INTERLUDE 7C: THE MISTAKE
“Always will we forget to wonder: why am I not what I was? Defining others is easy – always inaccurate, always missing the crucial detail that transforms character to consciousness, object to subject. Yet the self? The self is the true mystery. The only one you must solve, in order to move forwards.”
– from ‘The Syth Codex’, 19:355-361
31st Mortifost, 998 NE
They stood in a ring in their white robes, thirty-two of them, quivering as they held hands. The room was featureless, sacred – white floors, white walls, white ceiling. The radiance filling the five-sided hall was unnaturally bright, a spell bound to the very air, so that they were forced to squint if they looked about at their fellows – but most kept their eyes closed, teeth clenched against the pain. Their hoods were deep and their plain masks hid their faces, but Eneleyn knew. She had once stood in their place. She understood the fear, and had come out the other side.
But these were not victims. Each of them knew what was coming. The shared sense of anticipation was a physical weight, pressing them all into a silence broken only by heavy breathing, the nervous shuffling of feet.
Who would be taken? Who would be spared?
At length the midnight chime started, and Eneleyn stepped into their midst, the thirty-third of their august company. She, like the rest of them, went barefoot in this place, clad in the same robes; but unlike them she wore no mask, and in her hand she held a sword: it was short and lightweight, barely more than a prop, but it was sharp and she clutched it firmly in her fingers, pointed at the floor to her side. The heart-blood of the sacrificial lamb, the virgin taken from the streets of North Lowtown, was still running freely down the edge of the blade and pouring in a constant stream from the tip. As she slowly made her way to the centre of the circle, she stained the pure white stone with a thick line of crimson.
Now that the ritual had begun, the blood would not stop flowing – not for so long as the conditions were still met.
“O Mekesta, Radiant Mother of the Night, I beg thee: birth thy servant; usher forth thy spite out from thy womb. Let the Night be free.” Eneleyn intoned the words in Infernal, touching the steel point of the sword to the floor in the very middle of the room. “Bring unto me the source of darkness, the very light of thy midnight sun.”
She left the tip against the stone and continued walking until she’d exited the circle, her friends raising their arms into an arch to let her pass. All the while, she continued scraping the blade on the floor, producing an ear-splitting whine. Then she turned, moving three paces counter-clockwise about the ring of believers, before entering into their midst once more.
Time and again, when she reached the middle of the chamber she invoked the blessing of a different dark deity, scraping the sword, creating the shrill sound that was the harbinger of the demon.
“… O Vaahn, Bright Father of the Grave, swallow our offering up into thy realm; install the carcass upon thy lofty helm. Snare it where the shadows are sharp and the deserts sing softly of a dawn they shall never witness. Hold it tight till all the worlds come undone…”
The blood formed a great pattern of lines, a web about and between their feet, linking the participants, their vital sources, their souls.
“… O Yane, Smiling Father of Sorrows, impart this meagre weapon with thy wickedness and will. Let it open the door. Beckon our Mother in and in us bind her babe. Let it bring thee and thy Father thy fill.”
At last, she halted in the centre, the geometric design completed. Slowly, she turned on the spot, regarding her fellow cultists solemnly – then she brought up the sword, holding the small cross-piece of the weapon in both her hands and directing its point at her own heart.
“Blood for blood, for tears unending,” Eneleyn declared; then she fell forwards onto the blade.
Rather than the icy, intrusive hardness of the steel in her breast, she felt only the euphoria that came with the spell’s successful casting. This had been her own test, and she always passed: the penalty for failure was death.
As was the reward for success.
One of the thirty-two, a woman shapely-enough that even in these nondescript, baggy robes her gender could be recognised, collapsed to the floor suddenly, white robe red.
It’s Uthia, Eneleyn thought. Farewell, old friend.
Uthia died in silence. Her heart had been pierced clean-through, vast quantities of her blood gushing out around her – and, in the middle of the ring, Eneleyn slowly withdrew the blade from her chest.
She grinned as she did it. She always grinned. She didn’t feel happy, exactly; the elation was a physical thing, taking hold of her and moving her muscles for her.
It was just the done thing. The others had to see it. See it and know what they were partaking in: one of the darkest of dark rites.
“My lords and ladies; I present our bestowal!” she cried. Then, again in Infernal, she spoke the final phrase:
“Step forth, drinker of souls! Step forth into a world of bright reflection, mirrors to be darkened, broken.” She looked down, confused. “Step forth with-“
That was when it all started to go wrong.
