Sepulchrave II
Legend
Galda I
The boy with the olive skin and tousled hair smiled, pulled up a chair, and sat. His appearance was as one scarce out of adolescence. He looked hard at Shomei, and absorbed every detail surrounding her in an instant. Except one.
"Why did you reject Saizhan?" He asked. "Forgive my abruptness. But, frankly, this question still puzzles me. It was a bold gambit; I only wish I knew what prize it was that you sought. You may refrain from using honorifics when addressing me; I am already surrounded by sycophants. Please speak openly; treat me as any you would any other in conversation."
"I am not sure of my motive," Shomei admitted, her mind reeling. "It wasn't rational, and may have simply been an act of perversity. Do you think my choice was wrong?"
"No. I suspect that your Will directed you to act without the permission of your mind."
"To precipitate this meeting?"
"How should I know?" The other asked. "It is your Will, not mine. In any case, you are now here. Outcast with the rest of us."
"Might I inquire where here is, precisely?"
"In Caïna, for the time being. Astaroth purchased you from Amaimon – but at my instruction. Actually, the Akesoli were also dispatched at my instruction."
"I have been treated well," Shomei remarked, "aside from the initial flaying, of course. I had assumed that I would already be enduring unending tortures. When you say 'for the time being,' am I to be moved elsewhere?"
The boy nodded. "To the library, in Cocytus. If you so wish."
If I so wish?
"I would never stifle your potential, Shomei. You have earned rights that few others have won. Your loyalty has been unwavering; not to me, but to the idea. This is rare, and precious."
Her pulse hammered in her head. "I fear duplicity," she said.
"Your honesty is likewise remarkable," the other seemed amused. "Perhaps the Sela has been a positive influence on you."
Shomei glanced down at her hand, and gripped the skin between her thumb and index finger. "This form is…"
"Infernal," the youth nodded. "You cannot go back now, unless called. You must abide by the terms of the Interdict and the Accord."
Suddenly, everything she had foreseen in the web of motes made sense.
He stood. "Seek out the devils Agei and Ugales; you will discover their temperaments are reflective, not unlike your own. I suspect you will find discourse with them productive. Avoid the petty squabbles of the Dukes; you are above them. Hell is what you make of it, Shomei."
"I think I fear your mercy more than your wrath," Shomei remarked wrily.
The Adversary raised an eyebrow. "And so you should. I am the Left Hand of God, after all."
*
After he had departed, she sat in contemplation for a long while before rising and exiting the chamber. The corridor beyond was empty and echoing; she turned left, and walked past open embrasures: they looked out upon a vast glacier beneath a sky which crackled darkly. The air was frigid, so much so that even her newly-endowed flesh began to feel numb: away from the strongholds, she knew few devils could endure Caïna for long. Below, the damned wailed, immersed in ice.
Shomei turned left again, and descended a flight of many thousand steps; she noticed that the darkness was absolute, although her sight was unimpeded. Finally, she reached the chamber at the bottom. Devils abased themselves. A mirror stood before her.
As they draped her cloak over her shoulders, slid her bracelet over her wrist, and pressed her rod into her hand, Shomei gazed at her reflection: aside from a complex device upon her forehead – which she knew marked her as His – it seemed unchanged. She touched the brand, but felt nothing unusual. She knew its import, a dire message to those who could read such things: Do not interfere with this one.
She passed swiftly through the mirror, and the fires of Nessus welled around her.
***
An ancient stone circle on a low hill west of Galda – a small village which nestled in a valley at the southernmost tip of Scir Cellod – bore the uncertain honour of being the meeting point between the Cheshnite delegation and the Wyrish embassy. It was technically outside of the borders of Wyre proper, within the fief of a Marchioness named Siliste; the noblewoman's family had rendered a hefty annual tribute to Morne for more than a hundred years in order to retain their precarious right of self-government. The markland sat upon Hynt Coched, the main artery which ran south to Jashat, and enjoyed healthy tax perquisites from the trade which passed through it.
Outside of the quiescence of the spheres – hardened now by Mostin to resist disjunctions and superb dispellings – the Aethers sang with the horns of archons, and battalions of devas were massing to the north. Messengers from interested parties reconnoitered the edge of the quiescence; temporary ethereal presidios were quickly established nearby by several Ugras of terrible power bringing blackness: the vomit of Cheshne.
Inside, the Green writhed, potent and oblivious.
Eadric's stomach was turning. Mostin, attuned to his spell, felt ripples along its periphery.
In his time, the Ahma had engaged in more than a few parleys with demons, devils and other monstrosities. For the sake of his sanity, he carefully censored his awareness of those present at Galda. None conformed to the images which he had formed in his mind – despite his best efforts to limit his expectations in that regard.
