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The Now, Before the Mirror at Xura
Isolde was now convinced that Brokk was dead. His breath was not passing his throat, instead gurgling out faintly from the cut that had opened up his windpipe. It was a slow and constant sound, being the closest his corpse could get to the death rattle. She was starting to think that she would be dead herself before this battle was done.
The poison burned. Her guts spilled out between her hands. A dagger was lodged deep within her shoulder, embedded into the bone. Desperate strength had come to her for a moment, so that she could throw off the disgusting beast which had tried to kill her. Now Ikit prowled about in the growing shadows of her vision -- and the hideous imitation of herself was back on its feet and approaching with murderous intent.
How did things go so wrong so quickly? Isolde asked herself as she sank to her knees, life fading from her. And where is Embla?
Perhaps not even Embla could have answered that. She was beyond all reason. The flames that licked at her clothes and blazed in her hair were nothing when compared to the inferno that had been lit in her soul. Inside her head, Sword too was screaming wordlessly, their mutual delirium peaking anew with every blow.
Her wounds healed as swiftly as they were inflicted, but the same was true of her opponent. It too had come readied and armed for war -- not mere battle, but war. The Risarvinnae had waged only a few wars until now, but all of these had been external, aimed at spreading their territory beyond their ancestral Greatwall Mountains.
Not since the Leashing of the Aslaug have we needed to face ourselves, Embla realized belatedly. We forgot to account for internal dissent. That will change when I return.
Her companions were lost now, evidently. There was no hope for them. With Brokk cut down as the opening move, their foes had eliminated the strongest asset available to them. Embla would make sure this insult was properly avenged. All she had to do was destroy this abomination, and then turn Sword onto the other mockeries.
It was such a pleasing thought that she barely noticed the blade slipping under her ribs, or her muscles being taken over by Sword, or the likelihood that her agonized expression matched that of her enemy when Sword entered its torso as well...
♢♢♢♢♢
Beyond time, Gennax
The fogs parted to reveal a Hole. Aidan felt his knees buckle at the sight. The souls of the dead could endure sights that a living creature would be destroyed by, but this was something beyond those limits. He was familiar with the notion of portals, had personally witnessed one in the lich`s lair at Dessingrove, and technically had passed through them courtesy of Malevoxa`s and King Baranwe`s teleportation circles and the mirror of the iconoclasts. This was not a portal. This was a Hole in reality.
When he saw the figure that stood on the other side of the Hole, Aidan gave up resisting and fell to the floor. Marchosias had reached it before him, dropping there on hearing the name that the Seneschal Nergal had spoken. Unlike with Nergal, there was no aura, but the little imp seemed even more terrified than before. That was reason enough to be awed and wary.
Aidan could not help but stare at the Hole and the Shape Beyond. He could feel it watching him even as it conversed with Nergal, and the weight of that awareness was crushing. It reminded him of how he had felt in that moment when he renewed his vow to Heshtail. A more intense sensation now, perhaps, but undoubtedly related. Then he remembered how he had felt in the fight on the Phlegethos, when the miracle had drawn out the holy light from within him. That too was related to this, he was sure of it.
Eventually, the Hole closed. Aidan was able to pick himself back up, and Marchosias cowered behind him, obviously traumatized by this ordeal. Seneschal Nergal ignored them, obviously in deep thought. Whatever had been gleaned from the exchange had clearly been of a supreme importance. Aidan did not dare interrupt this contemplation.
At last, Nergal spoke. "Return to Ylsmyr. Your parts in this performance near the end. If ever you reflect on this moment, appreciate without understanding the value of your manipulation. Go now and do not return."
Aidan could not decide if Nergal was pleased or disappointed with what had been learned. It was not for him to know -- just one more mystery of the wider universe. So he bowed courteously, and almost ushered Marchosias away. They descended the steps that had brought them here, chose a hallway at random to walk down, and almost immediately found themselves back in the glow of the River of Fire with Ylsmyr pacing to and fro.
The ungod did not recognize them at first. They were growing used to this, but it still unnerved them slightly. Then awareness returned to his eyes, and Ylsmyr smiled to see them. Aidan was struck by the smile. It showed teeth, and far too many of them, to be reassuring. Not for the first time, the obvious similarity between Ylsmyr`s appearance and that of Embla gave him pause for thought.
Gods responsible for the various peoples of the world typically exemplified the characteristics that typified those people. Tal-Allustiel was the paragon of artistry and magic, as appropriate for the Father of Elfkind. Khuldul Dwarf-Maker was a craftsman, an architect, a warrior, a lawgiver, a loyal friend and implacable enemy. Khuckduck was as enigmatic and multifaceted as his gnome creations, but revered among certain specialisms for his ingenuity and resourcefulness.
If a god was the most extreme expression of their people, then might not Ylsmyr reflect some of the most extreme aspects of Embla? That Ylsmyr was not actually a god did little to assuage the fear, for it was undeniable that there was a divine spark to him that responded to the belief of his people. That he was born of them, rather than the reverse, only reinforced Aidan`s concerns about a god-like entity with any part of Embla`s ideology.
As it turned out, that was perhaps not the thing to be worrying about at that precise moment.
♢♢♢♢♢
For Marchosias, nothing that occurred next came as a surprise to him. As Aidan recounted their meeting with Seneschal Nergal to Ylsmyr-watze, he was again involuntarily distracted by this, and so found himself again before the mirrored tower. For a moment after he realized where they were, he slumped slightly.
"Who and why?" was all he asked.
"You voluntarily and knowingly made a pact with a devil," came the answer. "You voluntarily and knowingly consorted with Nergal, a being composed of Ontological Evil, fashioned from a sliver of a murdered Hellgod. For these transgressions, Rhadamanthys will now excoriate you."
Aidan could not keep from grimacing as the form of the primordial iconoclast appeared in the mirror and dragged him through. Marchosias had to admire his resolve, for it was no easy task to go so quietly to your own torture knowing that such a thing awaited you. Certainly now that he himself was alone with Ylsmyr-watze, Marchosias feared what would come next.
"The malebranche Belphegor is part of it?" Marchosias asked.
Ylsmyr-watze shook his head. "Belphegor is part of it, but he is no malebranche. He has not been of that rank for millennia, but the shape is a useful one to adopt from time to time. He used to be a follower of the Outcast King. Believed dead, none looked for him among the ranks of the horned devils patrolling the Spheres of Malebolgia, and so he did as his former master had."
Marchosias shuddered. This was worse than he had thought, but he was not surprised by that. A lot of things lately had been worse than he had thought. With this new information, he could see how all but a fraction of the mess was linked together. There was one thing that puzzled him.
"Belphegor empowered himself more carefully than his former master," Ylsmyr-watze explained. "And because he had been part of a cross-planar secret society, he received help from a number of different sources until its dissolution, as well as coming to the attention of Samael. At that point, like yourself, he was bound to this fate. Now here we are."
"All creation opposes the Walker-in-Darkness, Marchosias. For so long as you live, do not forget that. A Shadow War is being waged. Conscripts such as yourself may even become aware of this on occasion. Even we imprisoned here in Gennax may exert some limited influence when the conditions are made just right. After all this time, Samael has grown quite skilled at ensuring the conditions are made just right regularly."
Marchosias understood. Now it all made sense. Samael behind everything. Samael, archtraitor, who had stolen power from Vornoth. Samael, scion of Grlarshh himself, who had led an army of angels to break the siege of Gennax at the moment of its apparent triumph. Through Samael, the tapestry of fate was being rewoven by the unseeing instruments of his schemes.
"So Belphegor sent me to Nurion with a customized contract," Marchosias surmised. "Naxartes, Aidan, all the rest, set against each other in such a way that potential problems could be dealt with before they became problems. Our actions manipulated to pave the way for some future resolution of the insurrection."
