Cheiromancer
Adventurer
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 02-02-2012
Day 6 – Confrontation
When Eadric awoke, Shomei was gone. His stomach turned, and a sense of foreboding gripped him. He leapt up and hurriedly entered the study.
The air was cold. The door to the cottage was open, the fire had guttered and gone out; morning sunlight streamed in. Eadric ran outside into the snow; a long, narrow area, hemmed in on all sides by a dense thicket of Hazel. There was no sign of her, but a large patch nearby was bare of frost and had been scorched with such heat that the earth had vitrified; Qematiel must have alighted there, he knew. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Nercamay; she carried a heavy robe. She drew it about him to cover his modesty.
Nercamay smiled gently. “She asked me to tell you that the fence will be passable by noon, and you will be able to leave; that she will try her best to keep damage at Deorham to a minimum. And in the event that you don’t see her again and she does not have the opportunity to harangue you, to look first and foremost to your own enkindlement: that you should gaze upon the Sun, because Isthu Sa.*”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Less than an hour, Ahma.”
“Did she reveal her specific intention to you?” He asked.
“She was meeting with a clique of a dozen wizards which included Jalael, Muthollo and Daunton; thence to Deorham.”
“Shomei!” He called, the force of his will behind her name. He knew that she could hear him. She ignored him.
He invoked the Eleos. Nehael. Goddess. Oronthon – last.
Nercamay shook her head. “She is her own Self, Ahma; she will brook no intervention on her behalf on the part of another.”
“I refuse to accept this circumstance,” he sighed.
“I do not see that you have much choice, Ahma.”
“Can you leave here, Nercamay?’ He asked.
She shook her head. “The area is locked.”
“Unsurprising,” Eadric smiled grimly. “Can you issue a sending?”
“No, Ahma.”
“Is there no way for you to reach anyone?” He asked, exasperated.
“I am a muse, Ahma; I appear in dreams.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then that will have to do. What time is it Nercamay?”
“Dawn was two hours ago, Ahma.”
He cursed, and made his way back inside into his chambers. Eadric retrieved the figurine of the Eleos, and then rummaged through drawers in the study until he found the knife with which Shomei had carved it. He exited the cottage again, and sat upon a rude stool; all the while, Nercamay watched uncertainly.
“I need you to communicate with someone who sleeps at this late hour; Ortwine is a likely target. She prefers to rise just before noon.”
Nercamay entered a brief trance, and shook her head. “Ortwine does not sleep Ahma.”
Eadric sighed, and wracked his brains. “Try the goddess Lai.”
Again, a brief pause. Nercamay nodded. “I touched her; she seemed confused that no message was forthcoming.”
“Good,” Eadric nodded. “Dream again. Tell her to wake up, to contact Nwm and to instruct him that the Ahma will require immediate reembodiment.”
“Ahma, I…”
“Do so, Nercamay.”
She complied.
He touched the statuette of the Eleos, invoking her for protection, and handed Nercamay the blade. “I cannot kill myself, Nercamay. It is antithetical to my nature. If you…”
“I know where to put a knife, Ahma,” she said drily. “I am a devil.”
There was a brief, white-hot pain. Blood stained the snow.
Nercamay sighed, sat by the body of the Ahma, and entered saizhan.
**
Mostin had chosen an abandoned croft in a heavily wooded range of hills in Soan. None had gone there since the infestation of Graz’zt’s demons had scoured Sisperi; some few – mostly babau and leaping demons – remained, but had been quickly slain or driven off by Nwm. The binding site was an overgrown stone silo which lay half below ground, into which a steep set of moss-covered steps gave; the interior was damp and cool. Mostin had prepared an area ten feet in diameter, and drawn a diagram of baffling complexity with celestial silver and salts; items which were becoming increasingly difficult to procure with the removal of the Empyrean from reality as currently described.
Little of the remaining symbolism was traditional in nature. Shomei’s exempt status – together with her magnification – made unconventional adjuncts and trappings a requirement. Gone were the blasting rods, holy water and other typical Goetic tools; Mostin had based the rite off of the Articles of the Wyrish Injunction, and would invoke the Claviger in testimony to Shomei’s confinement. It meant working with oneiric ideograms describing various substrates of Dream; conditions to which Shomei might be vulnerable, but of which he, himself, had little experience. He fretted and paced and muttered.
Nwm – still conflicted in his feelings, but grimly conscious that the binding was probably necessary – watched dispassionately. The choice to keep Ortwine in the dark – because of her connection to the Hazel – also left him with a sour feeling in his mouth. But Hlioth’s words – that Shomei would leverage that relationship – could not be ignored. However mad, the crone’s insights were almost unerring in matters Tree-ish.
Mulissu descended through a large hole in the domed ceiling and sighed. “Will this take much longer, Mostin?”
“Trust me when I say that it would be best to get it right the first time,” the Alienist replied acidly.
