PYRITE 10.5: TO THE GOLDEN LEAVES AGAIN
“Elected representatives are not held accountable for what they do not do. That is why the rich un-lords favour such representation as a form of governance. The meaning of democracy is to spread the blame for deficiencies and create an administrative branch to obfuscate all wrongdoing. The criminal in office is exonerated of all but the most superfluous charges, while those very superfluous charges are used to poison her. It is for this reason we reject the Uprising at its foundation-root. We must be ruled by those born and trained for it, so that we can blame them for their misdeeds. We must continue to bar the sale of lordships, and resist all attempts to reduce the severity of the sentences handed to guilty nobles. Upon these fragile stones is our whole civilisation resting. Without our vigilance, all will be given over to madness.”
– from the official memorandum of the Shadow Council, Taura 705 NE
“… what is his. Become him. Go forth. Find…”
Sleep was brief and dreamless; I was grateful for the noises outside rousing us early. We both were.
Hours of waking dream in which time itself dissolved and lost all meaning. Breakfast was leftover fruit and nut, washed down with leftover beer, taken right there on the apartment floor where we lay, dusty old blankets for our mattress. Finally spent once more, Ciraya fell asleep again with her head on my arm, a thin film of perspiration joining our bodies where they pressed together – her torso against my own, her arm across my stomach, left leg thrown over both of mine.
I could close my eyes and sense every ripple and twist of the ink-patterns touching me, the power pulsing across her parchment-white skin. I’d always been curious about her tattoos, but after being with her – after joining with her – the mystery was increased tenfold. I found myself wanting to explore her, lay bare her fascinating mind as she’d laid bare her fascinating body.
Now she was asleep again, and as much as I wanted to lie beside her, return to the hidden dreams with her, I knew I couldn’t. For all my fatigue I felt refreshed, revitalised in a way I hadn’t ever expected, hoped for… And I still had a job to do. Plenty of jobs, in point of fact.
Would she want me to wake her?
I looked at her. She wore an uncharacteristically-petulant frown.
Could I bear to wake her?
No. And this way, she could make an entrance. She’d appreciate that, I thought.
I reactivated the nethernal essences, allowing me to slip free without causing her to stir. Funnyfingers went off to find me a writing implement while I quietly dressed myself, and he returned a minute later with half a stick of chalk. I spun up a quick shield to pacify my paranoia, then scrawled her a single-word note on the floorboards beside our makeshift pillows:
GILTERGROVE
It was time.
* * *
I knew what was coming. I sensed the inevitable in my bones, so I opted to walk, or at least move with the appearance of ordinary walking. How many of the onlookers could discern the oddness of my stride, the way my left leg almost shimmered as it moved, I couldn’t say. Even if only one percent of them were perceptive-enough to spot that there was something wrong with me, that still meant dozens were picking up on it. How exactly word had spread was beyond me, but before I even reached the Lowtown Road there were crowds of people lining the streets as if waiting for me to appear.
Most people didn’t know what to do when I actually came into view. From time to time the masses would find cohesion, chanting ‘Feychilde’ or ‘Liberator’ for a bit; a lot of them seemed to want to just scream, letting out whatever pent-up grief or excitement they had inside them. I did my best to acknowledge their cries without looking too much like a highborn prat. Instead of waving, I kept my responses restricted to nods, the occasional finger-pointing when I recognised someone.
“Hail!” I said jovially, keeping the smile on my face and in my eyes as I did my best to manoeuvre around a particularly-tangled knot of people.
“Feychilde!” an old woman within arm’s length yelled at me, her eyes fit to bulge out of her head.
“I’m only right here, bleedin’ ‘ell woman!” I shot back, eliciting a titter of appreciation from the crowd.
Thinking to capitalise on my success, I politely requested that they move their asses out of the way to let a stuck convoy of wagons through. The Sticktowners dutifully made room, and the wagon-drivers looked a bit disappointed as their horses started trotting forwards once more.
Inside my shell, it was hard to keep a lid on my emotions. I felt overexposed, even disoriented. The tattered robe I wore was completely unpresentable, and it wasn’t like Sticktowners didn’t have any standards; I was lucky I enjoyed their favour, for the moment at least. It wasn’t just the matter of what I wore, though. The streets had changed somewhat thanks to all the recent turmoil, and everything looked just a little bit different. It wasn’t like I’d have traded it in for Telior’s sea-drenched walkways, but here in my home town I was getting a reception I’d have never received even in the place where’d I’d been a lord, Hool Raz of dubious notoriety. Whatever I was now – it was better than being a lord. They still thought of me as one of them. But it had its price. I could see the expectation in every face, hear it in every exultant shriek. It was almost too much, too soon after returning. For all that I’d lived here forever, Mund still somehow felt alien, like I’d been away forever too. Like I’d never fully be able to return. Telior had been a few meagre months of my existence, but I’d been reborn there – there was no denying the notion, even if its exact meaning eluded me. Somewhere between the first encounter with Mal Malas and my decision to return to Mund, I’d changed. Now I just had to accept it, accept Feychilde for my face, my words, my deeds.