Ylsmyr-watze nodded. "And new plans devised to further this as unexpected events transpired. For instance, you and Aidan were not supposed to end up here. But as you did, that opened up another opportunity for exploitation. I have been helping you because in the near future I will be in contact with Samael and we will form a retroactive alliance. But only because you two died and unexpectedly ended up here. Bunga will love that when he hears what happened. When Aidan is returned, I will explain to him as well. We are nearly at the end."
♢♢♢♢♢
One week earlier, somewhere below Taungpyidar
Their pursuit reached its conclusion unsettlingly quickly. Though she had not expected any result, Malevoxa had cast a spell to locate Gareth, arguing he was likely too distant for the magic to be able to detect him. Midway through her sentence, awareness of his location lit up her mind, and she was forced to conclude the giant spider`s lair was far closer than she had expected.
The sensation indicating a downwards direction informed them that the spider had likely still travelled a relatively great distance in total, but just not in a straight line. Their progress would be necessarily slower, as they still had to transport Katarin without risking her escape, and they would be passing well beyond the limit of what the kobolds were willing to explore.
So for just under an hour, Malevoxa concentrated upon that awareness of Gareth`s location, and guided the group slowly through the now-natural tunnels, untouched by miner`s pick or shovel. The smell of old death grew, and the first signs of true arachnid territory grew along with it: vast abandoned cobwebs and moldering bones for the most part, among which were scattered the decayed husks of cast-off chitin.
Towards the end, living specimens of the giant cave spiders were encountered. None acted in an aggressive manner, merely shrinking back on their webs or into crevices, and not even Embla or Tybalt sought to provoke a fight. Turakina kept an additional torch ready to light in the event of anything going wrong, but nothing did, which somehow made the journey worse.
Then they heard more familiar noises from ahead, and paused to consider if they were going completely mad. After a few seconds, they had no choice but to accept that they were hearing Gareth talking clearly, calmly, and apparently in response to mostly-unheard queries from some other creature.
Making sure that Katarin was properly gagged and could not give them away by another crazed outburst, they crept a little closer. Now there was light in the tunnels, but not from their own torches. Readying themselves for anything, they prepared to turn the final corner and confront whatever had orchestrated the abduction of their friend. Now that they could hear exactly what Gareth was saying, they were astonished to hear it was apparently a recollection of his time in Kale City at a charitable ball held by the then-king Gaidan.
As baffled as she was to hear it retold now, this was part of his story that Malevoxa knew well, though she knew the truth of it.
♢♢♢♢♢
EIGHTH INTERLUDE
The event was already whispered to be the societal highlight of Gaidan`s reign. From across Kale, nobles of every caliber came as pilgrims to the capital, seeing opportunity. Never in living memory had such an assembly of personages occurred, and even the histories revealed only a few similar events since the founding of Kale.
That for a month now Gaidan had been acting a little strangely, doubtless due to the pressures of kingship coupled with the murder of his queen -- though few believed that was a problem, for the rumors regarding the king and the Comtessa Sybille du Rentes were as rife among the Kalais aristocracy as the green pox was among its whorehouses -- only encouraged speculation. Many wondered if the king was readying some grand proclamation on matters of succession, and of the legitimacy of various supporting or dissenting noble families.
Then there were other whisperings, in circles blacker than those of mere social elites. The signs were all there, it was said, the chance of success growing like the blood-hunger in their bellies and the ambition in their unbeating hearts. Encrypted missives reached them, confirming these dark hopes. A final decision from the royal court of appeals swayed the last of them.
Gaidan, so obviously now one of them, had decreed it was in the best interest of the Kalais that no cleric should be in attendance for his ball. Instead, they would be paid handsomely, straight from the treasury, to go among the people and lift from them their sicknesses and hurts. The woes of those who sold their bodies would, for a time at least, be soothed. They were Kalais too, and it was his responsibility to shield them from whatever harm he was able.
Certain members of the nobility protested, though only in private, that this was not a matter for the crown to finance. These were, almost uniformly, the same members that would benefit from healthier brothels. By comparison, the vampires took a longer view. They now saw it as an investment in eliminating a potential threat now to ensure a safer future for them all.
What mattered a few baubles now when measured against the wealth of the eternity to come? No matter, they argued, no matter at all. So they gathered themselves in Kale City also, ready for what could only be the counter-coup they had been orchestrating since the downfall of the Lord of Pride. Gaidan was theirs now, which meant that Kale itself would soon be theirs. They had no fear of interference from the so-called Lords of the West, currently thought to be mired in failure in supplanting the rightful rulers of the Twin Kingdoms.
Yes indeed, this event was one that all whispered would be the most important and influential in living -- and for some, undying- - Kalais memory. As it transpired, none could have seen exactly how far-reaching the consequences would be. From the very heights to the very depths of Kalais society would the reverberations of this be felt.
♢♢♢♢♢
Gareth used his disguise as a shield. Gaidan would not be intimidated by any of this, so Gareth was not. Hundreds of nobles from all over the country marched into the palace, but only those arriving from duskfall were really interesting. All the rest were alive, here early to stake a claim of one sort or another, to be visibly attendant -- but not these latecomers, four or more hours behind anybody else.
He welcomed them all with kingly detachment nonetheless, playing the part to perfection. As the evening became true night, he allowed Milon and Sybille to take center stage, representing the throne in matters of presentation and entertainment. There would be a great performance, it was announced, an orchestral triumph penned and conducted by the Maestra Felicia Urbanillo of Farland herself.
Many faces blanched involuntarily at the name. This was not a figure with which they wished to associate, but as she had royal patronage, they were forced to acquiesce. Then there were those who seemed interested, excited even, and each of those was one who had arrived after the sun had hidden behind the hills. The Maestra Urbanillo, formerly of the Court of Wrath? What more proof could be sought? There was none, of course.
Gareth had not shared all of his plan with everyone involved in it. So as the orchestra began to play, he steeled himself for the aftermath. Beneath their feet, in the oubliettes under the palace, the faint music served as signal. Under Milon`s direction, military engineers had dug channels at breakneck pace in preparation for this, and they now broke the final barricades, opening them up to the Dalewash.
Water siphoned from the great river now ran underneath the palace, directed precisely so that it would encircle the concert hall wherein Maestra Urbanillo conducted the distraction. All eyes and ears were upon either Gareth-as-Gaidan or the orchestra. None noticed the murmuring of prayers from the various priests that had been hidden in readiness for this.
When the first leaks sprung, there was mild consternation. When the water began flowing in at speed, there was fear. When impossible waves began to crash, currents flowing in all directions, whirlpools forming and reforming to block any escape, there was panic. And screams, so many screams, from inhuman throats now realizing their fate -- for only the dead needed fear running water so much.
The vampires went berserk, clawing and biting at anything that came within range, desperate to escape. In moments, the waters had turned red, and the dead and dying became mere flotsam to impede and obstruct. Gareth stood by Sybille, his epee sheathed in favor of the bow that had been hidden beneath the royal seat. When a vampire managed to gather its senses despite the searing agony of the running water, trying to crawl up a wall to some safety, Gareth would loose a blessed hawthorn arrow, transfixing the monster and causing it to fall back into the water.
Pandemonium had also erupted among the orchestra. Though the clerics controlled the water such that it had not overcome them, the vampire spawn hidden among the servants and aides used it to run freely amok. That had been something Gareth had not foreseen, and it was too late to try and plan a strategy now. All he could do was hope that the Maestra would be suitably insulted by the interruption of her performance to lash out at the nearest irritant.
His hope was swiftly validated. Not by chance had Felicia Urbanillo thrived within the monstrous occupation of Farland and had been patronized by the Hoths of the Lord of Wrath himself. Her outrage reached a thunderous crescendo. With each apoplectic note, bodies were flung aside into the walls or into the waters as if they were a child`s rag-dolls.