The sounds. The sounds were the worst part. Nobody should have ever been forced to listen to a heart exploding within a chest – piercing flesh with a sword was almost inaudible in comparison.
This was no wet thunk – just a deep pop, like a single beat on a dreadful drum never to be struck –
And it was a sound that went about the room in series, one after another after another.
Eneleyn looked on in mounting horror as every single one of her fellow cultists dropped down dead, bloodless, clean. They just appeared to be falling down asleep – but the sounds… the open eyes…
When will it be my turn? she questioned silently, fearfully. What is happening?
But at last, as was supposed to have happened when she called on the ‘drinker of souls’, the blood-pattern on the floor activated. Scarlet fire rose up almost to the ceiling, flames guttering under the pressure of a hell-wind that could be neither felt nor heard on this plane.
Then the flickering tongues were gone, leaving behind –
“Good eventide, summoner.”
A woman was there suddenly, crouching upon the corpse of the first to have died. Her face was eerie – her skin was as white as snow and her head was almost prism-shaped; her eyes were pitch black. The demon was hunkering down, and despite her lankiness she looked comfortable there, squatting in a strange, contorted position, clawed feet digging into the flesh of the dead sorcerer.
Purple fur with dark spots covered her from foot to neck. Her lips were dusky, shades of pink and lilac. Upon her midnight hair rested a band of jet, and in her hairy hand she held a golden whip, ancient gobbets of meat clotted about the thongs.
“Y-your Grace,” Eneleyn mumbled, the sheer panic seizing hold of her muscles. The proper form of address for a demon of such stature almost deserted her. “Your Grace, I –”
“You were not expecting me.” The voice was tinkling, the tone one of delight, enjoyment. “Yet I have awaited this day since my birth in the blackness, since my eyes first opened on the fire.”
“But… how…”
She tore her eyes from the hideous face, looking around.
The thing shrugged. “There were enough here prepared to die to offer up proper sacrifice.”
“Are – are you bound to me, your Grace?”
The great eldritch laughed, a cursed laughter that made Eneleyn shudder.
“Oh, no, my child,” she replied. “I but slew that which you sought to bring forth, and took its place. I was created ere your city had its walls, bound ere the fall of the Five… I may not be dominated – not by such as you.” The triangular face tilted slightly, the arch-fiend cursorily glancing across the body-strewn chamber, before the infernal gaze once more settled on Eneleyn. “The Sinphalamax has all my fealty.”
The Sinphalamax… The sorceress had only encountered this word written-down, scripts scrawled by the pens of madmen across the blank last pages of ancient tomes, on the reverse of scrolls and in the margins of sorcerous texts. Sinphalamax.
She only had a vague concept of what her conjurations had allowed onto the material plane – but a vague concept was enough. This thing… it could despoil nations. It could level armies. Even the champions were going to have serious, serious trouble dealing with it.
She copied the demon, looking around at the bodies. Dozens of men and women, each of whom she’d known personally, her friends and co-workers. This ritual had been designed to impart into the survivors a portion of the eldritch’s power, after the fashion of an arch-sorcerer joining with their summons. But that wasn’t going to happen now. They were all dead.
Eneleyn knew it was her responsibility. It was the first lesson her teachers taught their pupils. She’d spent twenty years of her life drumming it into the heads of a generation of up-and-coming sorcerers, and the next ten making sure her they did the same with their own apprentices.
I brought it forth. I send it back.
She knew the price. She knew what this had cost her.
She brought the sword-tip up to her chest once more.
The thing only smiled again, not approaching even as much as an inch. Moving closer would only hasten Eneleyn’s blow.
“Do not end your own life. This would be a waste; my return to Mund is fixed. Please, lay aside the blade. I would like to discuss another option with you, if you’re amenable?”
All too aware of the temptations such a creature might offer, Eneleyn laughed.
It was a self-mocking laughter, she realised, a final grim little gesture to the world she was about to leave.
“Do you truly believe that is your only option? Self-destruction?” The eolastyr sighed. “Come, now, my sister. You have lived such a life. You can achieve more with the powers of the Daughter of the Sinphalamax, so much more than you dreamed…”
The creature approached, a single step, and the old sorceress backed away an equal distance. She pressed the tip of the sword into the flesh just under her sternum, felt the blood flow –
Felt the temptation.
The powers of the arch-demon… mine?
The demon had halted again the very moment Eneleyn started to stab herself.
“What you speak of is possession. I do not even have your name – your Grace.”
None of my tattoos are going to aid me against this.
The fiend only shrugged, her nonchalance terrifying.
“What you speak of,” Eneleyn grated out, “it’s as good as death!”
