INTERLUDE 5C: AN APPRENTICESHIP
“It is not enough to have a fertile imagination. There is no fire in the tinder of the mind. There must be the seed. The spark that catches. It must come from outside and it must be tended. It must be watered and fed. It must be coaxed into being. There is no idea in isolation. There is no being out of nothing. To create it always takes two and the creation is in constant tension between its progenitor and its progeny. That which preceded it and that which superseded it. Only the strongest creations persist as templates in spite of the successive regenerations which would attempt to replace them.”
– from ‘The Mortal as Material’, ch. 21
30th Kailost, 997 NE
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Wyle…”
The brown-haired boy steepled his fingers, lounging back in his huge leather chair on the other side of the table. Harukar did his best to maintain a graceful manner while sitting down in the (far-less-grandiose) chair on his side of the table, and noticed the faint smile on the boy’s face.
“What brings you here? I asked for men of character to submit their applications. I appreciate your keen ability to emulate your betters, but I –“
“Please, m’lord, allow me first to express my gratitude that you have been willing to accept my submission,” Harukar had chosen his words carefully, along with the accent, “and my apologies that I dare interrupt you – when you make such pertinent inquiry into my arrival at your magnificent abode today. Gods willing, if you should allow me to make my case, I will then leave to your good judgement what punishment or reward I might deserve.”
The faint smile on the boy’s face had deepened, and for a moment Harukar thought he’d been successful; then the boy spoke.
“Your flattery is well-designed, but perhaps a touch overwrought.” The smile didn’t leave the youthful face, however. “I take it in my considerable stride. Make your case, Mr. Wyle, and make it well.”
Harukar drew in a deep breath. The boy-man sitting across from him, the young Lord Shadow, represented everything he’d always wanted to be. Now here he was, twice the kid’s age and then some, basically abasing himself before this icon of nobility for a chance, a shred of a chance to be something like him.
So he spoke. He spoke of his ambition and he knew it lit up his eyes; he felt himself flush as the excitement built. He spoke of his needs, his craving, his obsession.
He went off-script. He spoke from the heart.
The black, empty heart.
Something in what he said struck the right chord, made the same light take hold in the boy’s eyes.
Harukar was shaking as he finished, and closed his eyes, enduring the painful silence as one endures the fall of the headsman’s axe.
When the young lord’s words fell he shuddered.
“We begin tomorrow night.”
* * *
8th Lynara, 997 NE
The same nightmare. The same faces. The same screaming.
Harukar awoke, panting, pulling at the sweat-sodden bedsheets, his hair that stuck to his head. Yathira stirred, and saw him through half-closed eyes.
“What’s wrong, dear?” she murmured sleepily.
He could hardly stand the concern in her voice.
“Nothing.”
“You smell of wine again.”
Why is she intruding?
“Leave me alone,” he snarled.
She frowned, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
He stayed awake, waiting for the dawn, for the day of toil to begin. If he wanted profits from his day’s work, he had to work himself hard, and he would do it, knowing all the while that it was coming.
Dusk. The evening of slaughter, ready to be resumed.
He could take off the bracelet Lyferin made him wear, take it off and take Yathira and run. Run far from Mund, run until they were broke. And maybe even then it wouldn’t be fast enough, far enough, to escape the Lord Shadow’s wrath.
No.
He’d exposed his soul to the young lord. He’d never taken money from Lyferin – it would be beneath his lordship to offer such a banal gesture of generosity, and improper for a man of Harukar’s station to accept – but nonetheless he’d forged a bond there. He’d submitted, and sworn fealty. He’d accepted a spell binding him to silence.
This was everything I ever wanted, he reminded himself. He’s going to bring me prestige. He promised it. It will be mine. If I just do what he says, it will be mine.
But why? he questioned. Why? Why does he make me kill? And what does he do with all the bodies? Who does he trust to clean those up, night after night?
So, so many bodies…
And then it occurred to him, for the first time: Where does he even find these lost souls?