Truly, her reputation, her curse-name Malevoxa, was well-earned.
♢♢♢♢♢
As the last vampires died and the waters were allowed to drain, Gareth and Sybille took the chance to slip away from the slaughter-hall. Hastily, Gareth slipped out of his disguise and back into his old clothes. Sybille cast a critical eye over the corpse they intended to use for this part of the plan, but there was no more time to adjust it. They would have to hope the chaos of this nightmare situation would be enough to discourage any further investigation.
She returned to the drowned concert hall, unnoticed. As the survivors picked themselves back up, she started to wail, hunched over the body. To any who looked, it would appear as though King Gaidan had been killed at the very end of the fight, valiantly protecting the comtessa at the cost of his own life.
It was now Milon that made his appearance, taking charge effortlessly. He too was surprised to see 'Gaidan' dead, for Gareth had not taken him into his confidence for this. However, Milon was nothing if not disciplined, and he simply incorporated that deception into his performance.
The few nobles that had lived had no choice but to fall in line. The loss in life had been greater than anticipated, partly due to the vampire spawn, but also due to the sheer number of vampire nobles that had been hiding among the societal elite. They had been spreading their infection far and wide in preparation for their intended coup, and seeing the extent of it now made Milon all the more convinced of the justification for this.
Obviously there were new rumors. Gaidan officially dead in a catastrophe, alongside dozens of powerful men and women from all over the country, and Milon just happening to be there at that exact time, ready to fill the void? Nobody would act on these rumors. The death-toll was too great to risk adding oneself to it after the fact.
By the end of the month, Milon had been crowned King, asserting the ancient family name of Dukalle as the dynastic heritage of the position. The political structure of Kale was immediately torn down and built again from the ground up. His allies, among whom were counted the wise survivors of the disaster who immediately bent the knee to him, were appointed throughout the land to positions of great authority.
Among them was the Most Honorable Chevalier Guillaime Louis Carolus du Marn-Bael, who took the position of spymaster. Everyone knew that. It was never proclaimed publicly. But those who knew, knew. The man spent too much time at the left hand of King Milon Dukalle to be a mere loyalist. Unlike, for instance, that insufferably plebeian new Marquis of Rentes, one Gareth, of an almost defunct lineage.
♢♢♢♢♢
One week earlier, somewhere below Taungpyidar
Waiting until the perfect moment to strike, when the listener would theoretically be the most engrossed in the tale, took patience and discipline. Malevoxa was astonished to discover that all of the others were capable of matching hers at this moment, and almost as one they moved to begin the rescue in earnest.
In retrospect, having Tybalt in full plate mail attempting to initiate an ambush was unlikely to have worked at all. No longer attuned to the Astral Harmony, Malevoxa`s bardic gifts could no longer breach their usual restrictions, and her songs would no longer swaddle their movements in complete silence as they had been able to when empowered by that cursed instrument.
Gareth`s voice stopped at once, as if he was being choked, and the lights were put out, leaving the rescuers able to see what their own few torches illuminated. It was an unpleasant sight, for now there was merely the suggestion of the giant spiders along the walls. Gareth himself was just barely visible in the distant gloom, still tied up in webbing, but now also wrapped in a solid black chain of some kind that tapered to the point currently hovering around his throat.
Malevoxa sang a note, imbuing it with the requisite magic, and a quartet of pale glowing orbs burst into existence. Their light was not great, but it was just enough to see the truth. The great chain was in fact a thick tail. Tracing it to its origin, they could see the anthropoid torso to which it was attached, and the twisted semi-elven features of the face atop that tower of muscle. Two huge fangs, each the length of Malevoxa`s arm, gleamed like polished ivory from the distended jaws of the monster.
"Hakim Gareth, take heart!" Gerel called out. "We shall save you."
"No no, don`t bother," Gareth answered unexpectedly. "I feel completely safe here. Matter of fact, I feel better than I have in years."
Embla had outpaced the others in her charge, but now stopped entirely, so that Tybalt nearly ran straight into her. She looked more closely at Gareth, then threw back her head and howled in laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. One hand went to the side, blocking Tybalt again, and then she completely failed to point at what had brought this on, instead doubling up to hold her belly.
Carefully, Malevoxa approached, commanding her lights to move a little closer. In response, the monster leaned back a little, annoyed by the increased brightness, but it did not actually retreat and so was properly revealed to them. None could mistake the form of a great drasp, and the reason for Gareth`s serenity and Embla`s hilarity became apparent.
"I have seen many terrible things, Gareth," Malevoxa stated in a coldly unamused voice. "But this is the first of those horrors I wish to unsee."
Gareth grinned stupidly, and deliberately leaned his head back. The drasp embraced him more tightly, and its -- or rather, her -- bare breasts very effectively blocked out his hearing. As each was slightly bigger than his entire head, neither that nor his attitude was at all surprising.
♢♢♢♢♢
The drasp stiffened, cocking her head slightly as if listening to something. Then they could hear it too, and wondered if some kind of collective madness had taken hold. A faint, musical humming distorted somewhat by the tunnel`s acoustics. Then they saw a new light in the depths, and all eyes turned to the mouth of the tunnel.
Of all that could have appeared there, perhaps the last of them Embla had expected was Isolde. Yet there she was, wearing an expression of boredom, and apparently utterly unsurprised to see them all. However, she did raise an eyebrow when she caught sight of Gareth`s situation, and shook her head.
"Surlsla, why are you holding Gareth like that?" she asked, and the drasp looked away. "Did you send a pet out to grab him? That is not what I meant when I spoke about catching a man, and I know you know that. Besides, he is really not a healthy choice and I`m saying that as a woman of the world, you understand. You can do so much better. Especially considering this one seems to be enjoying himself a little too much there."
Embla thought that was less of a good point than Isolde was trying to make it out to be. In any long-term relationship, compatibility was an important quality to establish early on. From her perspective, the drasp had definitely lucked out with Gareth in one respect, but the lack of any meaningful communication between the pair soured Embla on the notion.
"Ballussia, are you still yourself?" demanded Malevoxa. "Can you demonstrate that you have not been charmed or dominated by this creature`s sorceries?"
Isolde snorted. "Surlsla? Charming? Wait until you meet Akustanza. I`ve met icicles with more warmth. But you say 'dominating' as well...now that`s one harder for me to defend. Surlsla here is one of his more specialized minions. Emotionally damaged as a result, but we`ve been working on that, haven`t we? Haven`t we? "
The drasp shifted her weight awkwardly, looking in every other direction save Isolde`s. Embla was reassured, even if nobody else was. It was entirely in keeping with her opinion of Isolde that the arratti could subdue the fiercest monster if only she put her mind to it. Not for the first time, she wished Isolde had been born to the Risarvinnae -- what a loss it had been to find her only now.
"So, before we all die of old age," Isolde said. "Can we get a move on? Akustanza sensed your arrival. Food and beds are waiting, and I am absolutely desperate for someone to talk to that is not wrapped up in their collective magic project. Brokk does his best, but he is one of the more important pieces of the puzzle, I gather."
She turned on her heel and began to march back, then paused. "Oh yes, Surlsla? Please put Gareth down now. I promise you can talk to him again, but we need to get him settled. And with all the, hmmm, interest, that he`s showing in you, possibly gelded."
♢♢♢♢♢
Third Sulian-Malorish Concordance of the Fifteenth Cycle, Observatory of K'naa
"How long?" asked Gerel in shock, certain she had not heard correctly.
"Six weeks," confirmed Isolde. "And honestly, it`s not as bad as you`d think. Actually for you, it might be. The three of us are all used to being underground. Sure, you have to get used to these twisted monsters and the heat can be really oppressive if you are too active -- I swear I`m putting on weight for the lack of exercise -- but it`s still leagues better than growing up under the Dark Occupation."