I would come to think of it as the first time I played the role of the champion for real; the first time it made me become something else, something utterly other inside my head. Not just a warrior for the forces of light, repelling the darkness like a good little boy – but a true paragon, a figurehead of something greater than myself. This had to have been how T-Man felt when he stood up and spoke in front of the crowds at Leafcloak and Lightblind’s memorial.
I should’ve just flown, invisible, I thought, and grinned at my self-inflicted misfortune. It would all be worth it in the end, I supposed. Better to get this moment over and done with, get the people I wanted to protect used to my presence. I couldn’t hide, not after taking up the mantle so publicly last night. If they could get their gawping out of the way, I could crack on with things that much more quickly. I was going to be building a tower of some ostentation right here in their midst – and I was going to want their help, or at least their goodwill, while the construction was carried out. Having purposeless crowds milling around the worksite of the former Mud Lane wasn’t going to get us anywhere fast, so I couldn’t afford to become some figure of mystique.
I came to a spot I barely recognised – the road widened, and I was certain there’d been more trees the last time I came along this route. A pair of wagons had been parked in awkward positions, creating a funnel clogged with well-wishers right in the middle of the roadway.
“Feychilde!”
“Liberator!”
“Look, Turmie, it’s ‘im!”
“Feychilde!”
“’Scuse me! ‘Scuse me! M-mistah?”
I stopped when I heard the vaguely-familiar voice, and looked over with amazement at a freckled six- or seven-year-old. The little red-haired girl was clothed in a mud-covered cotton dress, and the moment my eyes met hers she just lifted her hand, pointing.
I knew what I’d find when I looked up into the branches of one of the few remaining trees.
“Missymoo, is it?” I called.
The girl nodded, mouth agape.
I tapped the ghosts, to the oohs and ahhs of the crowd. I remembered to drop my shields in case I pushed the poor animal off its perch when I approached, and then it was a simple matter for me to float up and take hold of the scrawny black and white cat by the scruff of its neck. To its credit it tried to put up a fight, but after a few frantic attempts to mangle me it gave up, placidly accepting my victory.
“Look at him!”
“’E’s got it!”
“Cor, what’ll ‘e do next?”
“Ah-ha! The Catmaster!”
I turned, hefting the cat over my head as I rotated, floating back down to the ground.
“Feychilde conquers all!” I cried triumphantly, and laughed with them.
I handed my trophy down to her owner, diminished the dark elf essence, and went strolling on my way. The crowd parted, baying and cheering.
Yeah, it was weird. But it was okay. Despite the incredible loss of life, the devastating property damage – things were going to be okay.
And it was my job to keep it that way.
* * *
The birds sang, an unending patchwork melody cascading down from the clusters of gold leaves. The sun climbed, bringing the moment of completion ever closer. The fifty-foot ring of grass surrounding the Giltergrove was teeming with people, especially on the north-west where I’d come to a halt; the druids whose task it was to police the area could themselves be seen loitering amongst the common folk, stealing glances in my direction. But as the minutes stretched on the crowds did manage to settle down, the nearest keeping a short (but seemingly respectful) distance from me. Everyone seemed to realise that this wasn’t just a joke – serious business was about to transpire here. Quiet conversation took hold, a babbled counterpoint to the birds’ incessant wittering. I was still the centre of attention; there was no getting around that. However, it wasn’t long before I got to share my grassy stage.
She seemed to have the same idea as me. She didn’t use her powers to hurtle right to my side; she walked as any mere mortal would, letting them get a close-up look at her. None of them tried to get in her way, melting out of her path like she was a plague victim, or a saint. Her names went through the assemblage as a hushed whisper, announcing her arrival before I had the faintest notion she was inbound.
She wore the bow and quiver someone had mentioned to me, but she’d chosen to clothe herself in the multicoloured fabric, something I hadn’t seen in months. She was without either of her masks but there was a faint frown on her lips as if to mimic the old, abandoned visage that’d gone with the robe ever since our first Gathering. Despite the fact her face was exposed, no one in the crowd used the same name for her I did.
“Tanra,” I said warmly when she reached the edge of my little circle. “Thanks for coming.”
She stopped there, glancing around at the nearest onlookers, coincidentally obtaining another yard or two of room.
“Thanks for the invite.” When her gaze came to settle on me, a smile instantly appeared on her face, wrinkling her nose. “Feel like I owe you one; thought I’d show up early.”
Now she sped to my side, disappearing and reappearing in a hundredth of a second and eliciting a loud moan from the crowd.
I put my arm around her awkwardly, given the weapon slung over her shoulder, and she gave me a firm squeeze around the waist.
“Thank you so much,” I whispered as we stepped apart, keeping my head bowed, my mouth close to her ear. “You don’t know what it’s like… Can you read me now?”
I rolled my eyes as if to indicate the crown I’d worn.
The wry smile spread further across her face. “Not a dropping clue, my dear. However… unless I’m much mistaken…” Her eyes scrutinised mine, their bright brown depths deepening. “Your fate’s been getting some entangling, has it?”
I felt a little twinge of heat in my cheeks. “You can sense that?”
We stepped apart, and she laughed throatily.
“Oh, my dear Feychilde. I always wondered when you and Ciraya would happen. When I sent Kirid down the river last night, I had this vague notion…”
“So you’re claiming credit now, are you?” I asked archly.
