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Untitled Update
Iua paced back and forth. Violent impulses crowded within her mind, and the recollection of fell deeds felt sweet in her mouth. But huge gaps remained in her memory.
She touched the pommel of her rapier lightly, feeling reassured by its presence. Through her gloved hand, a frisson of power from the weapon made her head spin, as though she had consumed too much
kschiff.
Egress from the chamber was impossible. As opulent as it might be, she was a prisoner there. The door to the place – if it was a door – showed no sign of lock or handle, and was constructed of some kind of adamant. She had attempted to
plane shift without success, and even in a
gaseous form she had been unable to pass through the embrasure – a spell prevented passage, and Iua lacked the means to counter it. Looking out, all she saw was a smoking slope which extended below her as far as she could see. At irregular intervals, the ground was wracked by convulsions and liquid fire erupted.
I am Iua. I am in some Hell or other. I have had an enchantment laid on me: my memory has been selectively erased. I am not dead. I don't think I am.
She knew that there were significant people and places in her life – Mulissu, Ortwin, Ulao, Fumaril, Magathei, Trempa – but she could not clearly remember any events connected with them. When she tried to construct any memory associated with them, it would elude her, and remain tantalizingly beyond her grasp.
She sat upon the bed and waited. She opened her bag – which contained a number of apparently potent items – and laid the contents before her again, as if they might hold the key to her past. A sapphire, rings, amulets, a tiny boat, a lump of dark stone, a sphere, a flat panel of curious design. She gazed at them for a long while, but became frustrated. She replaced them in her bag.
Time passed.
A sound – a low
click – finally reached her ears. Iua leapt silently to the side of the portal, drawing her blade. As the door slid open, she dashed forth, intent on escape and slaying any in her way.
None stood there, but as her foot passed over the threshold to the chamber, her memory was suddenly restored to her in full.
She screamed.
**
It was the first time that the
Ahma and Nehael had met since their brief exchange during the aftermath of Afqithan. Eadric had not so much purposefully shunned her, he told himself as he walked to meet her, as been occupied with other, more pressing duties. As had she.
That must be why I feel like vomiting, he sighed.
She was sitting in a wicker chair in the same spot which Cynric had favoured; the place where Feezuu had blasted the Prelate into oblivion. The same place where Graz'zt himself had stood and spoken the dreadful syllables which had resulted in the greatest carnage in Morne's long history. Her presence seemed like a potent salve applied to an open wound.
She smiled when she saw him, causing his head to spin yet further. He sat shakily next to her, and noticed that she smelled like summer rain. He thought briefly.
"Do you retain a sense of irony?" He asked.
She raised an eyebrow.
"That's a good sign," he breathed tensely. "I'm sorry for avoiding you. Too much has passed. I didn't know where to begin. We are not what we were. Other clichés to that effect. I'm now being facetious to cover my discomfort."
Relax.
He relaxed a little.
"I would learn everything that has passed for you," Nehael said softly. "The totality of your experience. It will help me understand better."
"That may take some time."
"You need not speak. You need not even articulate thoughts and memories that are too uncomfortable for you. First, I would share myself with you in the same manner. It is the only way to heal the trauma. A perfect communion."
"Nehael, I…"
"Do not reject me now,
Ahma."
He clenched his jaw, and nodded. "How?"
"Consider
Saizhan, and what it teaches. Can you adopt a Sophist perspective for a moment? Allow that truth to assert itself?"
"How will that help?"
"It will contextualize your perceptions. Place them within a framework which is familiar."
Eadric groaned. "Others seem to alternate between religious truths far easier than I. My transitions are more fraught. But I will do as you ask."
"Are you ready?"
"
Now?"
"Exactly," she smiled. "
NOW."
A soft hand reached out, and gently touched his face. His eyelids became heavy.
"Do not close your eyes!" Nehael laughed.
Reality shattered into a billion fragments, and was replaced by Itself.
*
Eadric was possessed of a piercing clarity, in which the world astounded him with its vibrancy and beauty. He looked at Nehael. She was perfect. The oranges hanging nearby – yet to come to full ripeness – were perfect. He listened to the conversation of Temple guards by the gates of the compound, smelled the incense which burned upon the high altar, felt the breeze upon his face on the roof of the Great Fane. He tasted the salt on his lips which blew on the wind from the marshes to the south of Morne. He beheld an ant climbing a rose-bush in a garden in the Bevel. All was perfect.