They were assembled around a great circular marbled slab, cut and polished by unseen hands to serve as a dining table of sorts. At Isolde`s request, the meals had been set out equally invisibly, so as to avoid loss of appetite. Akustanza, ever the gracious and inscrutable host, had obliged with nary a hint of offence.
Now the various guests found themselves in a generally uncomfortable position. Isolde, as the effective mediator between them and Akustanza, a creature they were instinctively terrified and horrified of, was meant to be an ally. Yet only Embla was utterly convinced that Isolde was not a pawn being used to manipulate them in turn to let down their guard.
Her certainty was not persuasive, for Isolde was entirely too comfortable in this foul setting. The misshapen creatures answered to her as readily, to all appearances, as they did to Akustanza. Where Brokk and Zammaz remained cloistered, struggling to complete some final rituals, Isolde strode unescorted through the enigmatic halls of this place. She made offhanded comments on the purpose and design of each chamber, suggestive of eldritch instruction.
"The Observatory of K'naa was intended to map out the design of the cosmos," she had said. "As astrologers study the skies, so too did its makers develop this place to study the planes and the bindings linking them together. Thus shall we do what we set out to, and stretch out our hand to make contact with the lost."
Then there was the wholly unnerving way she seemed to smile, her eyes unfocusing for a brief moment, at random moments. It was as if she were in conversation with another, still trying to follow her present discussion. Embla recognized it as how she herself had been described back in the Summervale when Sword was being especially talkative, and thought nothing of it. Nobody else was reassured.
Worst of all was the deference the few truly intelligent beasts showed to her, above and beyond mere obedience. By her command the drasp, Surlsla, had made a sibilant apology to Gareth for his abduction, for all that he gallantly insisted it had been no trouble at all. A pair of dust mephits were called forth to wait specially upon Malevoxa and Gareth, apparently having experience with human nobility from some prior summoning.
When the situation with Katarin was explained, Isolde had but to snap her fingers and a colossal gargoyle render appeared to attend, unnaturally quiescent and subservient for a beast infamous for its bloodlust. Katarin was placed in isolation under watch of the literally statuesque beast that Isolde disarmingly referred to as Peter.
Drawing upon her own magic, Malevoxa was able to confirm that Isolde was under no spell that she could detect. This helped to mollify Gareth and Tybalt`s concerns, and through Tybalt both Gerel and Turakina were persuaded to remain cautious but optimistic. For now, that would have to do.
♢♢♢♢♢
The next three days passed slowly. Brokk and Zammaz emerged only for sporadic meals, and to collapse into exhausted sleep. Their peer, a warlock named Naxartes, showed himself even less frequently and spoke almost not at all. He acted with unnatural courtesy towards Embla, as if trying to hide his distaste, but beyond that did his utmost to avoid any interaction.
Mercifully, Akustanza had only appeared the once, on their arrival to its domain, and thereafter allowed them all to remain free of its presence. The drasp oscillated between the upper regions with its arachnid pets and the common grounds, apparently still interested in Gareth, but Isolde and the increasing hostile glares by Turakina kept the two apart.
Slowly but surely, the story came out as to what exactly Brokk was after and why he had brought them here. When Aidan had died, his soul had not travelled to its correct afterlife. Attempts to contact him had all failed, and with no body left behind, there was almost no way to resurrect him. Simply put, the magic required for such a feat was the domain of the most powerful and devout of priests, and there were no such priests yet living. Almost no priests, that is.
Akustanza was the key. Through devotion to Dekk, who accepted all into his service, it had the capacity to cast the spell needed to raise the dead whose body was lost. Through its heritage, it had access to the Mirror at Xura, enabling Brokk and Zammaz to pierce the planar veil and learn what had befallen Aidan -- and if he wished to return to life in the first place.
But there was, as Brokk unhelpfully put it, interference. Wherever Aidan`s soul was, it was as if a great shield wall had been erected to imprison him. No divination or prayer had yet breached the barrier, which had suggested something to Brokk he did not feel comfortable sharing. He would admit only if his suspicion was accurate, there was absolutely nothing to be done -- and Isolde had worn that strange smile again on hearing that.
"So why do you need any of us?" Gareth had asked. "Magic is not exactly what most of us do, at least outside of the bedroom where I`m concerned."
Brokk had hesitated, shamefaced. "We intended to try reaching beyond our mortal plane. There is a good chance that something will try to reach back from beyond into ours. Our magic will be, effectively, exhausted for a time. We will be chained to the ritual until its climax. Before then, we will need raw muscle and martial expertise as a safeguard against any threat."
"Any threat?" Gareth repeated incredulously. "You know I heard what happened at Dragonspur City when you were there? That wasn`t even you trying to mess with the fabric of reality, either. What kind of threat, exactly, do you think is likely to show up when you are actively cutting holes in the universe?"
"Demons would be the best of threats if one should appear," Brokk said, but he would say no more, no matter how much Gareth pressed him to do so.
♢♢♢♢♢
Beyond time, Gennax
For the third time, Aidan put himself back together, slowly recovering from his torture. When he was ready, he sat down by Ylsmyr to listen closely, for the ungod promised certain answers that Aidan had not earlier understood. Marchosias too wanted to know more, if only to increase the chances of his own self-preservation in the future, but also because of intense curiosity.
"A question in four parts you asked of me when first we met," Ylsmyr said. "Do you remember? Now at last you are ready to understand. 'What fires' you said, and I said 'the Phlegethos'. That is but one of the Five Rivers, the great metaphysical currents flowing between every plane in their infinite cycle, and one of the chains binding the universe together."
"Even here, in Gennax, behind impenetrable barriers fashioned by multiple deities working in concert, the River of Fire flows with impunity, uncaring for their schemes or any others`. Your death by the Serpent of Twilight was a disaster, so the Phlegethos rose to carry your soul to your rightful afterlife -- and Marchosias, to send your discorporated essence back to Barathus. So the next part: 'why Carcus'? you asked me."
Ylsmyr looked unsure for a moment. "Strange. It was strange. To feel needed. I cannot feel the needs of the Risarvinnae. But I felt yours. You prayed to me, unknowing. Strange. I was able to answer. Not immediately. But I felt the miracle you requested linking us. I drew you here, out of the River of Fire, before you reached your destinations, through that link. The how of this, comes from answering 'what gamble', as you asked."
He stretched out a hand, opening it palm up, to reveal an innocuous-seeming pair of dice that Aidan recognized at once. How often had he confiscated those from Isolde? How often had she stolen them back? How had she come into their possession to begin with? Only now did he see that these were irrelevant, and the true query made itself known: were they truly what she had always claimed them to be?
"These are Bucca`s Dice," Ylsmyr confirmed. "Just a prank by a god on another. Left upon Nurion for no reason other than it was possible. You stood with the Marquis Gareth du Rentes, in need of help, and rolled them upon your palm. In desperation, you invoked the remnant power of a god by means of a gamble, Aidan, to help you, whilst calling to any deity that would listen."
Aidan remembered. The feel of the dice in his hand. The apparent lack of any response from the divine. The fact that he rolled double-ones, a result colloquially nicknamed snake-eyes. A sudden chill, nothing to do with Carcus, now crept up his spine. He knew what Ylsmyr would say next, and feared to hear it.
"Salystra heard you. Her Serpent killed you. I heard you. I plucked you from the River. Bucca is a chaotic god, but he is still a servant to and creation of Bunga Proudfoot, whose power helped to build the barriers around Gennax. I am a glorified phylactery for Grlarshh. Again, whose power helped build the barriers around Gennax. So now we come to it. The last part. 'Who are you', and why that matters."