They manifested themselves at first as a great, dark cloud which billowed around a lone rider – Anumid the Mouthpiece – before relaxing into more choate forms which intimated at distinct personalities: demons, gods, godlings, undead, hierophants, theurges, great warriors of unguessable age.
As the two parties gazed at one another, a long silence endured: a furious exchange of thought, speculation and surmise consumed each group at once.
Mostin reflected. It was all about the reservoirs, he was beginning to realize. And the divinations. Each transvalent spell which would be cast – and they would shake the world; of that, Mostin had no doubt – was drawn against limited resources. They would need to be played carefully to maximum effect, like pieces in some vast strategic game. And to do that required foreknowledge. And Mostin had the web of motes. But they had the cabals. It was a strange, asymmetric balance.
The Alienist scowled. Their wards were utterly inscrutable, although Mostin had no doubt that each was vastly augmented, laden with protective magics. Whilst he had expected no less, it made gauging their strength impossible; the insight of Hlioth and the gut of Eadric were their best tools in reading any purpose in the Cheshnites. He hoped that his own party was as veiled. A nagging suspicion in him was that they were not. Transvalent divinations employed by the other might break through. How secure was the quiescence? He was sure that he could feel things testing its potency. Mostin was feeling acutely paranoid. His fingers were getting twitchy.
The Ahma's gaze was drawn first to Yeshe, who had entered the world when magic was young and abundant. With each breath she drew there seemed fused the threat of explosion. Clad in adamant and black iron, and bearing ancient weapons of destructive potency, Eadric quickly estimated her mettle in battle as formidable. And her magical art, he knew, surpassed that of Mostin, by the Alienist's own admission. She seemed youthful and hale; dynamic and energized. Each new act of annihilation is fresh and exciting to you. The Void – and Eadric knew its signs well now – rested easily upon her; an undertow of black despair which grasped at frail sanity. All seemed cowed by her.
[Mostin]: (Concern). She is no arcanist; I willfully misconstrued. This woman is a High Priestess, so to speak. I didn't realize that her agenda was fuelled by such zeal.
[Ortwine]: Perhaps Eadric can seduce her? She seems his type.
[Eadric]: Perhaps Ortwine could refrain from sarcasm for a moment?
[Ortwine]: I am here under duress. Permit me at least my wit.
[Hlioth]: Silence, imbeciles!
Sibud – who did not breathe – emanated corruption and decadence in waves, and life wilted around him. His skin, grey and cracked, resembled shrivelled leather which moulted a fine dust; obscene black fingernails dripped a caustic venom, which smoked as it struck the withering grass at his feet. As Eadric's vision rested upon his form, he knew that only the vampire's resolute will maintained his quiddity, preventing his dissolution into a cloud of atoms. But into Sibud's face, the Ahma could not bring himself to look; it haunted the margin of his sight as the memory of his own death.
For Nwm, the vampire in particular was anathema. Only Threxu, the Wasted Nymph had before evoked that magnitude of revulsion. Despite it, Nwm seemed genuinely calm and confident; Eadric could not guess the reason why, but Mostin sensed subtle shiftings in magical attitudes with his arcane sight. Nwm and Hlioth and Mesikammi had prepared some contingency, no doubt.
[Mostin]: Evocation?
[Nwm]: And Necromancy.
[Mostin]:!? Are you mad? What good will that do? Half of them are dead already.
[Nwm]: You might be surprised. Uedii thinks dead things should stay properly dead. I'm not about to violate the truce, but I'm going to blast them all if they try anything, even if it kills us stone dead.
[Mesikammi]: (Clapping) Supernova! It will be beautiful! I will reincarnate as an unfettered wyrd; I have already chosen.
[Eadric]: Is she serious?
[Nwm]: Of course.
[Mostin]: If you die, stay within the quiescence! There are things beyond it which might eat your soul.
[Hlioth]: Let them try. They'll get indigestion.
The presences of Naatha and Choach – as foul and potent as they might be – Eadric could accept and absorb. Then the Ahma beheld another, behind Yeshe. A rider in similar harness to the Binder, but who sat sufficiently removed from the others within the group to indicate a disdain for the proceedings. An image of fear and bloodshed contrived in the mind of War itself. His first urge was to throw himself on the ground, and weep.
[Eadric]: Who is he?
[Mostin]: She. Visuit.
[Eadric]: We cannot prevail against such as her. We are overmatched. Why is she here?
[Daunton]: She brings war. She is war.
[Nwm]: (Smiling)
[Eadric]: I fail to see the humour, and sometimes I wonder who amongst us is the most unhinged.
[Nwm]: Her horse regards you with hope.
[Eadric]: That is small…
But the Ahma caught the animal's eye, and immediately fell in love.