**
No viridescent devas waited for him. There was no Yew; no mountain; no fresh, resin-scented air. Only a frigid void. He was distinct from it, and illuminated its merest fraction; its vastness humbled him. He gazed across an immeasurable distance at the World; it seemed tiny and insignificant. He waited. His knew that his own light and heat might sustain him for an eternity. He hoped they would not have to: he was utterly alone.
A familiar voice called to him. He sighed, and leapt toward it, intent upon descent into the Green and the body which he knew awaited him. Something – a claw made of color – rushed at him and seemed to snatch him, drawing him aside. A visage made of potential, dynamic and shifting, and wise beyond all conception, held him and observed him without emotion.
Do not forget that you are still frail, it said to him.
It hurled the Ahma downwards like a meteor; briefly, his essence fragmented into a quintillion parts and streamed into the World, which gathered them together again.
He awoke with a start, not to Nwm’s face, but to Nehael’s.
*
Eadric stood at once. His surroundings were familiar: the interior of the tabernacle. The Sela sat nearby in meditation, but did not regard him.
“That was a riskier strategy than you might imagine,” Nehael sighed.
“The stakes are high. Where is Nwm?” He asked.
“He and I are in unspoken disagreement,” Nehael smiled, handing him clothing, which he hastily began to don. “He believes that neutralizing Shomei is necessary. He has travelled to Sisperi with Mostin and Mulissu in order to bind her. Soneillon will act as a sink for Mostin’s spell. He would have waited until after this was accomplished before reincarnating you – probably as a mule. Fortunately, I knew that you were dead; I suppose if you invoke every deity you can conceive of, someone is bound to hear.”
“Why do you believe this to be an error on Nwm’s part?”
“First, because Shomei’s survival hinges on the word of Soneillon given to Mostin – and I suspect that she views it as somewhat less binding than when given to the Ahma, for whom she has a rather intense and possessive love. She knows, Eadric – how can she not, after what you have shared? Your recent actions may have led her to now view Shomei as a substantive threat to your affection.”
“And the second reason?” He groaned.
“The second reason is that the first reason does not matter, Eadric,” she handed him Lukarn. “Because Shomei will throw her full weight at Deorham before Mostin even has a chance to begin his spell; you can be assured that Soneillon will remain there until the last possible minute for her own safety. Even if she subsequently made her way to Sisperi, Shomei would follow her with Qematiel and her devils and attack before the rite could be completed. She might hound Soneillon through a dozen worlds and wreck them in her passing. Of course, Shomei wouldn’t be attacking today at all if it weren’t ...”
“…for my recent actions.” He sighed. “I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”
“Well, then at least we’ve made some progress,” Nehael nodded.
“How long do I have?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Nehael smiled.
“What if the rite were to proceed without Soneillon’s involvement?” Eadric asked. “With me acting as guarantor of Shomei’s safety?”
“You would need to find a very selfless, willing caster of some magnitude with an untapped reservoir to act as the sink,” Nehael replied.
“Can you…”
“Do not look at me, Eadric. I am red; magic is not my forte.”
“Is there any…”
Teppu coughed gently and entered the tent. Eadric gave a hopeful look.
Nehael sighed. “Yes, Eadric. Teppu is capable.”
“Then I must go now…”
“One moment,” Nehael interrupted. “Teppu’s reservoir was reserved against the imminent danger of the Cheshnite horde and the Fourth Effluxion, which looks like [this].”
Eadric staggered as the magnitude of the threat was revealed to him.
Nehael nodded. “So please bear that in mind when you choose to spend it elsewhere.”
“Why must I always be the one to choose?”
“Because you are the Ahma, Eadric,” Teppu smiled jovially. “A job which no-one else wants.”
The Sela stirred. “Do not forget that you are still frail.”
“Sela, I…”
Tramst held up his hand. “Remind Shomei that the Flame needs nothing and is always Perfect, Eadric. It cannot Fall.”
He nodded.
“And Ahma,” the Sela continued. “I don’t think you’ve done too badly, given the circumstances.”
Nehael raised an eyebrow. “The Sela is much kinder than I; I am merely compassionate.”
“Will you come?” Eadric asked Nehael.
“No, Eadric.” She smiled. “I am going to go and shoot ghouls; which is, to say, my job. But I’m sure Ortwine will accompany you; she has a bone to pick with Nwm.”
“Nehael,” he began. “Concerning Soneillon…”
“At this point, Eadric, my practical advice would be to grovel.”
“Noted,” he said.
**
[Mostin]: We are ready.
[Soneillon]: You are too late, Mostin.
*
Qematiel gyred in the skies above Trempa. Shomei considered.
Between them, Soneillon and Carasch might have a total of seven transvalents of up to the four-hundredth order available. Shomei herself had two remaining, and of only the two-hundredth, but her most powerful infernal minions had a large array of superb dispellings which, if intelligently managed, might open a gap in Soneillon’s defenses and reveal a line of attack. Shomei could then use time stops and bring a barrage of hellfire acid storms to bear against Soneillon before she could react; hopefully enough to end it. Shomei knew that careful deployment of her devils was vital. There was no doubt that the chthonic balor had seen the first wave which Shomei had dispatched; the six-winged Aristaqis and fifty exemplars would test the potent wards which shrouded Kyrtill’s Burh, and attempt to goad Soneillon into precipitous action.