It didn’t matter that he didn’t go back to sleep. He saw the faces now with his waking eyes, in the corners of the bedroom. They never moved – they weren’t real ghosts. But they were there all the same. He saw them, and they saw him.
No. There was no going back.
* * *
1st Orovost, 997 NE
“I want to thank you, Mr. Wyle, for your ongoing cooperation.” Lyferin’s dark smile never changed, not since their first meeting. “Tonight, we’re going to try something else. I think I have it narrowed down at last.” The cryptic words were only compounded by the fact that the lord brought forth a cushion from the large drawer in the side of his table. “You are going to use this.”
Harukar used it, three times that night.
He couldn’t see the faces with the pillow pressed down over their mouths, their noses. He could imagine it was just a pair of disembodied arms, frantically waving, scratching at him, pulling at his wrists.
But these were waifs, stringy street-creatures. Harukar wasn’t particularly well-built but he was tall, and he was strong enough to keep the pressure on until those arms were de-animated, falling down to flop lifelessly on the couch.
For the first time since he’d met the Lord Lyferin Othelroe, he saw a frown on the boy’s face when he left the mansion at ten.
Did I do wrong? he fretted on the way home. What did I do wrong?
But there was no answer. Nothing made sense. Nothing but the three new faces he’d be seeing tonight.
“Are you quite certain you’re alright?” Yathira asked him when he arrived home, standing by as the servants produced his late supper. She’d gotten into the habit of staying up for him to return and it was annoying. “This lord isn’t overworking you, is he? If you look –“
“Enough questions,” he said. “Enough comments. Is the food hot?”
Yathira sighed, and nodded. She knew he could see the steam coming off it. She knew what he wanted from her. Once they finished serving the meal she wordlessly retreated with them and headed up the main staircase to the bedroom, leaving him in solitude.
Leaving him to enjoy his meal in peace in the only company he cared to keep these days; that of the ever-watchful eyes, the ghosts of his imagination, the shadows cast by his soul against the dim canvas of the world.
* * *
6th Orovost, 997 NE
The same nightmare, only real. The same faces, only hidden. The same screams, only stifled.
He pressed down with the pillow, again and again and again, and still the arms wouldn’t stop, scratching him, clawing at his face, marring him horribly – this one was stronger than the others, and he wept as he strained with all his might to squeeze the life from his victim, because he knew –
Realisation and awakening happened simultaneously, or were mixed together as wine with water, inseparable.
He awoke, and he killed his wife of nineteen years, at same time. The nightmare became real or reality became the nightmare – he couldn’t tell which was which anymore. They bled into one another so that he didn’t come fully to his senses until the very instant she went limp.
For an indistinct length of time there was only Yathira’s body, her face beneath the cushion. While he sat there rocking back and forth, her face covered, he could pretend it wasn’t real, pretend he hadn’t just –
His hand snatched out of its own own accord, disturbing the cushion, and his mouth loosed a sharp yelp of terror; he stared at the guilty arm as if he could disown it, detach it with mere will. He jerked his hand back and wrapped his faithful hand about its wrist, holding the traitor down.
No. No, it was too late. There was no going back.
She was dead.
The memory came to him, from over two decades ago: the two of them sitting on the bed, giggling, trading jokes and kisses, mastering their fortify skills late into the night…
Now she was dead.
But he didn’t have to move the cushion himself. The unconscious thought activated her and she did it for him, moving it with a sweep of her arm, sitting up with a terrible dynamism in her motion.
The dead face. The glittering eyes. The chalk skin.
She looked at her hands, and horror struck her features. A croaking breath came out of her lungs from some dark plane.
“What – did – you – do?” She looked back up at him and he winced, turned his face aside. “My – dear – I –”
He’d killed her, but he wouldn’t be rid of her so easily.
He fought to thrust his feet into his boots in the doorway as he ran, ran to Lyferin’s house, at two in the morning. It was still raining out but he ran, and she chased him down the secluded forest routes, purple eyes staring ahead at him, her eyes and bedrobe gleaming in the night, saying nothing, only chasing him, always chasing him. She didn’t modify her pace for changes in terrain, and loped easily despite being barefoot, while he had trouble keeping his footing on the weed-tangled paths.