Ylsmyr sighed. This would be the hardest part of all.
♢♢♢♢♢
"I am Ylsmyr. I am impossible. A part of me was mortal. A part of me is Grlarshh. A part of me is generations upon generations of belief. Belief is power. You have felt this power, in making and renewing your oaths as a paladin. The Risarvinnae believe in me. That they believe falsely is irrelevant. Their belief flows to the divine fragment of me that is Grlarshh, but not to Grlarshh himself. So through that one part of me, the whole becomes bolstered in his stead."
How much should he tell them of what he had foreseen? How much should he tell them of what he had not foreseen? Could they understand that he knew these things too, but not all the time? That he was haunted by the ghosts of his worshippers, unable to manifest properly, not even so much as illusions of form within the Carcusite fog? Perhaps that would be too much for them.
"That is impossible. I am impossible. So I may perform some small impossibilities. Changing your destinies. Looking at existence from outside of time. The sort of magic even a mortal might accomplish with some dedication, merely on a grander scale. And so I know enough of what will happen next to be concerned."
Ylsmyr looked now to the vast mirrored tower. The surface was cracked, but not the surface, and not cracked. It was warped, but truer than ever, and though it shone brightly it had dulled still further. All he had to do... impossible though it was... simple and effortless... a loophole in the cosmic order... a pinprick through which to pour an ocean.
And it was done.
Aidan screamed, his shape splintering into fractal madness. Wisps of him began to be drawn to the mirror, and therein multiplying still further to some value of infinity. Marchosias moved to help, though he did not know how, and found himself paralyzed. Ylsmyr continued, remorseless, his voice flat.
"A future was seen, prophecies made, but parts were left unrevealed. For these hopes to come true, I must risk the integrity of Gennax. Nauthjeya, she shall be named. Carry that name with you, Aidan of Zel. And one other thing..."
Ylsmyr whispered this to Aidan before he was carried fully into the mirror. When the last part of the tormented soul was inside, it simply vanished. Ylsmyr nodded in satisfaction, but looking utterly exhausted, and released Marchosias from his paralysis. The imp stared about him in a daze, confused and horrified in equal measure, wondering what in the Hells and in the Heavens alike had just happened.
♢♢♢♢♢
Third Sulian-Malorish Concordance of the Fifteenth Cycle, Before the Mirror at Xura
Gareth had protested, ranting incomprehensibly about 'splitting the party', but naturally this had been ignored. The three outer plinths were in adjacent chambers, requiring individual guards to be on duty in case of anything going wrong. Akustanza had offered, knowing it would be turned down, to simply call upon its slaves for this, then had unilaterally dismissed them all, forcing the problem to be resolved immediately.
So now Gerel and Turakina waited by Zammaz, Gareth and Tybalt stood watch over Naxartes, and Malevoxa -- citing her formidable will and her bardic magic as justifications -- took solitary responsibility for protecting Akustanza. The three lay down upon the plinths, channeling the energies needed for the ritual. Brokk, acting as the fulcrum upon which these energies would be turned, had to be present at the Mirror at Xura itself. Naturally, Embla and Isolde would serve as his shield.
Everything went wrong almost immediately. As Brokk and his friends crossed the threshold to stand before the Mirror at Xura, what should have been a pane of unreflective glass erupted into vibrant and impossible color. Brokk almost began his end of the incantations, fully trusting the others to protect him, but changed his tack the instant he saw the colors dying away to reveal reflections in the Mirror at Xura. Reflections that did not match their reality.
Embla shrieked and leaped forward, her sword in hand, slashing furiously. The tip of the blade cut into Brokk`s reflection, opening its throat. It raised a hand, forcing out a counterspell that just barely deflected Brokk`s own magic. As this reflection collapsed, thrashing futilely at the hideous wound, Embla`s reflection retaliated, carving a chunk out of her exposed side.
Intent on exploiting the opportunity, a shape resembling that of a gigantic rat hurtled forward from the Mirror at Xura, blades at the ready. Isolde lunged to intercept it, driving the mockery of the Gloryshadow back. She had fought him before and knew his tricks, and this time she would not fail to secure a kill. There could be no surrender, no retreat.
Then the Mirror at Xura shattered. Perfectly ordinary glass, no longer enchanted with some of the most potent magics of the ancient world, fell to the ground. Brokk felt the breaking as if it was his own heart, but there was no time to mourn the failure of his hope just yet.
Shouts came from without, and of all people, Zammaz was the first to reach them. At once, he readied a spell, as did Brokk -- but astonishingly, the fallen mirror image of Brokk was not yet defeated. From where it lay, it raised a hand and gurgled foul things, drawing upon forbidden powers that could easily destroy them all.
Fire and pain burst around them as dwarven and gnomish magic strived for supremacy, and in the torrent of molten glass and earth, Embla and her opponent were carried away from view.
♢♢♢♢♢
Isolde was convinced she was about to be attacked from some unseen position, and she was absolutely right. Overhead, a cloaked shadow crouched, awaiting for the perfect moment to drop down and strike. However, Isolde was also convinced that this was exactly what the last member of this bizarre battle was awaiting, and here too was absolutely right. The pained hiss from above her head told her so.
Seconds later, a small cloaked shadow dropped in a ball of agony, though it managed to recover itself just enough to land with some small grace. Right behind it was the true Ikit Gloryshadow, loyal servant of the elvenking Baranwe the Tall, dispatched in secret to aid them in this quest. Two Isoldes, two Ikits, and only one acceptable option.
She was not distracted. She could not afford to be distracted. But she could pretend to be, and the false Ikit took the bait. It lunged, twisting in its midair leap to avoid the counterstrike of one who was trying to regain their battle focus at the last moment. As Isolde had not lost it to begin with, she was able to plant her dagger firmly in the false Ikit`s throat. With a flick of her wrist, she opened up the artery, and let the spray hit her directly. There was a debt to repay, and she chose a special dagger for the task.
Isolde took a deep breath, bracing herself, knowing that this would hurt, and threw herself back as if Embla had thrown her. In so doing, she passed directly between the true Ikit and the false Isolde that had attempted to ambush her. Ikit promptly vanished into a burst of undoubtedly magical fog, taking the chance to cover his tracks in his own unique ways. Isolde lay still, acting the part of the corpse, waiting for her own chance to strike her opposite.
She felt herself being turned over, and spat blood and hate into her own face. In the moment of disgust and confusion that granted her, Isolde drove the poisoned dagger, plucked from the false Ikit`s body, straight into the exposed belly of her mirror self. It shrieked, now fighting a poison from two different wounds -- but each delivered by the blade of an Ikit.
Isolde rolled away, allowing for this kill to be properly claimed. From his own hidden perch, Ikit fell upon the creature, plunging two more daggers into its shoulders, and slashing at its throat with the steel-razored tip of his tail. The false Isolde stopped screaming. It stopped trying to hold its guts in. After a few more seconds, it stopped living.
"I don`t know if you`ll agree with me," Isolde said. "I admit it`s a strange thing to bond over. But, ultimately, I`m glad we got the chance to kill each other."
Ikit disentangled his weapons from the body, still twitching as the poisons did their horrid work, and chittered a laugh. It was indeed a strange thing to bond over, but then again, these were not merely strange times, they were also lived in by strange people such as they. And it was at this moment of triumph that Embla stumbled back into view, bloodied, burnt, and translucent.
As she moved, after-images trailed behind her. Sounds distorted beyond any recognition crashed like waves upon a storm-battered shore, at once echoing and preceding her lips moving. The sword in her hands was entirely solid, but it was flickering between shapes, and even shifting the way it was angled in her grip -- but with no movement in-between states, as if it was one picture being replaced by a variation each time.