“I’ve been throwing the two of you together since the first day we met.” She regarded me pityingly. “You don’t remember?”
“What, even in… in the Incursion…”
“You do remember.” She was grinning openly now. “Well done, Kas. I loved Em, I did, but she was… you know… Em.”
For all that she clearly thought she was helping, she really wasn’t.
“Yeah, sure.” I felt my face darken, but I wouldn’t let her sour my mood. “Do you think we’re going to get many?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried it’ll just be us?”
“Well, maybe not just us, but… I think I can count on the sorcerers who showed up on the heath last night. Then there’s –“
“Winterprince.”
“Yeah, hopefully.”
“No, I mean – Winterprince.”
She pointed with a thrust of her chin, and everyone turned to look as the gleaming ice-elemental came cutting down through the sky.
He hovered above us then, after a few moments, he let the shimmering armour he wore melt away. Thanks to his magic the resulting downpour evaporated ten feet over our heads, the droplets seeming to splash against an invisible heated surface. He descended through the misty layer of vapour in his blue robe, and tendrils of wind snagged the rim of his hood, pulling it back as he landed beside us.
Wide-spread eyes, a brusque and savage expression. His hair was longer than I’d expected, brown shot through with grey at the temple in spite of his apparent youth – he couldn’t be much over thirty.
“I am Uwaine Gladstock,” he declared loudly, looking around at the crowd. “You know me as Winterprince. I come, to live and to die,” he glowered at the common folk, “as a champion of Mund.” He clapped me on the back. “I stand with Feychilde. Let Redgate tremble!”
“Nice to have you here,” I said through my smile while the people cheered him.
“Let’s hope you have some plans,” he muttered back, not shifting his eyes to me.
“Got a few things cookin’,” I replied as casually as I could manage.
“We’ll turn up the heat. Get as much done by nightfall as possible.”
I glanced across at him, but he still wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Nightfall, today?”
“Why the hell not?”
“Ahem.” Tanra said the word rather than actually clearing her throat. “Three days, actually.”
“Three days?” I was even more taken aback; Uwaine’s bravado was one thing, but Tanra’s assessment was on another level entirely. “I thought – weeks –“
“It’s going to be a serious bit of work – no lie. But… yeah, I think we’ll be done by the evening of the eleventh, morning of the twelfth. That is, so long as I get Doomspeaker and Duskdown. I’m still iffy on the latter, to be honest.”
I drew a deep breath. “Let’s just… hope.” I looked around, wondering when the next mage would come forward. “If we can even get twenty archmages, I’ll be happy. Thirty, I’ll be ecstatic. We might even stand a chance, then.”
“Six arch-druids, to go up against Ord Yset?” Uwaine said sceptically. “Six arch-wizards, to face Nil Nafrim? I think you’re dreaming, Kas.”
“I know. Don’t think I don’t know.” I gritted my teeth, fixing the smile on my face; the crowd were, of course, staring at the three of us. “It’s my job to dream. Without it, we’re lost, before we ever begin.”
We stop Redgate. We stop it all, before it starts. It’s the only way.
“I don’t even think we’ll get thirty.” The wizard folded his arms across his chest. “No one wants to be the first to die. They’d rather run, and keep running, until it kills them.”
Mountainslide erupted from the ground Ironvine-style not ten feet away, to a ripple of awed cries. The dwarf didn’t cast about, didn’t spare any words for the crowd, staying cowled and stepping up to join us without drawing any further attention to himself.
At the same time Wrynka came stuttering across the sky, propelled on her way by imp-wings and imp-teleportation.
Yune… Yune, let him be wrong.
* * *
Two hours later and I was shaking (left) hands with a nervous-looking man in a cheap sorcerer’s robe. He’d cut himself shaving in at least five or six places, and I tried my best to keep my eyes off the red nicks covering his jowls. I’d have had less of a leg to stand on than Winterprince in that department; I hadn’t even tried shaving since I lost my right arm and I was hardly looking forward to it. This guy’s face was why.
“Y-you won’t remember me, Feychilde.” He licked his lips, and looked over his shoulder at his two fellows, clad in the same cheap black cloth. “Remember us, I mean?”
There was an air of expectancy about him as he turned back to me, and I stared at him in consternation. I switched to looking at his sallow friends, but nothing came leaping to mind. They looked even more nervous than him.
“I’m sorry… do I know you?”
“Oh no – I mean…” He licked his lips. “You saved us.”
“And you…” I cast another glance over the unlikely trio. “You became sorcerers?”
“W-we… we already was,” the shortest of the three supplied. “We were, I mean…”
His voice fell away. I looked back at the guy with the shaving injuries, perplexed.
“We were the Shadowcrafters,” he said at last in a hoarse whisper. “Please… I don’t… we don’t want no trouble…”
“We’ve come to help,” the short guy supplied again.
“If we can.”
“Yeah – if we can. I mean – if you think you can use us.”
I nodded, feeling amazed. “Just… don’t be so nervous, okay? You’re not the only darkmages here.” I gestured at the milling, chattering mass of robed bodies behind me. “Ex-darkmages, I mean. All that’s over now. You want magisters? We’ve got ‘em. You want heretics? Look no further.” I smiled at the three self-taught magicians. “You’ll fit right in.”