Shomei could not afford to be indiscriminate in her attack; any volley or assault which happened to catch the Blackthorn in its area would result in the certain and immediate extinction of the devils responsible, as the reflex of the scion – or worse yet, the ludja itself – snuffed them out.
Her mind was linked to that of Aristaqis and followed his thoughts, although no direct sight could be conveyed to her within the suppressive ambit of the scion. The eight flights which preceded him described an arc a quarter-mile across; their positions and velocities understood by Shomei as an abstraction of constantly changing coordinates and vectors.
As though to demonstrate to Shomei both her own, sheer physical prowess and her willingness to engage immediately and without intermediaries, Soneillon appeared directly within the flight path of Aristaqis and deep within the ranks of the exemplars who accompanied him. The demoness set about the infernal seraph instantly, eschewing magic for a more direct attack. He dwarfed her with his mass, but Void struck as a storm of tendrils which lashed at him. Before he had even the chance to swing his weapon, he had been reduced to nothing; all trace of ens had been removed. His blade – a nine-foot flaming sword etched with infernal runes – plunged from the skies and sank into a bank of snow.
Shomei cursed. She hadn’t expected Soneillon to act that impulsively. The remaining devas hurled themselves at the demoness, but Soneillon shrugged them off; she preferred no further engagement at that time, and vanished. Shomei ordered the devils to reform and press on.
Shortly after, they encountered the outermost of the defenses around the keep; an impenetrable barrier of force.
*
Soneillon had learned many tricks, and had drawn freely upon the power of the Urn to entrench and fortify her position. Nested magics surrounded the stronghold, each more complex than the last.
The outermost ward was a paling not unlike that which she had erected in Throile, albeit of more modest scope: a force encountered as a solid barrier with a diameter of a mile at the center of which Kyrtill’s Burh – the stones of which had been reinforced to the point of magical adamant – was situated.
The entire area was a dimensional cordon of such power that no magic within Shomei’s grasp – or so Soneillon judged – might break it; within, a veiled discontinuity was hidden, large enough for the demoness to facilitate the summoning of her minions, and for her to flee if it became necessary. Six invisible nets, debilitating screens which would afflict those who attempted to press close, further surrounded the bastion; each was protected by a metaward designed to stave off aggressive dispellings which were focused upon it. Two inner screens – wrought of blasphemy and keyed to the annihilation of devils – provided the tightest defense. Symbols adorned the flags of the courtyard; scribed on walls and doors were glyphs describing ruin and insanity.
Within the chapel – her gap within the dimensional lock – Soneillon began to summon her lesser kin in an unending torrent; chthonic succubi who seemed as dark reflections of herself, some degrees removed in power but formidable nonetheless.
[Mazikreen]: The Paling is down.
Soneillon ignored her; the demonesses began to take flight. They harried the devas who were now moving forward in determined waves.
Powerful dispellings began to target her defenses.
Shomei deployed the main strength of her devils, striking from east, south and west with a focus upon negating the transvalent screens. An erosion of the wards began, but the dimensional lock remained intact, impervious to the superb dispellings which struck it. Fallen exemplars and episemes pressed forward relentlessly.
The Infernalist stopped time, teleported to a distance of a mile from the keep, and struck it with a yet more potent dispelling, shattering the tight inner cordon. Still, the lock endured. Shomei swore, retreated beyond range, and waited.
Time recommenced. Devils surged toward Kyrtill’s Burh.
*
Realizing what had happened, Soneillon opened the mouth to an adjacent demiplane; a confined space where several hundred demons – including Abyssal nobility whom she had suborned – had been kept locked in close proximity to one another for far too long. They erupted with a fury which was utterly indiscriminate; an explosion of malice and spite which poured out into the world, intent on doing violence to whatever was nearest. Soneillon augmented them with a powerful spell.
Within the courtyard, the black axe of Carasch now moved in great arcs, cutting through swathes of the dark celestials who flung themselves at him as though they were butter. His annihilating fire – a shroud of unbeing kindled by magic to greater intensity – burned those of lesser stature away before they even came close to him. None could withstand him.
He uttered a syllable; three Antagonists perished, along with a dozen other episemes: ash and smoke, borne away on a mordant wind. And another; a storm of blasphemous void scoured the keep and the countryside beyond of devils of less than once-exalted status. And a third; Armaros, Shomei’s captain – reckoned greatest of the Thirteen – perished beneath it.
Hellfire engulfed him; he weathered it.
*
At the last, Shomei had thrown the wyrm at the engagement. She circled above the keep, breathing great gouts of fire, carefully avoiding the scion. Demons disintegrated in droves; more than a few devils were caught in her discharges. Ahazu and Dhenu, once great Abyssal magnates, burned away within a line of destructive breath. Carasch prepared to engage her; Soneillon bade him otherwise.