She paused for a second to open her mouth fully, chin nearly resting upon her chest. Embla let out a scream such as no creature ought to be able to. It was a sound of torment, coming to them from beyond. Her eyes were devoid of any recognition of her surroundings, and even when they passed over Isolde, they remained empty. Lightless. Dead.
♢♢♢♢♢
Akustanza was unmoving upon its plinth, ripples of magic disrupting the stability of the air and the dust in the chamber. Despite all the chaos just a wall away, it had not moved. A semi-liquid, semi-gaseous effulgence slithered from it along the rune-marked grooves into the cave holding the Mirror at Xura. It was not magical in nature, as that manifest power had been drawn from the gnome and from himself. It was something other, something that only a creature of immense psychic ability could generate.
The specifics were irrelevant. The ritual had failed. Naxartes had not even contributed the least fragment of his power before he felt the unifying bonds fall apart. Neither dwarf nor gnome had continued with their roles -- doubtless a scheme concocted by the former, intent on draining him, to render him vulnerable to more of its petty attempts to humiliate him. No, Naxartes had not given so much as an iota of magical energy, though some had been drawn from him.
It had not reached the Mirror at Xura. It had pooled, a glimmer of color indescribable, forming a sphere before his eyes. From within, an awareness glared at the warlock. He had could sense the truth behind that awareness, for it had been bonded to him many years ago. Through the pact made with that elder power, Naxartes had come to understand the glorious majesty of his own abilities.
Now his patron, Belphegor, revealed to him by his unravelling of mystic esoterica, spoke to him. There was an intimacy to this communication that had been absent from most of their previous interactions. He deduced the reason for this even as his patron whispered the secret, as if he had needed such a revelation at this time! One day, Naxartes promised himself, Belphegor too would be humbled before him. But for now, concealing his foresight behind cunning, the warlock just listened, acting the part of humble beneficiary.
The squirming insects, those insignificant wretches who had so brazenly presumed to believe one such as he needed protecting, clustered around in confusion, uncertain of what they had to do now. The gnome had dismissed his guards, and Naxartes did the same. The gnome had run to the Mirror at Xura, and Naxartes did not run anywhere.
He merely stood above Akustanza, looking down at the abomination, heedless of the puling irrelevancies at his back mindlessly squabbling over what they perceived as more important. Akustanza had its eyes open, but Naxartes shook off the impression that it was seeing him. He was no stumbling initiate to be deterred by such a thought. Not that he would be so foolish as to be unwary around a creature such as Akustanza, of course.
Around his neck, the Twelve Moons Periapt resonated in answer to the alien harmonics of its psychic energies. With infinite care, Naxartes attuned its rings to those energies, hooks of his own magic seizing and lashing them to the enchantment. One minute passed, two, three, and it was done.
Naxartes stepped back, completely satisfied with his triumph. He could feel the Twelve Moons Periapt awakening fully, and in his mind`s eye witnessed flashes of those powers to which it was related. One image, of an oversized ruby carved into the shape of a skull, lasted just a fraction longer than rest. With a scornful laugh, he touched a finger to one of the inner rings, invoking the connection. Space opened up, folded about him, drew him near, carried him far.
He agreed with Belphegor`s suggestions on this, if nothing else: devising a suitable downfall for his enemies would be vastly more satisfying if delayed a while yet. The dwarf, the halfling, that muscle-bloated ogress. They would not likely survive this catastrophic failure of their latest plot against him anyway.
♢♢♢♢♢
It took nearly an hour before everything was settled. With the warlock disappeared, the mirror projections slain, and the Mirror at Xura itself destroyed, the disturbing condition of Embla was all that remained unresolved. Here, a particularly worrying discovery was made. The opposites of Brokk, Isolde, and Ikit were all found dead -- and promptly incinerated, the true Brokk making the interesting discovery that his opposite had not been carrying the primordial tablet -- but there was no body in Embla`s case.
As a sorcerer, Sag Zammaz had more immediate access to his magical repertoire than did Brokk, who was almost entirely limited to a predefined spell selection prepared earlier in the day. So it was Zammaz who poured the majority of his remaining energy into trying to discern just what had happened, or stabilize whatever instability had gripped Embla.
Slowly, she lost her translucence, becoming solid again. Still she moaned, shook, garbled words in unknown tongues in the direction of her sword, which jittered and shivered with a mind of its own. Though he claimed otherwise as the unasked questions were looked his way, Zammaz did not believe it was his efforts doing this, but rather a natural recovery -- if there could be such a thing in this instance.
Embla was almost back to normal when Isolde was noticed to have vanished also. The rising fear was tangible, and it seemed to do more to restore Embla than any incantation or ritual Zammaz had attempted. Stumbling to her feet, she growled a wordless threat, eyes bulging and wild, but finally with a sense of a person behind them again.
Then a joyful shout in Isolde`s voice reached them, coming from the adjacent chamber in which Akustanza had been left in its unmoving state. As one they moved to see what had happened and as one they stopped in their tracks, shocked beyond the capacity for words. Emerging from the connecting tunnel, an ecstatic Isolde leading him by the hand, was a tall and pale half-elf with a very confused expression, a massive warhammer, and offensively red hair.
Aidan of Zel, paladin of Heshtail, lived again. Behind him came Akustanza, as unreadable as ever, though obviously drained by its efforts. They clustered around the resurrected man, amazed and astonished, and even those such as Gerel and Turakina who had never met him were entirely distracted by sharing in the joy that Brokk now showed. Embla too came crashing into herself, roaring delightedly, and seizing Aidan in a crushing hug that came close to sending him back to death.
With their attentions so diverted, Isolde pulled the exhausted Zammaz clear of the crush. She did not pretend it was for his benefit. One hand had clamped around his windpipe, keeping him from calling for help, and the other had pinched his wrists together to make casting any spell vastly more difficult. As the smallest two in the cave, such things could be hidden easily enough in the swell of emotion.
What could not be hidden was the sound of Zammaz`s skull being crushed under Akustanza`s tentacles, his brain ripped away to be devoured, and the gibbering cacophony of the horrors that now swarmed into view around their master.
"One minute and I can explain," Isolde shouted over the madness. "One minute and then we can fight if need be!"
♢♢♢♢♢
"Nobody here knows the secrets of the mind better than Akustanza," Isolde spoke hurriedly, as the shock of her betrayal and Zammaz`s murder wore off. "And there is a very sick tiefling with a disease of the mind nearby, isn`t there? Katarin, sister of Tybalt. Who better to help the healing than one such as Akustanza?"
"And more: when the only payment is a gnome who tried to have me killed by delayed action, we would have to be crazy to refuse such an opportunity, yes? And nobody here is crazy. Nobody here is so insane as to give up the best chance to help an abused child in order to try avenging a single treacherous gnome."
It was Aidan who spoke first, hesitantly, as if relearning how to work his muscles. "I know what it is to bargain with Evil knowingly. I cannot justly condemn you for doing so. Isolde, I warn you, and no more. The Hells do not care for your reasons why. Only in life can you truly repent. I owe you my life returned, Thought-Drinker..."
Akustanza made a gesture that could have meant anything. Aidan understood it nonetheless.
"...so in repayment, I offer an end to all violence between us here. No more. It must end. Embla, Gareth, Tybalt, Brokk, all your allies and friends that you brought here to save me. Enough. It is over. I have seen pain enough for ten thousand lifetimes of the world. Enough, I say."
His speech was halting, slurred, erratic. Nevertheless, it carried with it an absolute certainty of all he said. There was no argument to made against such certainty. And though they hated how it came to be, how manipulated they had been by Isolde, the arrangement she had negotiated with Akustanza was very appealing. If Katarin could be healed, there was hope for others among the Unloved Children suffering similarly, and for yet more beyond them.