The boy with the olive skin and tousled hair smiled, pulled up a chair, and sat. His appearance was as one scarce out of adolescence. He looked hard at Shomei, and absorbed every detail surrounding her in an instant. Except one.
"Why did you reject Saizhan?" He asked. "Forgive my abruptness. But, frankly, this question still puzzles me. It was a bold gambit; I only wish I knew what prize it was that you sought. You may refrain from using honorifics when addressing me; I am already surrounded by sycophants. Please speak openly; treat me as any you would any other in conversation."
"I am not sure of my motive," Shomei admitted, her mind reeling. "It wasn't rational, and may have simply been an act of perversity. Do you think my choice was wrong?"
"No. I suspect that your Will directed you to act without the permission of your mind."
"To precipitate this meeting?"
"How should I know?" The other asked. "It is your Will, not mine. In any case, you are now here. Outcast with the rest of us."
"Might I inquire where here is, precisely?"
"In Caïna, for the time being. Astaroth purchased you from Amaimon – but at my instruction. Actually, the Akesoli were also dispatched at my instruction."
"I have been treated well," Shomei remarked, "aside from the initial flaying, of course. I had assumed that I would already be enduring unending tortures. When you say 'for the time being,' am I to be moved elsewhere?"
The boy nodded. "To the library, in Cocytus. If you so wish."
If I so wish?
"I would never stifle your potential, Shomei. You have earned rights that few others have won. Your loyalty has been unwavering; not to me, but to the idea. This is rare, and precious."
Her pulse hammered in her head. "I fear duplicity," she said.
"Your honesty is likewise remarkable," the other seemed amused. "Perhaps the Sela has been a positive influence on you."
Shomei glanced down at her hand, and gripped the skin between her thumb and index finger. "This form is…"
"Infernal," the youth nodded. "You cannot go back now, unless called. You must abide by the terms of the Interdict and the Accord."
Suddenly, everything she had foreseen in the web of motes made sense.
He stood. "Seek out the devils Agei and Ugales; you will discover their temperaments are reflective, not unlike your own. I suspect you will find discourse with them productive. Avoid the petty squabbles of the Dukes; you are above them. Hell is what you make of it, Shomei."
"I think I fear your mercy more than your wrath," Shomei remarked wrily.
The Adversary raised an eyebrow. "And so you should. I am the Left Hand of God, after all."
*
After he had departed, she sat in contemplation for a long while before rising and exiting the chamber. The corridor beyond was empty and echoing; she turned left, and walked past open embrasures: they looked out upon a vast glacier beneath a sky which crackled darkly. The air was frigid, so much so that even her newly-endowed flesh began to feel numb: away from the strongholds, she knew few devils could endure Caïna for long. Below, the damned wailed, immersed in ice.
Shomei turned left again, and descended a flight of many thousand steps; she noticed that the darkness was absolute, although her sight was unimpeded. Finally, she reached the chamber at the bottom. Devils abased themselves. A mirror stood before her.
As they draped her cloak over her shoulders, slid her bracelet over her wrist, and pressed her rod into her hand, Shomei gazed at her reflection: aside from a complex device upon her forehead – which she knew marked her as His – it seemed unchanged. She touched the brand, but felt nothing unusual. She knew its import, a dire message to those who could read such things: Do not interfere with this one.
She passed swiftly through the mirror, and the fires of Nessus welled around her.
***
An ancient stone circle on a low hill west of Galda – a small village which nestled in a valley at the southernmost tip of Scir Cellod – bore the uncertain honour of being the meeting point between the Cheshnite delegation and the Wyrish embassy. It was technically outside of the borders of Wyre proper, within the fief of a Marchioness named Siliste; the noblewoman's family had rendered a hefty annual tribute to Morne for more than a hundred years in order to retain their precarious right of self-government. The markland sat upon Hynt Coched, the main artery which ran south to Jashat, and enjoyed healthy tax perquisites from the trade which passed through it.
Outside of the quiescence of the spheres – hardened now by Mostin to resist disjunctions and superb dispellings – the Aethers sang with the horns of archons, and battalions of devas were massing to the north. Messengers from interested parties reconnoitered the edge of the quiescence; temporary ethereal presidios were quickly established nearby by several Ugras of terrible power bringing blackness: the vomit of Cheshne.
Inside, the Green writhed, potent and oblivious.
Eadric's stomach was turning. Mostin, attuned to his spell, felt ripples along its periphery.
In his time, the Ahma had engaged in more than a few parleys with demons, devils and other monstrosities. For the sake of his sanity, he carefully censored his awareness of those present at Galda. None conformed to the images which he had formed in his mind – despite his best efforts to limit his expectations in that regard.