They beamed in gratitude, and pottered off to join the throng. Tanra was mediating in a debate between two former heretics, and after I caught her eye it was still a minute or two before she reappeared at my side.
“How’s it looking?” I enquired, still trying to keep my optimism bottled. For all I knew, most of those who’d stepped forward to help were bringing absolutely nothing to the table, just wanting to take the opportunity to enjoy this moment, to be a part of the big spectacle. I was relying on Tanra to sort the grain from the husk, separate the sound from the noise. I could hardly expect even half of them to actually stick around once the work started, could I? There had to be almost a thousand people here, and we were probably still low on archmages…
“Not bad, Kas. I’ve only had to reject a hundred and fifteen jokers. For magic-users skilled in the various disciplines, you’ve got nine-hundred and thirty-two. Of those, two-hundred and twenty are actually as good at their work as they think they are.”
I was almost at a loss for words.
A thousand… really?
“And… and archmages?”
“Seventy-nine.”
My jaw dropped.
“For now. I’m hoping we’re still waiting for a few stragglers.” She grinned openly. “You were right, Kas. We’ve got them coming in from all walks of life. We had three inactive archmages round the corner from where we grew up. Neverwish arrived – he was looking for you, by the way.”
I was pleased Herreld had shown, but I was still struggling with it, the magnitude of it all. “And how are they feeling about all this… voyeurism?”
“They volunteered for it. You need to stop worrying. We’re doing this. It’s happening.”
“Damn right it is.” I didn’t want to let on how exhausted I was feeling already, but the tension of this morning and afternoon was like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to remember what it was like to not be in this position. “I need to get another slice of strawberry, I think.”
“Sunspring’s growing another. Give him a minute. They go off fast once the spells are applied.”
“Damn divine druidry.”
“Sheer Sinphalamactic speculation.”
I ignored her and looked over to the gnome. He’d been in his towering gorilla-shape for the past hour, using his power to inflate fruits and handing out chunks the size of a human head as refreshments. Right now Neko was surrounded by a dozen curious children and a number of Shining Circle druids clad in green and gold, the adults looking every bit as impressed as the kids as they watched the old arch-druid make his next giant strawberry. Right now it was roughly the size of a hay bale. Before he was done it’d be too big to fit in the back of a two-horse wagon.
I was glad Sunspring had survived the Incursion. There were so many who hadn’t…
Star… man… Neverwish must be feeling like drop.
But I couldn’t dwell on it. There were so many who’d lived, so many who’d decided to join us today.
Seventy-nine – and maybe stragglers too.
I was keeping my eyes peeled, keeping my mind prepared for surprises – but our next volunteer made me nervous in an entirely-different way.
Fe came prowling up, Ciraya bobbing lightly atop her, swaying from side to side with the demon’s motions. Spotting her in the distance thanks to the yithandreng’s stature, I became incredibly aware of the dryness of my mouth and lips in spite of the ghost-form, and once more I longed for a bite of the strawberry… or at least a bit of mint to chew on…
How would I approach her? What should I do? I felt as though, of all the faces that had presented themselves to me today, this was the most momentous meeting of all. How we handled this… it would set the course for everything to follow. I found my concerns over dragons and destinies slipping away, mere shadows, lesser darknesses eclipsed by the swaying, sorcerous twilight Fe carried towards me.
The cool breeze blew. Her face came into focus beneath the black hood; the sorceress’s expression was grave, and, seeing her out here in her element, astride her pet fiend, black sleeves billowing in the wind… it felt as though my heart lurched.
Damn… when had she started to look so beautiful? The alluring lips that I’d tasted so many times since last night. The long lashes shrouding smoky blue eyes. There was no other word for her. She’d never appeared unattractive to me – in spite of the crazy amount of tattoos, quite the opposite – but this? It was like I’d never really seen her before.
Desire, sharpened almost to the point of incoherent, self-directed anger, gripped hold of me. Would she be upset that I’d left her like that? Would she expect us to just go back to being friends now? Why hadn’t I made my intentions clearer?
You wrote ‘Giltergrove’. Just ‘Giltergrove’! You great dropping buffoon! You had one chance. One chance to show her you were serious. You blew it. Look at her! She doesn’t exactly look happy, does she?
I floated forward to greet her, but I didn’t know what to say. She seemed equally reticent to speak, her hands folded in her lap at the base of one of Fe’s spikes. I was incredibly conscious of the amount of people watching us right now. The urge to drag her into another plane so we could have some privacy was equally irresistible and unconscionable.
She couldn’t meet my imploring stare, so I stopped being able to try. I blinked, lowering my gaze.
“Rhu Thrile,” I murmured instead, reaching out to stroke the yithandreng’s snout.
Fe didn’t reply, but I’d be damned if she didn’t smile, pushing up luxuriously into my ghostly fingers, encouraging an application of vampire-strength to match her.
That made me smile, and when I looked back at Ciraya she was piercing me with her eyes.
“I missed you.” I said it as quietly as I could manage without whispering.
Finally, the sardonic smile touched her lips. “Middle Finger on the Hand,” she drawled, “reporting for duty.”
“I mean… I don’t want things to be like that, between us.”