Beyond all – or beneath all – was a vibration which was inaudible, invisible, and without form. Infinite, yet apprehended in its entirety.
Viridity, he knew. His breath was quick and shallow.
Nehael smiled. "Know me."
The
Ahma turned his consciousness – which had become all-encompassing – towards her.
In the space of a fleeting moment, he realized everything about her. Every thought, every memory, every feeling she had ever experienced within her life since her rebirth through the Tree, and a myriad of other lives in cycles within cycles. But stretching back uncounted aeons to the beginning of time itself were another set of memories: impressions which were like dreams, and belonged to one who was no more. Past the Fall, until the Nehael who never was existed only as an unmanifest thought within the Mind of Oronthon. A gnostic ecstasy swept over him.
Abruptly, it ended as she withdrew her power from him. He quaked at the separation from the source. As his ego emerged from the reverie and his persona recrystallized, his breathing slowed again. He focused his mind.
"
Saizho," he bowed.
He looked at her as her mind absorbed his own experience in its fullness. A single tear ran down her cheek: he watched, and as it fell and struck the floor of the orangery, a thousand tiny flowers erupted from the flagstones.
"You loved her," she smiled.
"Very much," he nodded.
"I am sorry for your loss."
He sighed. "She was my
kius. The shadow which brought the Good into sharp relief."
"And now?"
"I see the light with clear eyes. Much doubt has passed."
"But the dreams persist,
Ahma. Her vestige has not abandoned you, and clings yet to your memories. She exists in you most of all."
**
Mostin fidgeted nervously, waiting for the tea to steep. He glanced sidelong at the Enforcer, who was examining a collection of infernal curios upon one of the shelves in his study. She had assumed a black-clad humanoid shape, approximately female, with impossibly red hair. She turned to face him, and her eyes bored into him. Mostin quickly looked away, jerked his hand spasmodically, and promptly spilled the sugar.
"Sh*t," he muttered.
"I relish the rare moments in which I am permitted to manifest a body," Gihaahia said, smiling.
Gods, don't smile. It's too unnerving.
"And a discrete consciousness," the Enforcer added, almost as an afterthought. She sat. "Two sugars, please."
Mostin poured the tea shakily. Most of it found its way into the cup.
"You purport to champion the philosophical tenets which underpin the Injunction," Gihaahia took the cup from the Alienist's uncertain grasp. "Yet you evince a grudging literalism in your approach. As though it were a matter of convenience – or inconvenience – for you. I refer specifically, of course, to the fact that you have chosen to erect your abode
here – less than a bowshot from the bounds of Wyre as defined in the nineteenth article. Some might view such a decision as purposely defiant and inflammatory."
"I think…"
"Shut up, Mostin. I haven't finished, yet. You are forgiven for this quasi-infraction. The Claviger loves all of her children, even the wayward ones."
Her? Children? Uedii's teats. She's deranged.
"You remain embroiled in political maneuvering –
shut your mouth, Mostin. I'm still talking. Before you accuse me of arbitrariness, I have already determined to visit Daunton with the same warning. He's as bad as you are. Your
Académie will sink before it has a chance to establish itself if you persist in this attitude. You are inciting other mages to violence. You are conspiring to conjure a demon prince –
yes, I know you don't plan to bind him in Wyre. You are a rabble-rouser, and a danger to the body magickal. And as for Astaroth…"
Mostin gaped. Only hours before, a fleeting thought had passed through his mind regarding the Lord of Caina. The Alienist had mused – for all of two seconds – upon the possibility of
binding the archdevil and forcing him to relinquish Shomei to him.
She has made her choice, Mostin.
Mostin scowled.
"I am sadistic and vindictive, Mostin," Gihaahia's eyes narrowed to burning slits. "And nothing would give me greater pleasure than to rend your body and hurl it into the Phlegethon. The Claviger is more reasonable, however – which is fortunate for you. You will desist forthwith from all political activity when you are within Wyre's confines. This includes plotting to assault the Cult of Cheshne; associating in councils of war with the
Ahma, the
Sela or any other representative of Oronthon; offering advice to any of Wyre's temporal leaders; or conspiring with other mages to summon demons. If you choose to engage in any of these activities,
let it be outside of Wyre. If you violate these terms, you will be exiled for a period of one hundred years upon pain of obliteration if you re-enter the proscribed area. Am I clear?"