Slowly, grudgingly, weapons were stowed and tempers cooled. Only Gareth had something else to say. For one of the few times in his life, he was absolutely serious, and wanted to make sure he was not mistaken as anything other than that.
He walked through the twisted monstrosities of Akustanza, brushing them aside as readily as any of the horrors that served to guard Zaphkiel in his extradimensional prison. Then he knelt down in front of Isolde, in Zammaz`s blood still spreading from his emptied skull, and took her firmly by the shoulders to stare into her eyes. She understood his intent, and listened carefully.
"I know what it is to betray," he said, a lump trying to form in his throat. "I know what it is like to plan a murder. Know this, Isolde: such a thing can destroy you. However Zammaz wronged you, to fall into this trap is to have made it for yourself. Once, perhaps, but thereafter you must be better. I know, Isolde, I know."
"I killed my comtessa. My beautiful, wonderful Sybille. I was the one who did it. I was the one who murdered her. I looked into her eyes and chose her death. Not for vengeance, not by some error or misjudgment, not as acceptable collateral damage in ridding the world of evil. I had her life in my hands and in cold blood I knowingly ended it."
♢♢♢♢♢
FINAL INTERLUDE
Sybille was marvelously cool next to him, her skin like alabaster in the moonlight. Even after all that had happened the night before, after all the death and the horror, Gareth could not help but adore her. Perhaps it was because of those things that he needed her on this final night, and she responded to him with characteristic relentless vigor.
They complimented each other magnificently. Whenever he had begun to doubt, she had taken him by the shoulders, turning his head to hers so that he could not look away. He had felt himself melt in her eyes, pierced by their intensity, built back up to be stronger and surer than ever he had been before then. No woman had ever made him feel this way.
Gareth allowed that this could not last. Now that Milon was king of Kale, he would have to instill a certain discipline to reassure the populace. Propriety would become treasured in the echelons of the Kalais elite once more, and so Gareth`s social worth would necessarily plummet. Sybille, as sister to the king, could not remain with him, nor he with her. Yet it would be untrue to say that the ending to this marvelous affair was one he looked forward to.
He could feel her eyes on his back, as hungry for him as ever. It was almost gratifying. Gareth did not let himself be distracted. Between Sybille and Maestra Urbanillo, he had been tutored well in the tricks he needed now. For all the danger he was in, Gareth gave no outward sign. It was as if he too was a vampire, practically beyond harm, beyond even detection barring a small number of specific tells for the most adroit to discern.
He realized that Milon would change other things in the palace too, beyond mere protocols and political pufferies. He had to act before then, before any adaptation to these changes could be made. Already the truth had very nearly slipped past him, and Gareth knew no other would be so well-placed as he to deal with it in the future.
His hand dropped from the bed as he turned to meet Sybille`s eyes. She smiled at him, licking her lips. He smiled back, though already his fingers had closed the hallowed sliver of hawthorn he had obtained from a priestess of Bestra. This was not intended to be fashioned into an arrow, though it was to be used for a similar purpose. Gareth tensed, lifted himself up, as preparing to take her into his arms once again. She fell for the ruse and reached out to hold him.
At the last moment, he forced his arm forward with all his strength. The blessed stake clipped off a rib, not quite piercing her heart. Sybille gasped in pain, then in understanding, then in a far greater agony on seeing how Gareth now looked at her.
♢♢♢♢♢
"You taught me a little too well," Gareth said somberly. "You gave away too much, Sybille. How to move like a vampire hiding its grace. How to flinch at the rustling of a curtain in just the right way, and keep all reflective surfaces on the other side of whatever living person you were with. How to perfume yourself to cover your scent, or make it seem as though you were doing so, that none might suspect you do not sweat."
Sybille could barely move, but her eyes latched onto his. He stared right back, unblinking, and unaffected by the attempt at hypnosis. Too late, she realized what had happened over the last few months together. She had never dominated his will entirely, seeking to maintain a degree of his attractive independence, and as a result she had acclimated his psyche. Gareth, through his long exposure to vampiric influence, was effectively immune to their hypnotic commands.
His face was the picture of misery. Slowly, he reached over and pushed back her upper lip. In the strained paralysis of being staked, Sybille`s mortal pretenses had fallen away. The infamous pair of vampiric incisors were clear to see. Her chest no longer rose and fell, for there was no need to seem as though she was breathing.
"Once I got suspicious, I had to put everything else together," Gareth explained, almost more to himself than to her.
The hints were many and varied. It had been Sybille who had spoken first of the vampire plot to subjugate Kale. She had proven herself terrifyingly strong, swift, keen of senses. Whenever his fears rose, she always looked into his eyes to calm him -- and more importantly, he had always been irrationally soothed by this.
Then had come the murder of Gaidan by her husband. Sybille had not sounded surprised to see him as a vampire. She had not been so much as bruised by his vampiric strength when he seized her in his rage, and instead had remained calm, ripping open the curtains to let the sun shine in. Both of their clothing had caught fire -- but she had rolled away before the rest of her did as well, so that it seemed as though it was his immolation which had caused her condition.
She was inexhaustible. She was cool, almost cold, all the time. It was no cosmetic which made her so pale. The night invigorated her whilst the day made her sluggish by comparison. Never had she left the palace, or sat by a window, whilst the sun was out. The palace animals, be they guard-dogs or semi-feral mousers or war-trained stallions, were strangely subdued around her even if elsewise they were a handful.
Outside, somewhere in the city, a church bell tolled for the midnight mass. Probably in honor of Bel, for the Lord Rogue had a sizeable following among those who attributed the success of the Lords of the West to his cunning. Gareth could not remember right now. He had known only that that celebration was due tonight, and the bell would serve as a sufficient summons.
♢♢♢♢♢
King Milon`s sword was unsheathed almost before he had finishing stepping through the door. His murderous charge was only prevented by Gareth holding up Sybille`s arm and trying to cut into it with an ordinary knife, resulting in the utensil simply snapping and leaving no mark. Not even in his rage could Milon ignore what that meant.
"Now what?" he snarled. "Am I to ignore that she is still my sister?"
Gareth nodded. "I hate it too. But look at the facts, your majesty, beyond the obvious. Sybille had every opportunity to change me into a vampire also. She did not. She spoke to me of the plot before Gaidan died. She sent out letters luring every one of her fellow undead here for us to kill."
"And do not forget. She acted as though I-as-Gaidan died last night, though our affair was nearly an open secret, clearing the way for you to take the throne. No, king, I do not believe we have the luxury to overlook this."
Milon agreed in his head, but not in his heart. He knew what Gareth was saying. He knew what the facts suggested. Sybille had had no intention of ruling Kale as part of a faction. Comtessa du Rentes was not an especially powerful title to bring with you into the new order. So she took all the necessary measures to eliminate any competition.
Seducing Gareth had been easy. It had served to bring her outraged husband into the open, and then to send him fleeing into the wilderness -- but only after she had made it seem as though her affair was with the king. Thus, the royal family was murdered, and she had control of the man forced into acting the part. 'Forced into' was the important fact here, for it ensured that Sybille had control of one who would want to eliminate the vampires, rather than join them.
Gareth and Milon had done exactly that. Sybille would face no competition from the vampire nobles with more influence or landed wealth than she. Of course what came after that needed to be taken into account. A normal king would need to be visible during the day, preventing her from biting Gareth, and allowing Milon to take the throne made her the heir-apparent.
Milon would never suspect his sister of evil. She would be totally unobserved, free to claim Kale from within. The Wintervale would doubtless reward her. Certainly the position of a Lord of Sin was available. It had just so happened that Gareth had out-thought her, out-planned her. Sybille was merely ambitious, as any true noble was, even Milon himself to some degree. Gareth was a survivor.
"I had begun to think that you loved her," Milon said at last.
Gareth looked down at Sybille, her eyes asking that same question of him. He reached under the bed and brought out a silver sickle, raising it over her throat.