She straightened. “Whatever you want things to be like, I’m not sure you get to choose. If you really missed me you shouldn’t have let me sleep in.”
“I couldn’t wake you! You looked so…”
My voice fell away – I was painfully aware just how many hundreds of pairs of ears were within earshot.
“But you can’t tell me off for being late. You might be my master but I’m not going to be your servant. That’s not how it works.”
“I don’t want a servant.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I… want to kiss you.”
Her eyes widened for just an instant, then narrowed. “I’ve played the favourite before. I know how it goes.”
I shook my head. “It won’t be like that. You’re clearly my favourite, anyway! I don’t want any of the drama, Ciraya. The endless stupid rumours. Can’t we just… be together? Openly? Can’t I just kiss you here in front of everyone?”
She nudged Fe forwards suddenly, bringing herself right alongside me.
“And who said you got a say in that either, Master Mortenn?”
She leaned towards me and pulled me into her embrace, her lips finding mine eagerly.
I was glad of the excuse to close my eyes. Cheers and a number of comments were hurled my way – not just from the common folk. Half the remarks were drowned out by wild whoops that sounded vaguely congratulatory… but those I made out were of a less than savoury nature. I felt my face flame right to the tips of my ears this time, but when we separated Ciraya was as pale as ever, not just smiling but grinning broadly.
She took my hand and trotted Fe forwards, turning me about on the air to follow her.
“Come on,” she croaked. “Let me go start whipping the troops into line.”
“Very good,” I replied, “Mistress Ostelwin.”
* * *
I was just getting done introducing Ciraya to Rathal – the poor man was going out of his way to avoid Wrynka, it seemed, and regularly cast furtive glances over his shoulder while we talked, complaining about rhimbelkina under his breath more than once – when a very unlooked-for trio appeared.
“It’s Bladesedge!” a man yelled.
“And Bookwyrm!” a woman cried.
I flew towards the commotion, and found the three of them standing there in the midst of the crowd. The two arch-diviners were at either side of an unknown woman in a brown tunic and black leggings, holding her arms protectively, even lovingly. The audience-members were looking at them with wonder and joy; but most of those clad in mage-robes were staring at the woman in the centre with looks of alarm plastered across their faces. They had some inkling of just who this person was, though she’d never been seen before.
She looked nothing like her illusory self. She was perhaps fifty, dark hair shot through with grey, heavy-chested and round at the waist. She appeared somewhat dishevelled: there was faded paint on her lips, massive bags under her hazel eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a three-day-old ponytail. Although she hadn’t donned magic-user clothing, she’d perhaps made a gesture by fastening a short, shiny silk cape about her neck. If it weren’t for her reputation preceding her, I’d have thought the combination of civilian clothing with the fancy cape to be more comical than the most-garish mage-robe I’d seen all day. However, as it was, I only felt cold inside.
She could’ve been wearing Sunspring’s giant strawberry for a costume – it didn’t matter. It was still her, still the most dangerous arch-enchanter to have ever strode our streets.
I saw Orcan floating there staring at her, one of the few archmages here with no notion of her identity.
“Dreamlaughter,” the whisper went through the assembled magicians.
Then the Telese wizard floated away, the same alarm gripping everyone else now entering his eyes.
“Hullo, everyone,” she said. Her voice was a South Lowtown warble. “Massively ‘preciate the welcome, like. Don’t need to go makin’ a big deal over li’l old me. I’ll just… stand over here…”
“We’ll need to thoroughly debrief you,” Tanra said. She was standing next to Brokenskull at the front, not ten feet from the witch, her face scrunched up in thought. “You are aware you’re still wrapped in an illusion, right?”
“What’s that s’pposed to mean?” the enchantress retorted.
I focussed my Blofm-eye. There was indeed something else, inside her body. The layers of glamour were impenetrable to my sight, however: the figure at the centre was a blur in spite of the goblin-essence.
“You’re an elf, remember?” Tanra’s voice was gentle. “I can see you – you’re really here. But you’re not you. Remember?”
“I – I don’t…”
The two grey-clad seers at Dream’s sides seemed to bristle as their owner floundered, both of them simultaneously standing up tall and gripping her arms more-tightly. Their austere faces folded into frowns.
Bookwyrm’s eyes went skyward, as if questioning his very existence, but the glare of Bladesedge only darkened.
Just as I felt as though some awful hostility might break out, bodies falling faster than the eye could follow –
Tanra held up her hand, palm outward.
“Oathbreaker will help you. Won’t you, Oathbreaker?”
I cast about, confused. Other than Ironvine and Spiritwhisper, Oathbreaker was the one person still in my ‘straggler’ list; no one had seen her all day, from what I’d heard.
Now the former arch-magister revealed herself, removing the invisibility-spell that had hidden her, concealing her completely from my goblin-sight. The crowd stepped back, murmuring.
She was standing not five yards from Dream. The old woman was clad in a plain lavender mage-robe, sleeveless, exposing surprisingly-toned arms. She had several bracelets on her wrists but only a few rings glittered on her knuckles – had they stripped her of her jewellery when they stripped her of her rank? I had no notion but, given her expression, it was definitely amongst the possibilities. She’d foregone the mask, and it looked like she hadn’t pulled a brush through her hair, letting it hang loose in her face. The grey locks couldn’t hide the tautness of her demeanour, the nervousness flashing in her eyes.