The merlons on the Steeple melted as Qematiel unleashed ancient hellfire upon it, obliterating demons who jostled in the air above it. The dragon screamed; Soneillon had set about her neck, and Void pierced her scales. Qematiel powered vertically upwards, twisted her head, unleashed breath which should annihilate, groped with her claws. She thrashed wildly in the skies.
Soneillon clung tenaciously, enduring the heat, and drank of Qematiel’s being: the quiddity of the wyrm began to falter; she was slowly unmade. Her ascent arrested; she began an erratic plummet, her head and tail spinning over, end to end. As they fell, the demoness moved over her and came to rest on her muzzle between her eyes; the world reeled around them both as she transfixed the wyrm with her gaze.
[Soneillon]: We are not so different, you and I. But your time has passed; you no longer belong. This is the Void [thus]. It is peace. It is your right. Do you wish it?
[Qematiel]: I cannot remember it.
[Soneillon]: Choose to trust me, or not. I will slay you either way.
[Qematiel]: I will take it.
“You were something glorious,” Soneillon smiled gently, stroked the wyrm’s great snout, and kissed her.
Qematiel – first, last and greatest of the hellfire wyrms, and the paragon of her kind – vanished in a dark fire into oblivion.
Soneillon returned to the melee.
*
[Yeqon]: Almost…
Shomei turned to Irel, Who Smites – the only episeme whom she had not deployed into the combat, and raised an eyebrow.
“Stay here,” she instructed.
A superb dispelling of incredible power struck Soneillon.
[Yeqon]: Now. Go [here]
Shomei sensed her moment and stopped time, teleporting into the doorway of the chapel amid the chaotic fight which was underway. She paused momentarily to gain her bearings; Soneillon was in the process of slaying another seraph – the Prosecutor Pineme – and demons and fallen celestials clawed or hewed at one another nearby.
The Infernalist’s left hand began to coil temporality, a slow, purposeful movement which repeated time stops at regular twelve-second intervals. Her right charted a faster counterpoint, building hellfire in a rapid crescendo. There was no margin for error; if Shomei’s concentration faltered or she risked even one of her temporal interruptions to stretch beyond its safe duration, Soneillon, she knew, might finish her in an instant. But Shomei gave reality no opportunity to recommence.
Energy coalesced. From a subjective perspective, Shomei continued her motions for more than two minutes; outside of her bubble, no time had passed. The continuum in her vicinity threatened to snap under the pressure which she applied to it. Sweat poured off of her, as an unrealized maelstrom of power grew to incredible intensity. She emptied herself utterly. All power, all will, focused on a single Moment. That which must be done; that thing which she must have.
She teleported to a distance of twenty miles, beyond the range of the perception of Carasch.
Time began again.
Soneillon extinguished Pineme. A fraction of a second later, there was a detonation and she was engulfed in hellfire of unimaginable heat; an exquisite pain, which burned Void itself and pushed her to the brink of annihilation – where she teetered – but not quite beyond. The strength which she had sapped from her recent conquests had buoyed her to a point where she could withstand it; she sighed. This girl is such a tease, Soneillon thought.
[Shomei]: Well?
[Yeqon]: No. What now?
…
[Yeqon]: Mistress?
…
**
Shomei hurled herself at an invisible barrier in a fury; Hellfire surged from her in waves as she raved. Beyond the confining circle stood Mostin, Teppu, Mulissu and Nwm; somewhat removed, Ortwine watched without emotion. Hindmost, the Ahma, who regarded her with concern.
Shomei fumed within the thaumaturgic diagram and glowered at Mostin and Eadric. The Alienist motioned; the others made their way in some relief from the chamber. He waited until her turbulence had subsided to a point where she could communicate.
“Very clever, Mostin,” she finally nodded, looking at the glyphs which contained her.
“Finding the apposite symbolism was difficult,” he agreed. “But I think I did a good job.”
“Will this argument be a presentation from both of you at once or a sequential attempt to change my perspective? How did you get out, Eadric?”
“Nercamay killed me; Nehael resurrected me.”
“Oh?” Mostin inquired. “The muse? What is she like?”
“Quite charming,” Eadric nodded.
“You treat death lightly, Ahma,” Shomei smiled. “I cannot afford to.”
“I do nothing of the sort,” he said stonily. “How much collateral damage did you cause, Shomei?”
“I? – None. All of my actions are intensely focused, Ahma – as you know. I do not thrash wildly about. Soneillon’s demons, on the other hand, are no doubt running riot.”
“The universe does not consist entirely of you, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma, it does: that’s precisely my point.”
“And the I as relational?” Mostin asked. “Didn’t your Sela mention something like that to you in one of your more religious moments?”
“You have already been in dialogue?” Eadric was astonished. “You haven’t been communicating very well, Shomei.”