They manifested themselves at first as a great, dark cloud which billowed around a lone rider – Anumid the Mouthpiece – before relaxing into more choate forms which intimated at distinct personalities: demons, gods, godlings, undead, hierophants, theurges, great warriors of unguessable age.
As the two parties gazed at one another, a long silence endured: a furious exchange of thought, speculation and surmise consumed each group at once.
Mostin reflected. It was all about the reservoirs, he was beginning to realize. And the divinations. Each transvalent spell which would be cast – and they would shake the world; of that, Mostin had no doubt – was drawn against limited resources. They would need to be played carefully to maximum effect, like pieces in some vast strategic game. And to do that required foreknowledge. And Mostin had the web of motes. But they had the cabals. It was a strange, asymmetric balance.
The Alienist scowled. Their wards were utterly inscrutable, although Mostin had no doubt that each was vastly augmented, laden with protective magics. Whilst he had expected no less, it made gauging their strength impossible; the insight of Hlioth and the gut of Eadric were their best tools in reading any purpose in the Cheshnites. He hoped that his own party was as veiled. A nagging suspicion in him was that they were not. Transvalent divinations employed by the other might break through. How secure was the quiescence? He was sure that he could feel things testing its potency. Mostin was feeling acutely paranoid. His fingers were getting twitchy.
The Ahma's gaze was drawn first to Yeshe, who had entered the world when magic was young and abundant. With each breath she drew there seemed fused the threat of explosion. Clad in adamant and black iron, and bearing ancient weapons of destructive potency, Eadric quickly estimated her mettle in battle as formidable. And her magical art, he knew, surpassed that of Mostin, by the Alienist's own admission. She seemed youthful and hale; dynamic and energized. Each new act of annihilation is fresh and exciting to you. The Void – and Eadric knew its signs well now – rested easily upon her; an undertow of black despair which grasped at frail sanity. All seemed cowed by her.
[Mostin]: (Concern). She is no arcanist; I willfully misconstrued. This woman is a High Priestess, so to speak. I didn't realize that her agenda was fuelled by such zeal.
[Ortwine]: Perhaps Eadric can seduce her? She seems his type.
[Eadric]: Perhaps Ortwine could refrain from sarcasm for a moment?
[Ortwine]: I am here under duress. Permit me at least my wit.
[Hlioth]: Silence, imbeciles!
Sibud – who did not breathe – emanated corruption and decadence in waves, and life wilted around him. His skin, grey and cracked, resembled shrivelled leather which moulted a fine dust; obscene black fingernails dripped a caustic venom, which smoked as it struck the withering grass at his feet. As Eadric's vision rested upon his form, he knew that only the vampire's resolute will maintained his quiddity, preventing his dissolution into a cloud of atoms. But into Sibud's face, the Ahma could not bring himself to look; it haunted the margin of his sight as the memory of his own death.
For Nwm, the vampire in particular was anathema. Only Threxu, the Wasted Nymph had before evoked that magnitude of revulsion. Despite it, Nwm seemed genuinely calm and confident; Eadric could not guess the reason why, but Mostin sensed subtle shiftings in magical attitudes with his arcane sight. Nwm and Hlioth and Mesikammi had prepared some contingency, no doubt.
[Mostin]: Evocation?
[Nwm]: And Necromancy.
[Mostin]:!? Are you mad? What good will that do? Half of them are dead already.
[Nwm]: You might be surprised. Uedii thinks dead things should stay properly dead. I'm not about to violate the truce, but I'm going to blast them all if they try anything, even if it kills us stone dead.
[Mesikammi]: (Clapping) Supernova! It will be beautiful! I will reincarnate as an unfettered wyrd; I have already chosen.
[Eadric]: Is she serious?
[Nwm]: Of course.
[Mostin]: If you die, stay within the quiescence! There are things beyond it which might eat your soul.
[Hlioth]: Let them try. They'll get indigestion.
The presences of Naatha and Choach – as foul and potent as they might be – Eadric could accept and absorb. Then the Ahma beheld another, behind Yeshe. A rider in similar harness to the Binder, but who sat sufficiently removed from the others within the group to indicate a disdain for the proceedings. An image of fear and bloodshed contrived in the mind of War itself. His first urge was to throw himself on the ground, and weep.
[Eadric]: Who is he?
[Mostin]: She. Visuit.
[Eadric]: We cannot prevail against such as her. We are overmatched. Why is she here?
[Daunton]: She brings war. She is war.
[Nwm]: (Smiling)
[Eadric]: I fail to see the humour, and sometimes I wonder who amongst us is the most unhinged.
[Nwm]: Her horse regards you with hope.
[Eadric]: That is small…
But the Ahma caught the animal's eye, and immediately fell in love.