“Afternoon.” She grated the word out as though it pained her.
“Thanks for showing up. Thank you.” I nodded to her. I got it. She didn’t want her presence here to be a big deal, despite who she was, what she represented not just to the crowd but to the ex-magisters amongst the volunteers. She wanted to hide in the background, keep her invisibility up, even when she could be seen. “Do you think you can give Dream a hand? Without inviting the wrath of her… ah… bodyguards?”
Keliko looked at the trio. The trio looked back at her, their expressions unreadable.
“Perhaps.”
I smiled. She was used to getting what she wanted.
I guessed her punishment would start right here.
* * *
The sun passed its zenith but the heat only built and built until it was like an oppressive weight, bearing down on my back. I could only imagine the kind of suffering the others were going through – most people had more meat on their bones than I did, and their meat was way more material than mine. More than one wizard must’ve been involved in the cold wind that came whistling down through the golden branches. It was hard to tell who, however. I was engaged in an hour-long debate with Orcan, Mountainslide and a dozen other archmages of their breed, and not once did I see one of them gesturing to the sky. All the same, the beloved breeze came down.
At Nightfell and Doomspeaker’s direction, Dancefire sculpted an illusion of the floor-plan, slowly elaborating upon the glamour until we had a working image of the tower we would create. The seeresses went strutting around it, pointing, assigning numbers and letters to different sections of the building; Dancefire dutifully scribed their notes in glowing white characters, hanging them from the mirage. There was no implication of the actual end look – these were just lines and figures, with the outer cladding still to be decided. But I admired the appearance all the same, standing aside, just listening and watching.
It looked like a flat, upward-held hand, without looking too much like a hand. The broad-fronted main building was its palm. The four actual towers atop it would be ascending in height towards the centre akin to fingers, with the shorter dormitory spire sliding up the side like a thumb. However we painted it, it was going to look good. Not pretty, but good.
“Can we fireproof this bit from 3-G to 3-P by three in the afternoon?”
“Safelia will be back with the lumber.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“No… no. She’s needed here, on the section sixteen shell.”
“Orcan’s free. He’s done on the C-tower flooring by two-thirty, two-thirty-five…”
A voice from behind me hailed me strangely.
“Feychilde Ikastyron!”
I turned to regard a tall, wizened old man in a grey-and-blue robe. In his hand he grasped a staff but he didn’t lean upon it, keeping its butt out of the grass by hefting it up and resting the top against his shoulder. His hood was cast back to reveal a grizzled, ruddy-cheeked face of lines and bristles. His long hair and beard were matted with grime, tangled and wild, such that it was hard to discern one from the other. A heavy traveller’s cloak hung from his shoulders, but it didn’t look like he was perspiring.
Dark eyes regarded me sharply from beneath bristling eyebrows.
“Good sir?” I tried to query him politely, but I could hear the shrill surprise in my own voice.
“Lo!” He called the word out theatrically, and slowly waved the staff in his hand like a priest bestowing a benediction. Only then did I recognise the wing-sigil atop the rod. “You are he! The Fracture! The One-Winged Kestrel! He for whom I have sought these long weeks.”
“I…” I looked around me, but the faces of the other archmages held no immediate answers. “I haven’t heard those before. The whole kestrel business sounds cool, but the Fracture? Sweet Five, you must want to be my new best friend if you’re leading with that…”
He swung the staff down, levelling the sigil at me, and the cold wind blew again urgently, more forcefully than before. I found myself straightening – not quite alarmed, but suddenly aware that this was more than just some joke.
“I am bade by my Lord Orovon, Prince of Birds, Storm’s Sovereign, to be his tongue here in the city of Mund. And my first task is to speak to you, demon-render, he who broke the devil tempest. To you and yours, these Children of Mund in whose hands the future will rest.” His dark glower went to my left and right, encapsulating the hundreds of magic-users in whose company I stood. “I bear the words of the open sky! You shall hear it first from my lips, though in time you shall hear the message reflected, resounding from a million throats.
“The unclouded eye sees only light, Feychilde Ikastyron. I am fated to bear those eyes abrim with cloud and I tell thee, I see thee clear! The Gate upon Night teeters. Thou stridest the Edge of Apostasy under the Shadow’s swell and yet thou durst stride! It falls unto my personage to render thee reward. Beneath such darkness as thou dost face, know thee thy path shall err, faltering where few of my brethren can follow with celestial eyes. When thou art thrown low, I shall succour thee.
“Men knew not what it was to stride, ere I cast them a headwind. I shall see thee set thine, or be much remiss.”
The wind died down, bit by bit.
“Well…” I didn’t quite know what to say. “Th-thanks for coming. Thank you, I mean, Lord Orovon…”
I looked up at the sky, facing into the faltering wind.
Thank you.
The wind roared, a final acknowledgement before dropping away once more.
“What about the Temple of the Messenger?” a young man said with a sidelong glance at his fellows. And the same sentiment was being expressed all around me, a ripple of scoffs and snide remarks.
“Trickster.”
“Probably a charlatan. Dark priest if ever I saw one.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The Unsent One will have to hear about this!”