She could’ve caught him, but she didn’t. She acted like it was a game.
He met no one – nothing that could help him. Owls hooted and bats squeaked. He tore his own bedrobe on the brambles, but even with his backside bared he would’ve still welcomed the sight of a stranger, someone who could tell him what to do…
When he reached the mansion he banged at the door, banged, banged, please be there, please – she was following, she was close – the Lord Shadow had an actual doorman at the main entrance, twenty-four hours a day, and he should be there – he should’ve opened this gods-damned door already!
The startled-looking man was quick-thinking enough to pull Harukar inside and slam the door behind him, turning the locks, putting two inches of solid oak in the way of the menacing undead woman prowling in his wake –
She tried the handle, and there was a distinct clunk-sound, the sound of the handle being torn off – the doorman squealed in response.
She knocked, rapping with her knuckles softly, so that the door merely shook in its hinges.
“Harukar – M-Master!” she moaned through the barrier. “Are – you – alright – my – dear?”
“What did – what do I do?” Harukar gasped, clutching the doorman’s lapels as they stumbled together towards the stairs, his soaked bedrobe making him slip when he accidentally caught his foot inside the torn flap of fabric. “What can I do?”
Pale fingers came like moonbeams piercing through the wooden door.
She was clawing her way in.
The doorman had turned as white as Yathira, but his eyes were mercifully brown in the dimness of the candlelit foyer; his strong hands took Harukar by the shoulders and tried to peel the two of them apart.
“Sir, sir please!” the doorman shrieked. “What is that thing?”
Then everything changed.
A champion came walking down the steps from the upper floor, the one called Redgate. Scarlet robes. Face of a spider. A nonchalance to his posture, every motion looking relaxed.
Harukar watched in utter absorption as the champion approached – the doorman too seemed to have been paralysed in awe.
He still didn’t understand when Redgate removed the dreadful mask, and Lyferin’s dark smile was there beneath. His first instinct was to assume that Lyferin was dressing-up as the champion for whatever reason, but then –
Then he could see it. The aura of power burning away in the air about the young lord – the blue lines…
He stared, fascinated.
“You’re Redgate, m’lord!” the doorman cried, for whatever reason making it sound like he was trying to inform Lyferin of a fact that had until now somehow been hidden from him.
“I’m sorry, Chalvers,” Lyferin said in a bored voice, “but I’ll no longer be needing your services.”
A ruby-red dagger was in the Lord Shadow’s hand, and then it was buried in the underside of the doorman’s chin, piercing his brain.
Harukar had seen so much unceremonious murder lately, was under so much pressure from the failure of his poor wife to simply die, that he couldn’t really react to the sudden, brutal attack; other than to note the feeling of fellowship that thrummed right through him.
Lyferin kills with his own hands, just like me!
The young lord waggled the blade around a little then withdrew it, unleashing a torrent of blood, letting Chalvers’s body drop to the carpet.
“So, Mr. Wyle, you finally did it,” Lyferin said, wiping his dagger on the corpse’s clothes and then stowing it again inside his sleeve. “And another sorcerer too; interesting. Your wife, I presume? Very interesting.” He turned to regard the creature just about to successfully tear through the door, and spoke glibly, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my love.”
The language – the words – he hadn’t even realised until now, hearing Lyferin speak to his undead wife, that the things she’d said weren’t in Mundic, weren’t even in a tongue from this dimension –
“But – m’lord –“
“Don’t call me that anymore. Not when I’m dressed like this. I am Redgate. You will have your own name. You have your own power, now.”
“My – my own power?”
Lyferin sighed. “It’s what I promised you, is it not? What did you think we were doing all this time? You answered my question for me, and now I’m going to show you how to be a champion in return, Mr. Wyle.” The lord smiled again, sympathetically this time. “Get your lovely soon-to-be-ghoul to stop wrecking the place, there’s a good chap, then follow me downstairs. We’ll acquire you a rhimbelkina, discuss our plans.”