“It’s none of your damn business.” Shomei said.
“When will you assume some responsibility, you petulant child?” Eadric thundered.
Mostin raised a hand. “It seems that I must act as arbiter of your passions as well, Eadric; perhaps a little restraint is in order?”
“I…” Eadric began, and then calmed himself. “Yes, Mostin; thank-you. Shomei, the Sela asked me to remind you that the Flame needs nothing. It is always Perfect. It cannot Fall.”
She looked uncertain. “I am not sure what…”
“It is my function as the Ahma with regard to you to impress this point upon you.”
“Your perfection is certainly achievable, Shomei,” Mostin agreed unexpectedly. “The Web of Motes revealed as much. But there is some kind of gap which prevents the catenary from forming. I cannot intuit precisely what the gap is; its order is Aeonic and thus inscrutable to the Web.”
“I do not understand…”
Pharamne’s Urn landed in the dirt near the Alienist. Mostin twitched. Shomei gaped. Eadric turned his head and swallowed.
Soneillon smiled and approached. She had appeared in the guise of the Trempan peasant-girl. “There is your gap, Mostin. Ah…don’t touch it; my gesture was purely for dramatic effect.”
“Soneillon…” Eadric began.
She struck Eadric’s face soundly with her palm, flooring him. Mostin winced. Soneillon sighed, drew close to the thaumaturgic diagram, placed her hands behind her back, and inspected Shomei as though she were an exhibit on display. She arched an eyebrow.
“She is very short, Eadric,” Soneillon remarked, turning to him.
“You are very strong,” the Ahma stood groggily. He realized that she had never, before, committed any act of violence against him.
“I am not sure what you mean by the Urn being the gap,” Mostin licked his lips and looked at the amphora at his feet. “It is merely a source of great power. It is some kind of impediment to her Self-realization? ”
Shomei sat within the diagram and groaned.
“I do believe your short friend just had a little epiphany,” Soneillon smiled at Eadric.
Shomei sighed. “The power is the problem, Mostin. The Urn is external to and greater than myself; it is of the transcendent order, and is not-I. Possession of it – and a focus of myself upon it – and my own perfection – which must necessarily be described in terms of I – might be deemed mutually exclusive. I can choose one route or the other.”
“And you would deem perfection preferable?” Eadric asked.
“Well obviously, yes.”
“This irony should be preserved for all posterity,” Eadric observed drily.
Soneillon approached Eadric. He gave a nervous smile. Her eyes bored into him. “You seem to have lost my token, Eadric.”
“Well, I…”
“No matter. I have another.” She reached within her pocket and withdrew a scarf of black samite which cracked as she unfurled it, causing him to start. “For the time being, you remain mine.” She spoke through gritted teeth and tied it tightly around his wrist, cutting off his circulation. “Let’s see if you can go a week, this time.”
“Soneillon, I…”
“Later, dear.” She smiled sweetly.
The demoness turned back toward Shomei and regarded her with a mixture of scepticism and curiosity; the Infernalist appeared to have regained her focus, and seemed calmly absorbed in herself. Soneillon slowly walked toward the circle and looked intensely at her. She placed her foot within, scraping dirt across the diagram and breaking its confining power.
“Do not…” Mostin gave a horrified look.
Soneillon spoke softly. “Drishhtavanaasi varca avadhya tvamayaa.”
“Leika kunnan sauili Thiudan, kuntho.” Shomei replied. “Sezho saizhia thatei saizhio. Antharuhthan? Saizhi?”
“Nitya iisi.”
There was a pause. Fear gripped Eadric.
“I do like Irel,” Soneillon remarked. “I didn’t see him.”
“Yes, he’s sweet; I kept him back. He smites, you know.” Shomei stood.
“Really? How intriguing. Perhaps I might borrow him?”
“I am sure some arrangement can be made,” Shomei nodded. She gave a sidelong glance toward Eadric. Soneillon caught the exchange.
“But not before midsummer.” The demoness reached down, picked up the Urn, and smiled at Mostin.
“Mine,” she said.
*Thou art That
Day 6 – Confrontation
When Eadric awoke, Shomei was gone. His stomach turned, and a sense of foreboding gripped him. He leapt up and hurriedly entered the study.
The air was cold. The door to the cottage was open, the fire had guttered and gone out; morning sunlight streamed in. Eadric ran outside into the snow; a long, narrow area, hemmed in on all sides by a dense thicket of Hazel. There was no sign of her, but a large patch nearby was bare of frost and had been scorched with such heat that the earth had vitrified; Qematiel must have alighted there, he knew. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Nercamay; she carried a heavy robe. She drew it about him to cover his modesty.
Nercamay smiled gently. “She asked me to tell you that the fence will be passable by noon, and you will be able to leave; that she will try her best to keep damage at Deorham to a minimum. And in the event that you don’t see her again and she does not have the opportunity to harangue you, to look first and foremost to your own enkindlement: that you should gaze upon the Sun, because Isthu Sa.*”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Less than an hour, Ahma.”