When I caught that particular comment, the intimidating holy man clearly caught it too, and he spun about, levelling his staff at the speaker.
The wind rose once more with his voice.
“The Unsent will receive his marching orders in due course, and be sent far from this place into exile! Do you not understand yet? The Time of the T-“
My hand suddenly itched; it felt like an insect bite, swift and sharp. That shouldn’t have been possible through the ghost-form. I glanced down, my attention focused on the burning spot on the ball of my thumb – then, seeing nothing of note, I centred my attention once more upon the priest.
“– and the Time of Redress descends now upon our heads. All the Divine Seats shall reclaim their meanings, lost so long to the darkness in men’s souls. I am the Unsent One now! I am here to speak and be heard as no bearer of that title has ever spoken, has ever been heard! Ye of spoiled, wasted faith, know this and shudder! Our propensity for impact is limited, entwined with the designs of our foes. Now we will act, as they have feared so long. Now we are acting! Do you not know that the planes are mirrors, reflecting up and down between the worlds? Mirrors waiting to be broken! Your souls alone hang in the balance, collected and stored against Nightfall. You too will be Unsent! You shall be the Messenger, your singing blade the message. Ye all shall stand with me before the Door against the tide! Do you not know that we are preparing for War?”
Stunned silence fell over the crowd like a spell, stymying even the enchanters, working through any and every shield. His words pierced flesh, entering the lightless waters within, the deepest areas of the mind, stirring the hidden currents, producing formless sensations, void-feelings that could only be perceived by their strength, their vast, incoherent Truth.
Of all the things I expected to happen next, Durgil stepping out of the crowd wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list – yet it was obviously just going to be one of those days.
The fierce-eyed dwarf bounded out into the clearing, unaffected by the holy lethargy that had settled on everyone else. There was a disturbing energy to his movements as he strode forth, an eagerness on his bearded face that was so keen as to almost dismay me. In the bright light of the sun his blackened armour was visible in all its detail to my eye. The once-noble designs upon the pauldrons were twisted, withered to nails of rust. The rings of mail under the plate portions had frayed, bits of metal wire poking out like dark bristles.
The melted runes, names of Kultemeren, broken…
“Hear the Rain! Hear him! I am Durgil, slayer of Mal Malas, the old wyrm whose black crown fell to Feychilde. Hear me, a Knight of Kultemeren with lips unsealed! I come before you without purpose, without the commandment of any god. No purpose but my own, and this man’s words!”
The dwarf brandished his marred blade, pointing it at the old priest without looking, its tip motionless and steady.
For the first time, the new Unsent One smiled.
“The Church has lost its way! Too long have we been silent.” Durgil swung the black sword about, directing it at me. “How can we speak Truth when we cannot speak? How can we see the Truth, when we fear to gaze too long at the shadow lest it envelop us? The Whisper’s Predicate – is something to speak about! This man… this young man, this arch-sorcerer and saviour of Mund… him I will follow. He has looked into the darkness with unwavering gaze! He is the last scion of Kultemeren’s will, driving us forward, pulling from our eyes the blindfold of complacency! I go now…”
He looked right at me, and I stared back at him, seeing only the gravity on his face, and his determination.
“I go now to repudiate my patriarchs, those men of wealth and power who have squatted too long upon their thrones. I see it all now. I see what I must do, what I must become. I renounce my rank and titles, I renounce my past. I am not that man! I am Durgil, and I will be heard!”
He spun about and stomped off into the crowd; a great roar of acceptance went with him, and not an inconsiderable number of the onlookers too. They’d clearly decided they’d had their fill of archmages and were spoiling for front-row seats during a religious dispute. How exactly that was all going to pan out, given only one of the interested parties was willing to actually speak, I had no notion.
“He will not be the last, Fracture. Behold!”
Orovon’s herald gestured with the wing-tipped staff once more, and those standing in its path parted, displaying the tall, gaunt woman striding towards me.
“Mortiforn salutes you, Master of Mund! How now this sweet sacrifice, this altar of souls, under your ministration!”
Oh, gods, I groaned inwardly.
Oh gods indeed.
* * *
“So,” I said smugly to Kani when she stepped up to the front of the crowd, “you were a bit wrong there, weren’t you? I thought all the Churches were going to be united against me.”
The cleric’s round, freckled face was a mystery. Her smile didn’t falter. Her gaze was inscrutable. I found myself whether any of the onlookers might’ve had a clue as to the source of her unremitting confidence. Not in the cowed crowds, oh no, but the ranks of attendant priestesses milling behind her? The arch-enchanters, the other eminent holy figures?
Phanar, the imposing guard-dog at her side, the thoughts brewing behind his own stern gaze no less enigmatic than his bride’s…
None of them were saying anything, and I sensed the crowd’s unease, a mirror for my own.
“Or… not?” I offered, looking from Kani to Phanar and back again.
“The demon-woman is no longer with him.”
When the last son of N’Lem finally broke the silence, his deep voice was filled with the familiar calmness, certitude: yet he spoke of matters that ought to have been beyond his ken.
While I furrowed my brow in confusion, Kani nodded.
“And he has cast aside the crown?” she murmured, her eyes still on me.