The champion moved to follow the corridor behind the stairs, and Harukar blinked rapidly as Chalvers’s body hoisted itself up, dragging itself like a wounded dog across the fine rugs after the red-robed archmage.
“Now,” Redgate said without turning, “at last, the real work can begin.”
* * *
11th Chraunost, 998 NE
Gong! Gong! Gong!
Lyferin’s timing had been almost perfect. Redgate and Direcrown arrived in Blackbranch just as the magisters died, just as the threat was about to spill over the defences and into the still-fleeing populace. Descending from the sky, the pair of arch-sorcerers had fought back-to-back, shields overlapping. Their demonic forces went to war with those of the Incursion, and each of them filled out their ranks, hand-picking new demons to bring under their sway. Hellbane was nowhere to be seen. It was just the two of them.
Yesterday afternoon was glorious. He would remember it for the rest of his life.
The laughter of the demons turning to yells of dismay as he moved alone to block them. The elated cheers of the crowd behind him as Harukar stood in the entrance to the bank, using his wyvarlinact claws to tear through dozens of fiends, halting the flood before they breached the interior. (He’d never been able to get the eldritch wings to work like Lyferin had, but the claws were like five red, hooked swords that cut through most hellsteel as though it were satin. A fair trade, in his eyes; he had alternate, if less effective, means of flight.) The looks in the eyes of the children who came running out to safety once he’d cleared the steps of hellspawn…
Yathira had been barren, or perhaps it was just that his seed had always been soulless, even back then, before he’d lost for good whatever claim to heaven he’d once possessed. Either way, they had never been blessed with children. Few family members were left alive to them, all older than them. No heirs to inherit the business. No future.
Seeing the gratitude in the eyes of the children – that was the real reason to do this, supposedly, and yesterday more than any other day he’d almost been a believer.
If they’d arrived thirty seconds earlier, they might’ve been able to save the magisters too. But Lyferin wouldn’t have wanted that, Harukar knew. To the Lord Shadow, it was all about the reputation, the accolades – and Harukar had never known him to be wrong before. The people would remember this: the rescue on the cusp of imminent death; the (not just last-minute but last-second) arrival of two of the most potent archmages in the city. Champions attending to protect them, ward off the dangers that came from the dark realms, cast back the fetid swarms of the lower planes – this was how it would be recorded by the news-writers, repeated by the town-criers.
He’d had the best night’s sleep after that – as usual, his cold bedfellow kept to herself. At least she followed commands now, so long as she was well-fed.
This morning he’d headed into town to pick up some supplies: a regenerative salve for the red rash under his left arm; a new ledger he’d had his eye on for the last week, the covers made from the soft leather of basilisk-hatchling skin.
He headed into town, and not once did he hear his name mentioned.
He was shopping within a five minute walk of Blackbranch Square, and even here the criers didn’t seem to have any idea he’d saved all their lives yesterday.
But Lyferin? Lyferin, who’d been a champion longer, who was more famous, more appealing, more powerful…
Harukar returned home and slammed the door so hard the wood splintered somewhere in the frame. The only living human in the house beside himself, the hypnotised, emaciated doorman standing blank-faced in the hallway, didn’t even react.
“‘Hail Redgate, Defender of Blackbranch!’ cry the criers!” he spat, moving deeper into the house. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Master,” came the chorus of responses from rooms all around the house, some in Netheric. His servants, his wife.
He entered the drawing room, and carefully placed the bag containing his new ledger down on the couch before he unleashed his anger on his demiskin instead, hurling it to the rug and kicking it into the corner. Since it was functionally impervious to harm, this was altogether unsatisfying.
He knew exactly what it was he needed to do to restore the balance.
As morning became afternoon and afternoon became evening, he finished his third bottle of Onlorian red and his second street-urchin. Finally his senses were starting to dull. He was starting to forget the hurt, the sting of betrayal.
Nothing was what it was supposed to be. There was none of the prestige. Nothing to fill the emptiness inside. No tourniquets could be used to reassemble a heart so shattered by this wild vicissitude, from his prior mundane life to this perpetual magical nightmare.
