindled, burned fiercely for a time and then, without anyone quite noticing, died down again.

At Giantwood Pass, on the fortresses and plains where the two armies faced each other, works great and small interlocked like dogs' teeth, cutting the whole region into a shattered patchwork. Blockade zones lay everywhere, and everywhere flew the banners of the Royal Army or the Eastern Marchers. Fully armed soldiers and knight-officers paced among these crisscrossing lines, cautiously patrolling the land that was for the moment theirs, and warily eyeing those banners so close at hand—yet undeniable it was: a brief and fragile truce had been established.

Rumors ran wild. In an age when information could barely be controlled at all, all it took was for a piece of news to reach people's ears and for a few bold souls to travel between regions, and it would spread through the crowds, splitting as it went into countless bizarre and fantastic versions.

Some said the Royal Army had suffered a crushing defeat and Silver Castle could no longer hold out under the pressure, and that the nobles of the royal capital were negotiating peace with the Eastern Marchers. Others circulated the exact opposite version. Still others said the Typhon Empire was stirring restlessly along the border, and that the pressure of a foreign enemy had forced the two armies to stop fighting. And some linked this strange state of affairs to the plague that had been breaking out so frequently around Giantwood Pass of late...

Of all the versions in circulation, the most reliable report came from a horse-keeper in the service of the Eastern Legion—who swore up and down that he had seen a giant eagle of the elves flying in from the northwest, that an elven courier had entered Prince Edmond's fortress, and that the order for a temporary ceasefire had been handed down shortly thereafter.

On the eastern side of Giantwood Pass, in the newly built fortress, a tall watchtower stood atop the wall. Edmond Moen, clad in black armor and with a beard now grown out, stood at the top of the watchtower, gazing out over the scattered banners and the wooden camps great and small across the plain. The wind from the southwest howled past the tower, snapping and rippling the banner that flew above Prince Moen.

The sound of iron boots striking the ground came from behind him, and Duke Silas Loren, fully arrayed in military dress, climbed up to the tower. The Eastern Duke said in a deep voice, "The elves have gone, Your Highness."

"If they had come seven days later, Giantwood Pass would be ours," Edmond Moen said softly. "Those undisciplined soldiers of the allied army are no match for us. Even clad in the new equipment, all they do is swarm forward in a mob to die."

The Eastern Duke looked deeply at the prince. "But we must have a ceasefire—this concerns the greater cause."

"Yes, the greater cause—we fight for Ansu's future, not merely for that seat in Silver Castle," Edmond said evenly. "Grand Duke Loren, how is order in the rear?"

"All is stable, Your Highness—no need for concern," Silas Loren said with a nod. "Only Belk has sent a letter of worry—the Cecilians are extracting ore from the White Sand Hills with astonishing methods and at astonishing speed. His descriptions in the letter are quite exaggerated; I scarcely know whether to believe them."

Edmond was a little curious. "What did he say?"

"...The Cecilians may blast 'Little Crow's Beak Mountain' flat before the year is out, and next year they intend to blast a second one flat."

"...Belk does not seem like a man given to exaggeration."

"He is not, Your Highness."

"Then I am inclined to believe him," Edmond said. "If the Cecilians have the means to blast open the walls of Boulder Fortress with some kind of magical weapon, there is no reason they should not put similar explosions to use in mining."

At this he could not help but sigh. "We succeeded in building the new-style factories in the Eastern Marches, but the true technical foundations of the Cecilians clearly do not lie in those factories... We have fallen behind in this respect."

"We are already in talks with the immigration officials of the Southern Marches, hoping to send some literate apprentices to study in their 'schools.' The Southern Marches do not appear to forbid that entirely."

Edmond nodded faintly. "Then I will leave this matter to your care—talent is truly important."

A short while later, Duke Loren left the tower, leaving Edmond Moen alone on the platform at its summit, standing quietly in the wind.

Yet the next second, a voice reached his ear. "You are truly a wise ruler, Prince."

Edmond Moen seemed to have been waiting for that voice all along. He turned his head calmly and looked at the brazier not far behind him, at the figure gradually taking shape within the flames, at that figure stepping down onto the ground and taking the form of a woman in a priestess's robes whose lower body was like the bizarre and dreadful root system of a plant. He nodded coolly. "You have come, Beyila."

"You no longer deny the title of wise ruler?" Beyila moved her rustling root-feet, a trace of mockery in her voice. "How mature... Last year you would still rush to deny such a title."

"I have no need to argue with you over such matters; the relationship between us is not that intimate," Edmond Moen said, his voice growing colder still. "If you have come to trouble those elves, I can only say you are a step too late—they have gone, back to Saint Sunil."

"I have no interest in those elves," Beyila laughed softly. "It is you I am thinking of. You were to declare your coronation right after seizing Giantwood Pass, and now those elves and the news they brought have spoiled it... Do you not regret it?"

Edmond raised the sheathed one-handed sword in his hand in silence, its tip pointed at Beyila's throat. In the air between blade and throat, black cracks spread as though alive. "If you die here, will there be anyone to regret it on your behalf?"

"Put away this toy—it is better suited to the battlefield than to threatening a woman here," Beyila said lightly, brushing the sword aside with her hand. "I came only to remind you, Your Highness: time is short. If you wish to reserve a place for the people of Ansu in the new epoch, you had best make your decision as soon as possible."

Edmond Moen stared into Beyila's eyes. "I have no interest whatsoever in your so-called 'great evolution,' nor do I care about your doomsday theories. Even if this new epoch of yours truly exists, the people of Ansu will find their own way to live—there will be no need for you to trouble yourselves."

Beyila looked at Edmond quietly for a moment, then shook her head and walked slowly back toward the blazing brazier. "An impressive speech, truly. But it does not matter—we still have a little time, and you still have time... to choose."

...

In many cases, the so-called "choice" is merely an illusion, a carefully disguised foregone conclusion laid before the one who is to choose—so as to give the chooser the fleeting错觉 that the situation is under his control, or to let those already powerless cover up their own disgrace a little.