Mostin nodded dumbly.
"You would be well advised to reflect upon the spirit of the Injunction when making choices regarding these matters. Conjuring Graz'zt ten yards from Wyre's borders will be regarded as insolent, at the very least. Continuing your plots and machinations in a
magnificent mansion which abuts Shomei's estate would be considered scandalous. Whilst neither would draw direct retribution, they would predispose the Claviger to a less lenient position if you were arraigned in the future. You may now speak. Be swift. Do you have any questions?"
"Many. Does the Injunction apply to arcanists from Shûth?"
"Of course."
"If I am assailed by a hierophant within Wyre, may I defend myself with impunity?"
"
Defend, yes," Gihaahia sighed.
"If I open a permanent portal from Shomei's earthly demesne to her astral retreat and convene a council whose agenda is at odds with the Injunction, will it be held against me in the future?"
The threat of the Enforcer's titanic mental grip loomed over Mostin. He knew that she could squash his psyche with a passing thought.
"These are practical considerations," Mostin wailed. "Our existence is threatened."
"Adhere to the Injunction, Mostin. In letter and spirit. The Claviger looks after her own. You will not be abandoned."
"What do you mean?" Mostin asked.
"Precisely that," Gihaahia smiled her evil smile.
"I need to…" Mostin began.
But the Enforcer had vanished, without warning. The Alienist cursed, and hurled the teapot against a bookcase in a fury. What was happening? What was this talk of
gender and
maternity in relation to the Claviger? It was grossly inappropriate.
Still, somehow, he felt oddly reassured.
He issued a
sending to Daunton:
We need to talk. Where are you?
The reply was laden with fear and apprehension:
Later, Mostin. I have an unexpected guest.
Mostin frowned. His hands were still shaking. He stood, walked to a small cabinet, retrieved an antique bottle, and poured himself a generous draught of vintage firewine. The liquor burned his throat and made him sneeze.
He fondled the
stone of sendings briefly, swallowed, and then sent a message to Rimilin.
**
"Will she not compromise?" Lai asked, her voice evincing as much irritation as Nwm had ever before heard.
"Perhaps," the Druid replied. "She may have stated an unreasonably high bargaining position to begin with, with the intention of accepting other terms. But I think that she is genuine. Although it's impossible to tell."
"One of us could relinquish our power," Rhul suggested. "Although she would be bound to Mulhuk, much as we are."
"Would you make such a concession?" Jaliere asked. Smoke bellowed from his nostrils.
"To ensure our survival? Certainly."
"I suspect that Ortwine would find such a proposal unacceptable," Nwm smiled drily. "She wishes to take her divinity with her. Back to Afqithan.*"
"I find this entire conversation absurd," Jaliere grunted. "There must be another way."
"
There is not," Lai sighed emphatically. "We cannot assault Saes. We cannot coerce her. This fey – who is unknown to her – may be able to achieve what we are incapable of."
"I don't see how." The God of the Forge was becoming agitated, and his beard began to kindle.
"Please remain calm," Lai's tone changed as she tried to placate Jaliere. "Ortwine is a greater liar than any I have met. She is conniving and duplicitous to an extreme degree. Moreover, if she is
motivated sufficiently – if the prize is great enough – she will find a way."
"What of the
Ahma?" Jaliere asked.
"His debt is paid to you," Nwm shook his head. "Three times over. And he is preoccupied with other matters – which I am neglecting in order to be here."
"But you had intended to accompany Ortwine?"
"Yes," Nwm nodded.
Lai looked shocked. "Why have you said nothing of this to me?"
Nwm shrugged. "I cannot let Ortwine do this alone. I thought you understood that."
"But this is…"
"Madness? Suicide?" Nwm suddenly became angry. "Then perhaps you should ask yourselves whether it is reasonable to ask this of her at all! Decide which this is Lai, because it was my impression that there was a possibility of success."
"Watch your tone, mortal," Jaliere threatened.
"Peace!" Lai raised her hand.
"All of this is moot," Rhul observed, "if we cannot find a way to grant Ortwine what she demands."
"
Ngaarh!" Jaliere slammed a gauntleted fist upon the stone table. He barked at two spectral warriors – ancestral spirits who guarded the doors to the hallway.