In forgetting the hurt, the anger was tempered, cooled to a steel blade.
Redgate. I will encompass your death, my young teacher, my young fool. You may have bound me to silence to save your ears from the truth but you made me into what I am and, one day, I promise, I will unmake you.
* * *
28th Orovost, 998 NE
He usually had no trouble sleeping after an Incursion, but this time he’d spent less of the evening at the side of his mentor than was typical. It had been nice to follow his own initiative, play the part of rescuer and hero uncontested; however, avoiding Redgate came with its own risks. What if the young lord had noticed his absence, chose to quiz him over it? They’d often fought as a duo throughout the three Incursions Harukar had attended until tonight – this was the first time Harukar had done his own thing, and now he felt conflicted over it.
He sat in the darkness of the drawing room, simple darkness doing nothing to impede his vision. The faces in the shadows that had once been his imagination were now all too real, purple eyes upon him, waiting on his stirring, his command. But he needed nothing save his wine-glass, and he’d set a whole crate of bottles on the couch beside him. He wouldn’t have to move for hours.
He wasn’t alone, but he felt that he was. Alone, adrift. A fiend in a man’s skin. A betrayer, a murderer.
Am I not hell-bound? he asked himself. Am I not already fated to take that journey into Infernum a final time, with no way back? To become the plaything of the very demons I can now summon?
The two glass-set doors that let onto the gardens were flung open suddenly, and a cold wind carried leaves into the room.
Harukar didn’t spring to his feet in alarm. He was no longer wearing his champion’s attire, but his shields were already active, created and fortified long before he started in on the wine. His wights were poised to defend him; even if they weren’t capable of slaying most fiends one-on-one, there were several of them right here with him. If one of the hellspawn that’d escaped the clean-up crews had fled the magisters into this house, it had made a fatal mistake…
But it was no demon. It was several, trapped in an archmage’s body.
Redgate floated in through the open doors, and the wind died down.
“Good morning,” Harukar said dryly. “Would you like a glass?”
Lyferin settled to the floor beside the brandy decanter and poured himself a treble helping. He stood still, staring down into the crystal tumbler half-filled with the potent alcohol.
Harukar braced himself for the deluge of questions. He didn’t even fully understand the enchantment to which he’d voluntarily submitted, all those months ago, that had silenced his tongue where Lyferin and his identity were concerned. It had been a vow so swiftly offered…
Might I even refuse to answer him when he asks?
The softly-spoken words were not what he’d expected. The subtle near-exultation of Lyferin’s tone.
“Dustbringer is dead.”
Harukar’s eyes widened.
That means Redgate is made the longest-serving arch-sorcerer in the city, he realised.
“How?” He managed to keep the choking-sound from his voice.
“It described itself as a ‘Daughter of the Sinphalamax’,” Lyferin said, removing his spider-mask and sipping at his liquor. “I suspect by this it was something called eolastyr, a Mistress of Time – a powerful diviner for sure.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “I must consult my books.”
“He – he was erased?”
“The disintegration effect, yes.”
Harukar finished his glass, poured himself another, and half-finished that one, draining it in mind-numbing gulps.
To which plane is Dustbringer’s soul bound? he wondered.
“Are you quite alright, Mr. Wyle?”
That form of address sent shivers up his spine. He bore Redgate no overt ill-will; no plans were in motion, no emotions strong enough to overcome the alliance between their hearts that allowed them within one another’s shields.
But he feared him. Oh, how he feared him. He feared him like he feared dark gods, like he feared Duskdown, Dreamlaughter… There were few things in the city, in the world, Harukar feared now. But Lyferin was at the top of the list. Worse than any darkmage; here was a man perfectly willing to play the part of the champion, bearing all his well-kept secrets within him into the Gathering beneath the Tower of Mourning. A man perfectly willing to kill hundreds – have his lackey kill hundreds – in a wild experiment at granting archmagery.
A man who would not hesitate to use the many, varied tools at his disposal to slaughter Harukar if he showed one whit of recalcitrance.