She gritted her teeth tightly, and gripped the hilt with white-knuckled hands as she prepared to throw her heart down onto the sword-point – it dipped deeper into her skin, a bitter hardness about which her flesh erupted –
This is my ending.
“Death?”
The musical voice wasn’t troubled – only amused – and it gave her pause. She froze there, in the moment of impaling.
“What a trifling thing,” the creature went on. “But death is not good, little sister. And no, I do not misunderstand – it is your own misunderstanding. When you have consented to join with me, you may come to look upon death as a distant concern, undeserving of your attentions. Certainly few things upon this plane might encompass our annihilation, and most-assuredly time would not be our enemy. You would be released from the vicissitudes of ageing. You would have youth and strength. I know what you’re thinking – what use is youth and strength, when your goals are not your own.” The arch-demon smiled. “Let me reassure you, our goals differ only by so much as a hair. Primarily I seek to hide. Won’t you be a good sister?”
Eneleyn paused, considering, in spite of all she knew. It was easy, so easy to say, ‘Just do it, end it now’. She’d always told herself that when the moment came, she’d be ready. In her line of work, this kind of situation was an ever-present possibility.
But it came as a bit of a shock, when your chance of survival dropped from ninety-seven percent to zero.
It was strange. She’d always expected – even anticipated, almost with enthusiasm – this day. Yet the time of truth was upon her and she found she was not equal to the task. When she’d looked forward to this eventuality, it’d always been an amorphous destiny, shadows and shapes, nothing more than surreal. She’d thought an aura of carelessness, carefreeness would come over her, a gift from Nentheleme in her final seconds. Now that the moment had come, despite her advanced years, despite the promises being lies – she did not want to die. Did not want to go on into the shadowland, to see what lay beyond.
Not yet. Not this way.
And the fiend knew it. Just like it knew she had once been a little sister, back before the silkpox took her siblings. The demon knew it all, and used it against her…
The instant she felt her resolve weaken, her nerve give out – even before she pulled the half-inch of cold steel free of her torso – the demon’s smile once more split her white, triangular face.
“Oh, you do please me,” the arch-fiend murmured, stepping closer now with fluid grace and not one whit of hesitation. “Yes. Yes, I have you now. We’ll do such things together, child.”
She let the sword clatter to the blood-smeared floor. The demon’s unnatural, impossible visage came closer, the purple-black fur rippling as she prowled between the bodies, clawed feet tapping on the stone.
Eneleyn had to close her eyes against the sight, and within seconds she could feel the thing’s breath on her face.
“And so, Mistress Eneleyn Arithos, will you consent to join with me? Will you draw of my essence, as I draw of yours?”
She opened her eyes. The pitch-black orbs of the demon were all she could see – she was face-to-face with this walking, talking horror – the harbinger of salvation came close enough to kiss her, suck the soul right out of her lungs.
There was only one answer.
“I will, your Grace.”
* * *
2nd Yearsend, 998 NE
Eneleyn, at first at least, found it to be a one-sided relationship – and in her favour. From the eolastyr she obtained so much: her physical appearance may not have changed noticeably, but that could be a blessing as much as a curse in a situation like this, and if she’d been hoping for a literal de-ageing, that clearly wasn’t on the cards. Still, inside her skin she felt as though the weight of decades had fallen away from her. Her eyesight and hearing had never waned, not with the regular infusions of infernal power she’d partaken in – but the coldness in her bones that had been worsening winter on winter suddenly alleviated, the burden of a thousand little aches and pains suddenly soothed away. She could rotate her neck. Her fingers didn’t cramp after five minutes holding a quill.
Even for these minor effects, Eneleyn told herself as she leafed idly through the pages of the random textbook, even for these it would’ve been worth it.
But – the foresight? She would’ve given up her eyesight permanently, to keep the scrying – it wasn’t like she needed to see, not really, when all she had to do was focus and the future would come into view. And the fact that the magic came with no trade-off? It was unbelievable. Two days had passed, almost, and the time had flown: there was no internal dialogue, no adjustment of her attitudes or belief-systems that she’d been able to detect. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to give up the eyesight, give up her freedom to choose, give up anything – perhaps she was just better now.