"No," he lied, bringing the sickle down.
♢♢♢♢♢
The Now, Brightshade Rubicon
Isolde smiled coldly. "Your crimes helped save Kale. Mine will save Katrina. I consider that a fair trade, fairer than most. I am a gutter runner from Occupied Zel, of a people the Dark Folk very nearly wiped from the face of the world. We are owed, me and mine, a great moral debt. One or two murders is unfortunate but to be expected."
Again Aidan spoke, his strength returning: "So you say now. I have much to say. Maybe after, you will see things differently. But... Embla. Where is Embla? There. I have a message for you. It is from your husband."
Everyone, with the exception of Akustanza and its servants, stared in bewilderment. Brokk and Isolde most of all, for the extreme nature of Embla`s belief in this matter was known to them, but even Gareth and Malevoxa looked somewhat askance at Aidan for the announcement. But Embla looked truly herself in that moment, as if whatever afflicted her had never been. Joy, a savage and fanatical joy, filled her eyes.
"Ylsmyr says, 'Helga Skuldswestra shall remake you'," Aidan repeated the message. "And then he said: 'Passion is stronger than law'."
Embla nodded. These words had very little meaning to her as yet, though she knew the name of Helga Skuldswestra. One of the more influential Aslaug since the death of ancient Urdr, from a family with roots in the very heart of the Risarvinnae lands. Though she felt ripped apart, barely clear on anything that was happening except the glorious resurrection of her friend, there was enough understanding to know what must be done.
It soon became clear to the others as well. It was, at long last, time for Embla Aslaug to leave the realms of Farland, returning to storied Eruna with tales of all she had witnessed. Perhaps there, in her home and among her people, whatever curse was laid upon her now might be healed. It meant an end to the great journey she had undertaken years earlier, and the start of the long and dangerous trek back.
Naturally, Brokk was having none of it: "We are soul-bound, Embla. Since Mavarra, since Elder Daven, since Fisherman`s Solace" -- Here, he rubbed the scars of her teeth upon his ear, a brutally effective method of shocking him almost back from death. " -- and more besides. My magic will take you as close as I am able, but then we three shall escort you the rest of the way. You owe us that much, to see your homeland, after all of our own that you have witnessed..."
So it was decided. Thanks to Isolde and Akustanza`s murderous plot, Katarin would be the first of the Unloved Children to have the incestuous compulsions forced upon them by their cambion mother healed. Once this was accomplished, Tybalt and Gerel would guide the other tieflings in need of help here.
Malevoxa and Gareth would return to Kale proper, and the Jochi tribeswoman Turakina pledged to learn the language and visit often -- she had unfinished business with Gareth, and he quietly retained his semi-exploitative ambitions for the Wild Lands. Its many peoples were budding with potential, a potential he could bring to its fullest, ushering the Dar -- be they of the Jochi, Rolwal, or perhaps even far-distant Thalass of the uttermost west -- into a glorious cultural springtime.
Aidan, Brokk, Embla, and Isolde set their sights upon the east. Their farewells said, their tears shed, their hearts emboldened, they stepped into the teleportation circle Brokk conjured, and so began their new travels into that unknown country that is the future.
♢♢♢♢♢
EPILOGUE
Marchosias had no choice but to cringe and cower. He was but a mere imp, in the presence of the divine. It mattered not that these beings were endowed with the least fraction of a god`s essence. It mattered that each of them had a fraction of a god`s essence, a genuine sliver of the Ontological Energies that had gone into the creation of the universe itself.
The Seneschal of Inevitability, Nergal, was bad enough. A scion of murdered Tormossh, who had been the subordinate of the divine dyad native to and responsible for Carcus. Even knowing he was nearby made Marchosias want to crawl on his belly like a serpent, prostrating his flesh and his soul such that he devolved back into the mindless lemure that he had been thousands upon thousands of years ago.
Then there was Ylsmyr-watze. The larval ungod, impossibility incarnate, a once-soul transformed into a divine phylactery for the God of Death himself. There were implications of the change that gave Marchosias insight, terrible and unsought insight, into certain elder fiends of repute across the Hells. Heretical whispers of the rakshasa Ravana Samraat, unspoken suspicions regarding the ambitions of mighty Asmodeus...
But as bad as these two were, it was the opposing pair communing with them that Marchosias wished to avoid most of all. Even through the projection of their selves, their power resonated without filter. No longer disguised as a relatively mid-ranked horned devil, Belphegor towered over them all, radiating authority.
No wonder he was able to turn Naxartes from the rest of the coven, Marchosias thought. Much less intimidate me into signing an unread customized contract to become a soul-pledged familiar.
Last, and the reason for this dark communion, was the horrifyingly understated form of the Arch-Traitor Samael himself, and grand architect of the events that had led to this. Marchosias was a devil of Barathus, ostensibly bound to obey the will of Vornoth, and compelled to seek the death of all four of these beings. Yet here he found himself caught up in their scheming, unwilling pawn of this mutualistic alliance.
"I HAVE DISPATCHED MY WARLOCK TO DISTURB THE RUBY SKULL," proclaimed Belphegor. "HIS SUCCESS WILL PROVIDE US WITH NEW OPTIONS TO OVERTHROW THE DARK WALKER."
"I am recalling my Embla home," Ylsmyr said. "If we are agreed and you grant me some of your strength, I shall retroactively ensure she is prepared. I have also sent out one Sarissalalaliai to retrieve the reborn infant. Which infant exactly is this that I sent out for, incidentally?"
Nergal hissed in a muted annoyance. "We shall agree. It was inevitable. Already I see the end of many agents of Vornoth made possible through this. I am most gratified that the lich Ajef is one of their number."
"IT IS DONE THEN," Belphegor boomed. "SO IS NTIKUMA`S PROPHECY FULFILLED. I WILL SEE TO IT THAT KSHM IS MADE AWARE WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT."
"Oh, Kshm, that infant," Ylsmyr said understandingly, and forgetting again almost at once.
Samael did not speak, but merely gestured in acknowledgement. His countenance, angelic and fiendish all at once, was too much for Marchosias to bear, and the little imp murmured a genuine prayer to Grlarshh that Samael remained silent. He did not understand much of what was being said, though he could feel the weight of its importance.
At last, the meeting was ended. Samael and Belphegor`s projections faded, and Nergal glided away into the fog, returning to the Dismal Overlook from which he gazed out miserably into an oracular abyss. Ylsmyr-watze remained, of course, and soon Marchosias felt the ungod`s stare on him once again. He intuited, correctly, that he would not like what came next.
"I think you have stayed in Carcus long enough," Ylsmyr-watze said to him. "And you still have a contract to fulfil. That said, I do believe you deserve a reward for going through all this. You were instrumental in goading the paladin and the mercenary-fiend to me. You may thank Belphegor for this promotion -- he will transfer to me the required power directly from the Spheres, so there is no need for you to visit."
Marchosias frowned, uncertain of what this meant for a moment. Then he felt the glorious, the unmistakable, the surging rush of refined Ontological Law and Evil in a synchronic union. It was an orgasmic agony, at once ended too soon and not soon enough. He looked down at his feet, where the tattered remains of his imp shell were already dissolving. It looked so small, so very insignificant.
He looked back at Ylsmyr-watze and felt himself more able to stand upright in his presence. With a howl of delight, Marchosias stretched, and the newly refashioned barbed devil felt strength and vitality flow through him like it never had before -- not even during his ten thousand years of guard duty as a bearded devil, cursed glaive in claw, poison dripping from the scraggly tendrils along its lower jaw.
"Return!" Ylsmyr commanded with a wave of his hand, and Marchosias felt himself discorporate once more, hurled across the planes to the world of living and one very particular warlock.
FIN