Am I quite alright? he asked himself.
He shook his head, which was a bit of a bad idea, given his level of inebriation.
“My apologies, Redgate. I’m afraid I may’ve partaken a little strongly, given the hour.” He passed a hand across his face, fixed his fawning smile before returning his gaze to Lyferin’s eyes. “And my congratulations. You are the premier sorcerer of Mund, now. Timesnatcher will have to turn to you for many things.”
“To you, and to Netherhame.” Lyferin quaffed the remaining brandy in one and replaced his mask upon his head. “I am bound to Tirremuir on the morning tide, and will be absent for several weeks.”
Absent?
“M’lord, if I –“
“Do not call me that.” Lyferin spoke quietly but still succeeded in interrupting him, perhaps due to the softness of his voice. “You will have ample opportunity to prove yourself in the coming weeks. I tell you this as a courtesy, for I expect you to see to my interests in the meantime. Do not allow Timesnatcher to promote Netherhame to a position of prominence. And keep an eye on Feychilde for me. The boy is disconcertingly assertive, given his lack of experience and the curiosity that comes with it.”
“I shall bring him to heel for you,” Harukar replied smoothly. The mask was returning to him now. Not the physical, hellish mask of cold metal he wore on the outside, to hide his identity from others. No, the mental, hellish mask of cold indifference he wore on the inside, to hide his misery from himself. “Might I enquire as to your purpose in visiting Chakobar?”
“I join a quest to slay a dragon –“
Upon seeing the look on Harukar’s face, Lyferin held up a hand and continued speaking. It seemed he had mistaken the upswell of anticipation playing across Harukar’s features, such sudden and desperate hope that even he could not hide it all, for an expression of concern.
“– and I shall desist from speaking more on the matter. The less that is known, the better. The Magisterium would approve no formal aid, and so we must be careful about our movements, lest we be barred from travel. I would have it far from your thoughts.”
Such desire, to leave Mund? Harukar questioned silently, shocked at this turn of events. There must be much coin in such a venture – dragonslaying is such a lowborn pastime these days. What makes this dragon so special?
It could be borne, for now. It could be discovered, later.
For now, he had to get through this conversation with his life intact.
“Farewell, then, my friend,” he said, and distracted his eyes by looking down at his wine-glass. “Another drink, to your victory and swift homecoming?”
He poured himself one, knowing Lyferin would not remove his mask a second time – such would make him look indecisive, unmindful of the future. The young lord would rather behave discourteously, refuse the toast, than do that.
The toast would force him to leave.
Lyferin gently shook his head. “I shall take it when I return.” He reached for the decanter, and poured another measure of brandy. “Leave it on the side for me. I’ll drain it, dust and all, and recount my tale, to you and you alone.” His eyes flickered around the room at the eldritches. “You hear my words – leave this glass for me.”
It was a futile gesture for him to give commands to another arch-sorcerer’s bound servants, unless it was his intention to try to wrest control of each and every one of them from Harukar. Even for Lyferin that would be a tall order.
Yet it was not a futile gesture. It was designed not to command the eldritches but to reassert dominance over Harukar, remind him that the eldritches he possessed were only his because of Lyferin, because of the young lord’s endless evil machinations.
A reminder that whatever commands Harukar gave to his eldritches were at Lyferin’s whim.
“It will be left for you… Redgate,” he murmured.
Redgate drifted from the room, out into the darkness of the gardens, the forests of Treetown. Even here, the winds were tinged with the reek of the fires, the destruction of the Incursion. Direcrown could smell the death out there.
He gestured to the doors, and one of the maids silently crossed the room and closed them.
Sighing, he sat back on his couch, trying to regain control of his thoughts.
The interview had passed. It had passed, and he had given away nothing.
Or had he? What if there had been something, some nuance of his body language or voice that had revealed his change of heart to Lyferin? How could he possibly know?
He quelled the quivering that took hold of his wrist and sloshed a little wine upon the couch. He set the glass down, placed his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.
I am in control. I am in control. I am in control.