“Did she reveal her specific intention to you?” He asked.
“She was meeting with a clique of a dozen wizards which included Jalael, Muthollo and Daunton; thence to Deorham.”
“Shomei!” He called, the force of his will behind her name. He knew that she could hear him. She ignored him.
He invoked the Eleos. Nehael. Goddess. Oronthon – last.
Nercamay shook her head. “She is her own Self, Ahma; she will brook no intervention on her behalf on the part of another.”
“I refuse to accept this circumstance,” he sighed.
“I do not see that you have much choice, Ahma.”
“Can you leave here, Nercamay?’ He asked.
She shook her head. “The area is locked.”
“Unsurprising,” Eadric smiled grimly. “Can you issue a sending?”
“No, Ahma.”
“Is there no way for you to reach anyone?” He asked, exasperated.
“I am a muse, Ahma; I appear in dreams.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then that will have to do. What time is it Nercamay?”
“Dawn was two hours ago, Ahma.”
He cursed, and made his way back inside into his chambers. Eadric retrieved the figurine of the Eleos, and then rummaged through drawers in the study until he found the knife with which Shomei had carved it. He exited the cottage again, and sat upon a rude stool; all the while, Nercamay watched uncertainly.
“I need you to communicate with someone who sleeps at this late hour; Ortwine is a likely target. She prefers to rise just before noon.”
Nercamay entered a brief trance, and shook her head. “Ortwine does not sleep Ahma.”
Eadric sighed, and wracked his brains. “Try the goddess Lai.”
Again, a brief pause. Nercamay nodded. “I touched her; she seemed confused that no message was forthcoming.”
“Good,” Eadric nodded. “Dream again. Tell her to wake up, to contact Nwm and to instruct him that the Ahma will require immediate reembodiment.”
“Ahma, I…”
“Do so, Nercamay.”
She complied.
He touched the statuette of the Eleos, invoking her for protection, and handed Nercamay the blade. “I cannot kill myself, Nercamay. It is antithetical to my nature. If you…”
“I know where to put a knife, Ahma,” she said drily. “I am a devil.”
There was a brief, white-hot pain. Blood stained the snow.
Nercamay sighed, sat by the body of the Ahma, and entered saizhan.
**
Mostin had chosen an abandoned croft in a heavily wooded range of hills in Soan. None had gone there since the infestation of Graz’zt’s demons had scoured Sisperi; some few – mostly babau and leaping demons – remained, but had been quickly slain or driven off by Nwm. The binding site was an overgrown stone silo which lay half below ground, into which a steep set of moss-covered steps gave; the interior was damp and cool. Mostin had prepared an area ten feet in diameter, and drawn a diagram of baffling complexity with celestial silver and salts; items which were becoming increasingly difficult to procure with the removal of the Empyrean from reality as currently described.
Little of the remaining symbolism was traditional in nature. Shomei’s exempt status – together with her magnification – made unconventional adjuncts and trappings a requirement. Gone were the blasting rods, holy water and other typical Goetic tools; Mostin had based the rite off of the Articles of the Wyrish Injunction, and would invoke the Claviger in testimony to Shomei’s confinement. It meant working with oneiric ideograms describing various substrates of Dream; conditions to which Shomei might be vulnerable, but of which he, himself, had little experience. He fretted and paced and muttered.
Nwm – still conflicted in his feelings, but grimly conscious that the binding was probably necessary – watched dispassionately. The choice to keep Ortwine in the dark – because of her connection to the Hazel – also left him with a sour feeling in his mouth. But Hlioth’s words – that Shomei would leverage that relationship – could not be ignored. However mad, the crone’s insights were almost unerring in matters Tree-ish.
Mulissu descended through a large hole in the domed ceiling and sighed. “Will this take much longer, Mostin?”
“Trust me when I say that it would be best to get it right the first time,” the Alienist replied acidly.
**
No viridescent devas waited for him. There was no Yew; no mountain; no fresh, resin-scented air. Only a frigid void. He was distinct from it, and illuminated its merest fraction; its vastness humbled him. He gazed across an immeasurable distance at the World; it seemed tiny and insignificant. He waited. His knew that his own light and heat might sustain him for an eternity. He hoped they would not have to: he was utterly alone.
A familiar voice called to him. He sighed, and leapt toward it, intent upon descent into the Green and the body which he knew awaited him. Something – a claw made of color – rushed at him and seemed to snatch him, drawing him aside. A visage made of potential, dynamic and shifting, and wise beyond all conception, held him and observed him without emotion.
Do not forget that you are still frail, it said to him.
It hurled the Ahma downwards like a meteor; briefly, his essence fragmented into a quintillion parts and streamed into the World, which gathered them together again.
He awoke with a start, not to Nwm’s face, but to Nehael’s.
*
Eadric stood at once. His surroundings were familiar: the interior of the tabernacle. The Sela sat nearby in meditation, but did not regard him.