Perhaps the demon’s arrival, the slaughter of her cabal, had been a blessing in disguise…
Despite everything she’d gained, it was hard to think of things that way. She’d borne affection for every one of those thirty-two dead – some as business acquaintances, rivals – others as pupils she’d known since her thirties. All of them had been men and women she’d respected. Before the ritual, when everyone was still wearing their usual fineries, Eneleyn had moved through the crowd, enjoying her celebrity as the leader of their coven, exchanging pleasantries and gossiping like any other noble lady. She’d long-since grown out her hair, hiding the tattoos that marked her scalp, but they were still visible on her brow, her throat, her hands… She’d attained a level of self-awareness about her designs once she inherited the estate from Mother – she was flung into high society, surrounded by unblemished women whose sneers were barely hidden.
While power came at a price, it was still power. She’d taken the mastery of the Seven-Star Swords before she even went entirely grey, and it wasn’t long before several of those cultured, urbane women had come to Eneleyn, desirous of the power she now held. At first, when she incorporated such acquaintances into the coven, she thought she would remain aloof, detached and superior. But as years passed, the unique nature of their shared experiences, the rush of the high-rank demonic infusions, the excitement of keeping an illegal activity secret… friendships blossomed.
Only to die, victims of their own shared folly, by-products of an arch-demon’s first footfall back on this plane.
But it was folly that had paid off for one – for her. Yes, possession was a serious problem. But in comparison to death? Besides, the eolastyr was benign – and due to her new predictive capabilities, she wasn’t alarmed when there came a sudden rush of steps, a banging on her door.
“Mistress Arithos!”
She held in her sigh.
If I’m always going to know what’s about to happen before it happens, I ought to get used to it, and get used to at least pretending to be surprised by the actions of others.
“Enter,” was all she said, leaving off the girl’s name.
But it was, of course, the one she’d expected, standing there in the doorway: Ciraya, her lips painted purple, her pallor accentuating the deep blue of her tattoos. The girl with issues when it came to backing down. Eneleyn had once been speculating as to whether this young woman might eventually make coven-material, but it soon became apparent Ciraya’s inner darkness was of a different nature entirely. It was a shame; she was skilful, resourceful… In many ways, the girl reminded Eneleyn of herself, decades back. Few were so committed as to cover themselves in such an abundance of powerful, painful designs.
Yet despite all our similarities, she has not the ambition to rise above her peers. She will languish. She will waste.
“Whatever’s the matter, my dear magister?”
A rare, predatory smile creased the girl’s painted lips. Ciraya didn’t enjoy being teased over her choice of career – she’d known full-well she had a future made for her in demon-summoning, if she’d had a mind – but it’d become something of a game between them over the recent months.
The levity was brief, her mouth swiftly reforming the sour line.
“It’s serious, I’m afraid, Mistress.”
“Then do come in – sit.” Eneleyn indicated the chair opposite.
Once she was perched on the edge of her chair, a glass of watered-down wine held reluctantly in her hands, Ciraya began her report.
“There’s no explanation for the disappearances. I’ve discussed it with my magistry contacts, some pretty powerful diviners. I know some of them were your friends, Mistress, but it’s a dead end. Something’s blocking them.“
“And Henthae?”
“Henthae, Zakimel – as far as I can tell, they’re as clueless as the champions,” Ciraya drawled dismissively. “Stormsword said Timesnatcher thinks it’s one of the unknown factors, like Dreamlaughter, or some other archmage of a similar potency.”
Eneleyn voiced a drawn-out “hmmm,” and stared at the young sorceress.
Ciraya’s primary function, as far as Eneleyn was concerned, had been to serve as an unwitting spy on the movements of Special Investigations. And Eneleyn’s pet magister had proved her usefulness more than once. The Mistress of the Seven-Star Swords had never trusted Keliko Henthae, Mistress of the Pool of Reflections – there was general uproar at the notion of an archmage taking control of the Investigations Department, and one without a title at that… House Henthae wasn’t even a thing – it was just a family name, like any lowborn’s. Who cared if they were rich enough to pretend at having elevated blood… But all the same, Eneleyn and her friends had weathered the storm, and their protections against telepathic and temporal exposure had stood strong, the coven’s sanctum going undetected as it always had done.
Yet she knew all along that if the full weight of the Magisterium or champions were to be levelled against her and her operations, the coven would become as see-through, as fragile as transparent glass. And now, the apparently simultaneous mass-disappearance of a large number of nobles, including a Lord and Lady of the Arrealbord… Never before had so many eyes been probing into her secrets – never before had she felt this thrill, this excitement…
Never before had she possessed an eolastyr to protect her movements.
“I think you may have that turned around, my child.”
Eneleyn tried to control the shock that threatened to spread across her face as the fiend within her spoke – Ciraya had herself previously joined with various entities, and might’ve been able to discern the meaning of her change in expression. But that was the first time the Daughter of the Sinphalamax had said so much as a word to her since their amalgamation, and it was difficult to not show her surprise and the sudden swell of panic that clutched at her breast.