Wyrda take him! Take him in your arms and drown him! A thousand sacrifices for you, Wyrda, if you prevent his return!
When he opened his eyes again, they fell upon the tumbler of brandy. The tumbler he could not move – was not permitted to move. The tumbler that would become a blister in his mind, a nagging splinter in his eye, the pain of its innocent presence only growing, slowly growing into an itching, a burning, as the days would become weeks and this, his retreat of peace and solitude, would become the prison-cell of a slave.
For that is all I am. The least I can do is ensure that, if I am doomed to Infernum, he joins me forthwith.
* * *
6th Illost, 998 NE
Harukar hated this, the interminable waiting. And waiting on diviners, no less! It was beyond insulting. They of all people ought to know the appointed time had passed, or at least to invite him at a later hour. They were behind the door, still engaged with their current, equally-afflicted guest – while he sat on the crude bench outside, listening to everything. Every word that passed a casual insult.
Again and again, Harukar looked at the other door, the exit to Hightown from this nondescript, empty building. Again and again, he bit down on his disappointment, and awaited his turn.
Timesnatcher was a forceful personality. Harukar didn’t fear the man as he feared Lyferin but he could tell from his speech, his poise, that here was a man of noble breeding. And Lightblind was no less forceful, if a little less well-bred.
Something in Harukar had always led him to take the subservient position when faced with those who were genuinely highborn. He’d always liked knowing his place, in the guild, in the greater society of Mund, even if it wasn’t near the top – just so long as it wasn’t near the bottom. But being Direcrown let him speak to such people as Timesnatcher and Lightblind on the level. For all that they might have been Lords and Ladies of the Arrealbord, for all they knew he too was one such Lord. He might not quite have had their smoothness, but he could adopt their mannerisms and, with his rhimbelkina in place, their most-accurate visions of him might still depart wildly from reality. Even better, they would be aware of the fact.
But he was still here. Still waiting.
The door opened, and Timesnatcher followed the girl to the exit.
“You’ve got to be mad,” her voice echoed as she departed. “Tell you what, next time I see you I’ll bring you a priest and we’ll get you sorted right out.”
“You don’t have to –“ Timesnatcher raised his voice –
She let the door slam behind her.
Direcrown looked across at the arch-diviner, noting the weariness in his frame as he stood in the doorway.
“How much did you overhear?” Lightblind asked from the doorway to the private room.
“You know,” Harukar replied, feeling his lip curl behind the mask, “or you can guess.” He got to his feet with demonic swiftness. “So you want me to come to Zadhal with you.”
If they’d really wanted to hide their words, they wouldn’t have had him sitting outside – nor would they have stayed in an ordinary time-flow to discuss it.
“We need you, Direcrown,” Timesnatcher said. “I’ve seen things. You’re integral to the whole mission.”
“What have you seen?”
The city’s greatest diviner performed his customary motion – Harukar fancied that if he continued to shake his head so often it would one day shake right off.
“I can’t go into that. You know why. And you know why you have to come.”
“Then what is it compels thee to even request mine attendance?” Harukar said coldly. “If thou knowest all, and hath seen fit to see me there, constrict my fate with thy thoughtless hands – what cruelty is it now to so implore me? To mock me with the choice thou seest I cannot make?”
“Thinkest thou mine eye cannot be deceived?” Timesnatcher snapped, a shocking rumble of flawlessly-spoken outrage.
For a moment Harukar lost his breath, and couldn’t recover it, his lungs constricting.
Timesnatcher softened. “I cannot make that choice for you! I can only tell you what I’ve seen.”
“But – but you cannot bring yourself to do so! You –“
“Direcrown…” Lightblind spoke gently, yet he felt the fight leave him at her remonstrance. “Direcrown, we need you. We all know why our vision can’t bind you. Don’t resist this. You want acclaim? You want the recognition you deserve? Redgate is gone. Just –“
“He’s not gone forever.” Harukar looked down at the redebon flooring. “But I will come.”
He sensed the glance pass between the two arch-diviners.