“That was a riskier strategy than you might imagine,” Nehael sighed.
“The stakes are high. Where is Nwm?” He asked.
“He and I are in unspoken disagreement,” Nehael smiled, handing him clothing, which he hastily began to don. “He believes that neutralizing Shomei is necessary. He has travelled to Sisperi with Mostin and Mulissu in order to bind her. Soneillon will act as a sink for Mostin’s spell. He would have waited until after this was accomplished before reincarnating you – probably as a mule. Fortunately, I knew that you were dead; I suppose if you invoke every deity you can conceive of, someone is bound to hear.”
“Why do you believe this to be an error on Nwm’s part?”
“First, because Shomei’s survival hinges on the word of Soneillon given to Mostin – and I suspect that she views it as somewhat less binding than when given to the Ahma, for whom she has a rather intense and possessive love. She knows, Eadric – how can she not, after what you have shared? Your recent actions may have led her to now view Shomei as a substantive threat to your affection.”
“And the second reason?” He groaned.
“The second reason is that the first reason does not matter, Eadric,” she handed him Lukarn. “Because Shomei will throw her full weight at Deorham before Mostin even has a chance to begin his spell; you can be assured that Soneillon will remain there until the last possible minute for her own safety. Even if she subsequently made her way to Sisperi, Shomei would follow her with Qematiel and her devils and attack before the rite could be completed. She might hound Soneillon through a dozen worlds and wreck them in her passing. Of course, Shomei wouldn’t be attacking today at all if it weren’t ...”
“…for my recent actions.” He sighed. “I feel as though I’ve made a terrible mess of things.”
“Well, then at least we’ve made some progress,” Nehael nodded.
“How long do I have?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Nehael smiled.
“What if the rite were to proceed without Soneillon’s involvement?” Eadric asked. “With me acting as guarantor of Shomei’s safety?”
“You would need to find a very selfless, willing caster of some magnitude with an untapped reservoir to act as the sink,” Nehael replied.
“Can you…”
“Do not look at me, Eadric. I am red; magic is not my forte.”
“Is there any…”
Teppu coughed gently and entered the tent. Eadric gave a hopeful look.
Nehael sighed. “Yes, Eadric. Teppu is capable.”
“Then I must go now…”
“One moment,” Nehael interrupted. “Teppu’s reservoir was reserved against the imminent danger of the Cheshnite horde and the Fourth Effluxion, which looks like [this].”
Eadric staggered as the magnitude of the threat was revealed to him.
Nehael nodded. “So please bear that in mind when you choose to spend it elsewhere.”
“Why must I always be the one to choose?”
“Because you are the Ahma, Eadric,” Teppu smiled jovially. “A job which no-one else wants.”
The Sela stirred. “Do not forget that you are still frail.”
“Sela, I…”
Tramst held up his hand. “Remind Shomei that the Flame needs nothing and is always Perfect, Eadric. It cannot Fall.”
He nodded.
“And Ahma,” the Sela continued. “I don’t think you’ve done too badly, given the circumstances.”
Nehael raised an eyebrow. “The Sela is much kinder than I; I am merely compassionate.”
“Will you come?” Eadric asked Nehael.
“No, Eadric.” She smiled. “I am going to go and shoot ghouls; which is, to say, my job. But I’m sure Ortwine will accompany you; she has a bone to pick with Nwm.”
“Nehael,” he began. “Concerning Soneillon…”
“At this point, Eadric, my practical advice would be to grovel.”
“Noted,” he said.
**
[Mostin]: We are ready.
[Soneillon]: You are too late, Mostin.
*
Qematiel gyred in the skies above Trempa. Shomei considered.
Between them, Soneillon and Carasch might have a total of seven transvalents of up to the four-hundredth order available. Shomei herself had two remaining, and of only the two-hundredth, but her most powerful infernal minions had a large array of superb dispellings which, if intelligently managed, might open a gap in Soneillon’s defenses and reveal a line of attack. Shomei could then use time stops and bring a barrage of hellfire acid storms to bear against Soneillon before she could react; hopefully enough to end it. Shomei knew that careful deployment of her devils was vital. There was no doubt that the chthonic balor had seen the first wave which Shomei had dispatched; the six-winged Aristaqis and fifty exemplars would test the potent wards which shrouded Kyrtill’s Burh, and attempt to goad Soneillon into precipitous action.
Shomei could not afford to be indiscriminate in her attack; any volley or assault which happened to catch the Blackthorn in its area would result in the certain and immediate extinction of the devils responsible, as the reflex of the scion – or worse yet, the ludja itself – snuffed them out.
Her mind was linked to that of Aristaqis and followed his thoughts, although no direct sight could be conveyed to her within the suppressive ambit of the scion. The eight flights which preceded him described an arc a quarter-mile across; their positions and velocities understood by Shomei as an abstraction of constantly changing coordinates and vectors.