“Do not be dismayed. This one is far too distracted with her concerns over your mental state to be concerned over your… spiritual state. Do you see?”
This time the vision came over Eneleyn unawares, an action performed by the arch-demon dwelling inside her rather than by her own selection. Iridescent mists rose from the pools of time and space and she moved forwards into them, parting them, seeing Ciraya, standing before Henthae’s desk in one of the high rooms of the Maginox; her painted lips twist in an expression of distress, an uncharacteristic kink in the croak spilling from her crooked mouth: “Poor E-Eneleyn.”
The eolastyr had chosen the vision with care; not only did it serve to emphasise that Ciraya’s agitation was likely to preclude the girl from spotting the change in her… but it also provided Eneleyn with just the correct allocation of negative emotion.
The notion of Ciraya expressing doubt in her, discussing her apparent vulnerability with that damnable archmage…
Using her given name, so familiar, so informal…
“Mistress?”
The girl’s rare expression of distress was there on her face, right here and now, slanting her mouth just like in the vision.
“What?” the old sorceress blurted angrily, suddenly feeling as though she’d been outmanoeuvred.
“The book you sent us for? Is it… as informative as you’d hoped?”
The mistress momentarily directed her attention down at the open tome –
Ah yes, The Science of the Past… I remember this one. Why did I want this again?
“The heretics have discovered the secrets of the Ten. It fell to me to ascertain they do not stray from the ordained path. There is naught to fear. Now we may bring across our friends at leisure.”
What? W-what?
“And the book brought to my attention certain other facts. It may be that I can help you to summon one of my sisters. This next ‘Incursion’ of yours shall be a truly joyous occasion.”
Wh-wh-
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I…”
She looked back at the girl, and Eneleyn’s fury faded as the reality of her young spy’s glumness started to sink in.
Poor little bird. She truly cares for me. And it’s liberating news… Even Timesnatcher knows nothing.
“Are…” Ciraya drew a deep breath. “Are you okay, Mistress?”
“I am quite fine, I assure you, magister.”
The curl of a smile returned to the girl’s lips, but it didn’t look quite right.
“I extend to you my thanks,” Eneleyn continued, “for all you’ve done to keep an ear on the ground for me.” She waved a hand at the windows ringing her room, this chamber that was the apex of the tower: the tall windows displayed nothing but clouds and snow, the darkling afternoon sky. “It can be difficult from up here to keep on top of the little things.”
While the height of the tower served as an apt metaphor for the Mistress’s separation from the ins-and-outs of life in the capital, she saw that Ciraya’s eyes had fallen on the neat stacks of ledgers and letters standing at the end of the black-oak desk, an even better indication of her elevation. If there was one thing Eneleyn was known for, it was her orderliness and industriousness. The Seven-Star Swords as an organisation only worked, in large part, because Eneleyn worked. Many Masters filled their personal space with clutter, reagents and servitors and experiments – but not her. Those could abide in the laboratories of the lower rooms. Here, she was tranquil with her pens and papers.
“No problem,” Ciraya said with as much warmth as her rasping voice could convey, standing up as though she’d been dismissed. Her eyes were still on the stack of books.
Suddenly the eolastyr took hold of her vocal chords; the speed and ease with which the demon took control, and the irresistible quality of it, brought her mind screaming into abject terror.
“Are you quite alright, Ciraya? You don’t quite seem to be yourself, today.”
The demon had Eneleyn grin, as though she were amused by her own joke…
The girl’s pale blue eyes met her gaze across the table, widening in surprise and fear. “Sure thing, Mistress,” she said casually. “Just… a long day.”
“She knows.”
She knows? What! How?
“I shall flense her. My weapon requires sustenance.”
W-wait – no!
But it was too late.
The eolastyr extended herself into Materium, allowing her essence to consume Eneleyn; the only outward change was the whip coalescing in her hand and the pitch-black eyes, casting all she could see into shades of glittering shadow.
The demon sprang across the desk at the young sorceress, and as Ciraya fell back Eneleyn also withdrew, screaming, consciousness fleeing into those hidden depths of the eolastyr’s mind that would deafen and blind her, permit her to refuse to witness this deed, this most needless of murders.
It had stung when her thirty-two friends died, and this was only one more peal on the toll of Eneleyn’s foolishness: but it was worse. Immeasurably worse. This sorceress was promising, young – and, worst of all, she had not agreed. She hadn’t volunteered for this.
Ciraya…
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