"Bring in the Fey. This discussion is pointless without her presence."
**
The island – which rose from the ocean west of Pandicule like a jagged tooth – had been chosen by the mage Kothchori for its isolation and its peculiar aesthetic. Mostin wondered whether, at some time in the distant past, some wind-sorcerer had raised it from the sea bed in order to serve as a base – although the Alienist had no evidence to support such a theory. It was too eccentric, he observed, to be altogether natural.
Rimilin had claimed it as his own and – with a characteristic panache which Mostin grudgingly acknowledged – replaced the crumbling remains of Kothchori's abode with a three-hundred foot tall tower of red iron which pierced the sky like a great, bloody spearhead. The Alienist turned to Orolde.
"He has a certain style," Mostin admitted. "Don't you think?"
"I preferred it as it was," Orolde replied sadly. "Kothchori felt no need for such phallic ostentation."
"An interesting observation," Mostin nodded. "Which may have some merit. The Ritual of Bonding requires certain sacrifices which most would be unable to endure. Come, Orolde! We shall see whether Rimilin observes those niceties of conduct which transcend even the forced peace of the Claviger. It would be wise to omit any references to genitalia, however. Even after so long, that may still be a sensitive subject."
The duo ascended a hundred or so stone steps to arrive at the base of the tower, and stood before an intricate portal of black adamant, inlayed with precious metals and carved with dire warnings. It ground open to reveal a narrow staircase, lit by lurid green smokeless flambeaux. Mostin sighed, and strode in. Orolde scuttled in nervously behind. There was a brief sensation of dimension at once both stretching and contracting, and Mostin found himself in an echoing hall of great height. He glanced behind quickly to observe Orolde, who still followed him.
The chamber was circular, and was illuminated by a firepit which sat in its dead centre, as well as by seven immense bronze sconces which jutted out of its walls at regular intervals in its periphery. It tapered to an apex perhaps thirty fathoms above, and around the walls a staircase wound, reaching balconies and doors beyond which, presumably, other chambers lay.
"Welcome," a foul voice issued from above the Alienist. Rimilin stood upon a wide mezzanine which extended for three quarters of the chamber's circumference.
Mostin cleared his throat. "Thank-you. Should I come up, or will you come down?" His voice was louder than he had anticipated, as though some enchantment magnified the sound in the tower's interior.
"Ascend if you dare," Rimilin's voice taunted him. "I promise to be good."
Mostin scowled, and slowly climbed the staircase.
"Ahh, the hero of the hour," Rimilin said acidly as Mostin gained the balcony. The walls were lined with bookcases crammed with thousands of ancient tomes. "Your coup with the Assembly will merit discussion ten generations hence – if it survives at all."
Mostin stared hard at him. His hairless head and naked torso glistened with an oily black secretion, and he smelled rank.
"I have come to take counsel," Mostin said simply. "Aside from Daunton and Jalael, you are the only mage who openly advocates a proactive stance in our dealings with Shûth."
"The inertia of Wyre's wizards will be their undoing," Rimilin spat. "They all deserve to perish."
"It is incumbent upon us that we convince them to act in concert," Mostin sighed.
Rimilin snorted, and sat in a siege of wrought Abyssal bronze. He motioned to Mostin to do the same. Orolde fumbled nervously and produced a ledger and a quill pen – from which the feathers had been judiciously removed.
"Why did you insist to bring your scribe with you?" Rimilin's brow furrowed. "Did you think that it would cause me to moderate my tone?"
"Not at all," Mostin sat stiffly. He wasn't even sure himself why he had commanded Orolde to attend him. Perhaps he needed the unqualified moral support. Perhaps he felt that it was high time that the Sprite was exposed to the inner counsels of Wyre's most accomplished mages: Orolde's aptitude for magic was beginning to assert itself, and soon he would be faced with the choice of whether or not to remain with the Alienist. Mostin grimaced. Such was the way of things.
"Has the Enforcer paid you a visit, yet?" Mostin inquired.
Rimilin's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"There are those among us, myself and Daunton included, who tread close to the legal boundaries – both physically and metaphorically – of the Injunction. Gihaahia was kind enough to point out the fact that sometimes my actions are questionable."
"I have received no such warning. Perhaps you are more controversial than I," Rimilin smiled.