“Two of seven shades. Its likeness tends upon him still.”
“Still…”
“Hold on a sec,” I cut in before she could get any more cryptic. “How does he –” I nodded at Phanar “– know all this stuff? How do you know I dismissed the eolastyr, man? Are you a diviner now? Or did one of the gods select you too?”
“I do not believe so,” he replied. “I am… who I am. I can now sense the presence of other worlds. I do not know the origin of this gift. It has been months in the refining.”
“Dragonslayer!” someone nearby cried, in apparent appreciation of the tall outlander.
I probably looked at Phanar a bit sceptically. “But what’re you… becoming?”
“What I am meant to be. What I make of myself.” He shrugged, his light armour clinking. “I do not think the gods have taken a hand in it, nor spells, such as I recognise them. I revere Joran and Kaile and Ismethyl. I respect the arts of the archmages. But I belong to neither. I am outside the chains of fate, now.”
“It doesn’t worry you?” I looked between them. “What about Ana? She didn’t mention –”
“What concerns us, O benevolent Feychilde,” Kani raised an empty, open hand, “is this talk of Redgate.”
“We knew something was wrong.” Phanar’s voice was as deep and slow as before, but there was a halting quality to it now. The veneer of calmness was slipping. “We heard the rumours. Our man, in Tirremuir –”
Nightfell appeared at my side, interrupting even as she moved into place. “Derezo was sent here to kill you, or be killed by you. Or both.” The seeress shrugged. “It was only by the determination of one of Redgate’s former slaves and another masterless eldritch that your ‘man’… your vampire Derezo failed to reach his targets.”
Phanar grimaced. Kani’s smile finally faded.
“Redgate… changed Derezo?” Phanar said after a solid ten-second silence.
“It’s only apparent to me now – well, since we interrogated Dirk and Osantya.” The arch-diviner wrinkled her nose. “I was just waiting for the right time to tell you. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend, but I’m glad he ran himself into a permanent solution before he got to you. You didn’t need to see that. Shallowlie and Feychilde possess your pair of saviours amongst their retinues, if you’d question them yourselves.”
“Saviours?” Kani spat. “These spirits – I would very much like to see them called forth, actually.”
I caught the dangerous twang to her voice, and I was about to refuse her – if she thought she was torturing Osi with her divine fire, or even Dirk for that matter, she had another thing coming –
“Osantya,” Phanar repeated after Nightfell. “My sister has told me of this person. The wight, yes? Osantya hated Redgate.”
“That night was full of his tricks.” Kani spoke softly but she turned her head and glared at her husband all the same. “I remember what Ana said and I don’t care. If this really is him, despite all the precautions we took… you know him. You know what he’s like. You can’t possibly believe his pet would, what, swim the ocean without some ulterior –”
I raised my own hand. “She clung to the hull of the ship that bore Derezo to Mund. She endured days and days of immersion in the open ocean, just to foil Redgate’s plans. Don’t think she isn’t true, just because she’s undead. She’s bonded again, now. Whatever you did to Redgate – it worked, at least temporarily. Looks like a sorcerer loses their eldritches when they die, even if they’ve got something here to bring them back. And I know a thing or two about feigned submission. Trust me – Osantya is true. She can’t lie to us.”
Kani’s glare had been turned back upon me rather than Phanar, but as I concluded the harshness in her eyes started to melt, as though her goddess herself spoke in my favour, directly into the hidden halls of her mind.
“Call me a fool, but I do.” She raised her voice suddenly. “I do! I trust you, Feychilde, and name you Hells’-foe, Kultemeren’s Clutch, the Inverse Weapon whose unscabbarding shall heal the world! Wythyldwyn recognises you, and, as I am her Exalted, I can do no less.”
She swept her hammer from its holster on her belt, holding it out and upwards as she bent to one knee.
Her fellow priestesses imitated her, extending their maces and bowing their heads low before me. Of their whole assemblage only Phanar remained standing, his amusement only reaching his eyes.
“Ah, I don’t want people bowing,” I said hurriedly, moving closer and waving my hand for them to rise, even gesturing stupidly with my stump. “Please, I’m not, not like that –”
“It matters not what you want,” Kani said, oddly formal, rising to her feet once more. “You don’t get it, still. What you’ve done. What you’ll be, to these people. To the world. To the future.” I could see on her face that she still seemed to be struggling with it herself, contending with some urge to denounce me or storm off. “You’ve thrown off the crown. That alone gives you the right to wear it. And it’s more than a right. It’s in you now.”
I bowed my head as the acolytes stood up again. “So I’m Mother-Chaos’s representative here, is that it?”
“Maybe.” I glanced at her, and saw as her face twisted. “No… no. I trust you, Feychilde. If it’s possible for a man to be chosen by both Truth and Lie – the lightest light; the darkest darkness… Maybe it’s what Mund needs. Someone who knows the chaos, to break the controls.”
It won’t need me forever, I thought.
“Someone who’s passed through their darkness.” She smiled again. “Do stars shine against a white sky?”
I looked deep into her eyes.
And you think I’ve passed through my darkness?
I shivered, and said nothing. In the end, the most my silence could cost me was my soul.
And that I feared, for all this holy woman’s words to the contrary, was already forfeit.
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