They’d made him wait, so he’d made them beg for it. The truth was, he’d desired to go to Zadhal all along. Not wanting to do what they wanted him to do, even though he wanted it – that was the frustrating part.
Zadhal – wherein he might find the answer.
* * *
12th Illost, 998 NE
As the others started to panic and flee, Harukar sighed, and drew on his phinphardion essence. The concealment this eldritch offered far exceeded the tricks of the enchanters. A glamour merely created an illusion about the subject that beguiled the observer’s mind, forcing them to see instead of flesh the very air the subject’s flesh ought to have occupied. This was altogether different; he was able to extract pure invisibility, draw it out of the demon and flood his own body with it, even push it into his clothing. The change of essence was complete. He hadn’t yet been capable of forcing handheld items to partake in the effect, but he was getting there.
Every morsel of flesh tingled as he watched it work on his hands protruding from his sleeves – soon the sleeves themselves and all the rest of his rust-coloured robe had vanished too.
It itched. Even his eye sockets, his ear canal, the inner surfaces of his nostrils. He kept his hands still, refused to give in to the urge to start scratching. He’d seen his phinphardion before it turned invisible, and he’d seen the process by which it changed, the removal of its skin it achieved in seconds, like a horrifying self-peeling orange. He’d never once dared scratch, and even if it sped up the change he wasn’t about to start now – not with several dozen deathknights about to skewer him with nethernal iron. This was not the environment in which one ought to take unnecessary risks.
Only a few of the deathknights were aiming their lances at him and even these potent undead creatures seemed at a loss as he disappeared right in front of them. Sailing away through the air with his wizard-flight, Harukar abandoned the weave moments before the magister, Valorin, and headed west.
They will catch me up, he told himself. My time will be better spent uncovering the source of all this undeath while they are distracted.
Alone, he soared over the desolate streets. He had no doubt a few of the things in Zadhal could see through his transparent form – no defence was ever perfect – but the superior invisibility of his eldritch would surely see him past the vast majority of the threats this place held. They’d sprung the trap, now; further confrontations would likely be incidental. And if something wanted a fight – well, he’d give it one and send it back to Nethernum sobbing. Besides, he was fairly certain a number of the arch-magisters had flown upwards, and those idiots already knew their invisibility was useless against these foes.
It was an intriguing place, this city. The value of such a vast site, in terms of its history, was incalculable. The Sablemain Museum, Harukar’s favourite, had been levelled following its infestation during the Incursion back in Chraunost – where Hellbane and Mindbreaker had fallen, failing to protect the place – but one might almost think it could be reconstructed, should one be granted free access to Zadhal’s treasures. The majority of the museum’s pieces had originated in the sixth- and seventh-centuries; the frosted objects he could see through time-wrecked roofs could’ve been used as one-for-one replacements after a polish and shine. This was to say nothing of the innumerable tomes of knowledge that were still surely there somewhere, waiting to be found, protected by spells of keeping and permanence –
He raised his head, his senses warning him of a potential cause for concern, but it was nothing – just some skeletal chariot incapable of perceiving him. He soared above it, letting it continue on its way, presumably hunting the others.
It didn’t take him long to find the Green Tower, but it took him longer to enter. It didn’t sense him with eyes but with ancient spells that probably heard his thoughts ticking over or heard the beating of an invisible heart. When its bony defences came alive he shielded himself against assault and used the wyvarlinact claws to dig a hole in the tower’s cladding. It was difficult to maintain even a small opening; in the end he used his supernaturally-durable body to shoulder his way through, tearing the top layer of his robe across the back.
And of course, the very moment he was in, the bone-walls dropped aside, their magic deactivated; the bones went plummeting to pitter-patter on the ground far below, stilled once more. As if to invite him to leave, get out of this place while he still had chance.
But that wasn’t anywhere near the top of his list.
Fascinated, he reached out for a curl of burning green glyphs, took it in his hands and set to work. Within five minutes he’d deciphered the riddle and started to read.
Behind the infernal mask, his eyes widened, and a rare smile spread across his lips.
This is what I’ve been looking for.
Leave a Reply