Perhaps physical proximity to Wyre is more important than I suspected, Mostin thought.
"I have recently succoured the
Sela for celestial aid," Mostin tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.
"You? An Enochian?" Rimilin's voice oozed with contempt. "You have been reduced to a lowly estate, Mostin!"
"I am exploring every option!" Mostin hissed. "And I preclude nothing at this stage. I need reliable allies, not fickle compactees. Devils are out of the question."
"I heard of Furcas," Rimilin smiled. "That may prove a costly mistake."
"I take it then that word has not yet reached you of Titivilus and Murmuur? They are also destroyed."
"
Three Infernal Dukes?" Rimilin was visibly impressed. "That must be some kind of record."
"It was Eadric, not I, who slew them."
"I doubt that Dispater – or the Fly-Lords – will differentiate your complicity."
"Indeed," Mostin acknowledged.
"You might petition Belial for aid," Rimilin suggested. "If you care to walk Shomei's path."
"I do not. And I do not have the resources to pursue pseudonatural servitors at this stage. I am in danger of further exhausting my reservoir if I do. My options are limited. And in the field of rapidly polarizing allegiances, I must side
against Cheshne. That is the biggest threat to me, and to Wyre."
"You risk a great deal in telling me this," Rimilin was suspicious. "Why?"
"Because, despite your depravity, you are no nihilist, and you understand
necessity."
"You seek to act as the catalyst for a Cascade," Rimilin realized. "You think that you can force the hand of the celestial host, if Enitharmon perceives a large enough threat? Those days are over, Mostin. The demise of the Temple ended that paradigm, and both the
Ahma and the
Sela sealed that door when they chose mysticism over Orthodoxy."
"For themselves, maybe. Personally, I will use whatever tools I need to. Think on that."
**
Ortwine strode slowly into the council chamber in Mulhuk. Rhul gazed at her in wonder as she approached: her beauty was undeniable, though cold, and her very presence seemed more profound than any there – who bore the title of
god or
goddess – could claim.
"Have you found a way?" She asked calmly.
"No," Lai admitted.
The Sidhe turned, and began to walk away.
"Ortwine, please," Rhul implored. "We are at a loss. If we could grant this freely, we would. We are but little gods," his voice was ironic. "You know this. You ask the impossible."
She turned to face them, and thought for a long moment.
"Very well," she finally said. "The payment can wait. As it depends upon my success in any event, here are the terms that I propose: Upon release of the spirits of the dead – assuming that such a deed can be accomplished – you will admit me nominally to your ranks. When Lai and Nwm
reincarnate the disembodied
en masse, my worship will be actively encouraged by your agents. As your power begins to wax again, as surely it will; you will, after all, have a monopoly on religion," sarcasm dripped from Ortwine's tongue, "then I will claim my divinity along with an equal – which is to say twenty percent – share of the veneration from Sisperi's burgeoning population. Which brings me to my portfolio."
Nwm gaped. Ortwine had some truly outrageous ideas.
"I choose lies and trickery. I have observed that you lack a suitable exemplar in these areas.
But – and here is where you make a concession to me now, before we begin – Jaliere must first perform a task for me."
"Must he indeed?" Jaliere thundered.
Ortwine drew
Githla, and handed it to the God of the Forge. "This blade was forged by the Azer Jodrumu, before he went mad."
Jaliere brandished it, feeling its balance and judging its temper with his mind's eye. "This is a fine weapon. Jodrumu – whoever he was – was a gifted smith."
"Just so," Ortwine agreed.
"You wish it reforged by Jaliere?" Lai asked.
"Not exactly," Ortwine smiled slowly. "I wish it married with another blade. If such a task is within his abilities."
Jaliere guffawed. "If not I, then who? Which is this other weapon?"
But Nwm already knew. Just as he knew that Ortwine alone was most likely to succeed in deceiving Saes, because the Sidhe had played him – and the Nireem – already.
The Druid grimaced. "The sword is named
Heedless. And I strongly advise against this course of action, Ortwine."
"Your concern is duly noted," Ortwine nodded. "And ignored. If I am to be a goddess, Nwm, I must have a blade worthy of me."
* The Chiefs of the Nireem (except Ninit) retain a divine rank of 1 only when within Mulhuk, the minor heaven which abuts Sisperi. Outside of its confines, they are treated as DR0 quasi-deities.
*
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