As though to demonstrate to Shomei both her own, sheer physical prowess and her willingness to engage immediately and without intermediaries, Soneillon appeared directly within the flight path of Aristaqis and deep within the ranks of the exemplars who accompanied him. The demoness set about the infernal seraph instantly, eschewing magic for a more direct attack. He dwarfed her with his mass, but Void struck as a storm of tendrils which lashed at him. Before he had even the chance to swing his weapon, he had been reduced to nothing; all trace of ens had been removed. His blade – a nine-foot flaming sword etched with infernal runes – plunged from the skies and sank into a bank of snow.
Shomei cursed. She hadn’t expected Soneillon to act that impulsively. The remaining devas hurled themselves at the demoness, but Soneillon shrugged them off; she preferred no further engagement at that time, and vanished. Shomei ordered the devils to reform and press on.
Shortly after, they encountered the outermost of the defenses around the keep; an impenetrable barrier of force.
*
Soneillon had learned many tricks, and had drawn freely upon the power of the Urn to entrench and fortify her position. Nested magics surrounded the stronghold, each more complex than the last.
The outermost ward was a paling not unlike that which she had erected in Throile, albeit of more modest scope: a force encountered as a solid barrier with a diameter of a mile at the center of which Kyrtill’s Burh – the stones of which had been reinforced to the point of magical adamant – was situated.
The entire area was a dimensional cordon of such power that no magic within Shomei’s grasp – or so Soneillon judged – might break it; within, a veiled discontinuity was hidden, large enough for the demoness to facilitate the summoning of her minions, and for her to flee if it became necessary. Six invisible nets, debilitating screens which would afflict those who attempted to press close, further surrounded the bastion; each was protected by a metaward designed to stave off aggressive dispellings which were focused upon it. Two inner screens – wrought of blasphemy and keyed to the annihilation of devils – provided the tightest defense. Symbols adorned the flags of the courtyard; scribed on walls and doors were glyphs describing ruin and insanity.
Within the chapel – her gap within the dimensional lock – Soneillon began to summon her lesser kin in an unending torrent; chthonic succubi who seemed as dark reflections of herself, some degrees removed in power but formidable nonetheless.
[Mazikreen]: The Paling is down.
Soneillon ignored her; the demonesses began to take flight. They harried the devas who were now moving forward in determined waves.
Powerful dispellings began to target her defenses.
Shomei deployed the main strength of her devils, striking from east, south and west with a focus upon negating the transvalent screens. An erosion of the wards began, but the dimensional lock remained intact, impervious to the superb dispellings which struck it. Fallen exemplars and episemes pressed forward relentlessly.
The Infernalist stopped time, teleported to a distance of a mile from the keep, and struck it with a yet more potent dispelling, shattering the tight inner cordon. Still, the lock endured. Shomei swore, retreated beyond range, and waited.
Time recommenced. Devils surged toward Kyrtill’s Burh.
*
Realizing what had happened, Soneillon opened the mouth to an adjacent demiplane; a confined space where several hundred demons – including Abyssal nobility whom she had suborned – had been kept locked in close proximity to one another for far too long. They erupted with a fury which was utterly indiscriminate; an explosion of malice and spite which poured out into the world, intent on doing violence to whatever was nearest. Soneillon augmented them with a powerful spell.
Within the courtyard, the black axe of Carasch now moved in great arcs, cutting through swathes of the dark celestials who flung themselves at him as though they were butter. His annihilating fire – a shroud of unbeing kindled by magic to greater intensity – burned those of lesser stature away before they even came close to him. None could withstand him.
He uttered a syllable; three Antagonists perished, along with a dozen other episemes: ash and smoke, borne away on a mordant wind. And another; a storm of blasphemous void scoured the keep and the countryside beyond of devils of less than once-exalted status. And a third; Armaros, Shomei’s captain – reckoned greatest of the Thirteen – perished beneath it.
Hellfire engulfed him; he weathered it.
*
At the last, Shomei had thrown the wyrm at the engagement. She circled above the keep, breathing great gouts of fire, carefully avoiding the scion. Demons disintegrated in droves; more than a few devils were caught in her discharges. Ahazu and Dhenu, once great Abyssal magnates, burned away within a line of destructive breath. Carasch prepared to engage her; Soneillon bade him otherwise.
The merlons on the Steeple melted as Qematiel unleashed ancient hellfire upon it, obliterating demons who jostled in the air above it. The dragon screamed; Soneillon had set about her neck, and Void pierced her scales. Qematiel powered vertically upwards, twisted her head, unleashed breath which should annihilate, groped with her claws. She thrashed wildly in the skies.
Soneillon clung tenaciously, enduring the heat, and drank of Qematiel’s being: the quiddity of the wyrm began to falter; she was slowly unmade. Her ascent arrested; she began an erratic plummet, her head and tail spinning over, end to end. As they fell, the demoness moved over her and came to rest on her muzzle between her eyes; the world reeled around them both as she transfixed the wyrm with her gaze.
[Soneillon]: We are not so different, you and I. But your time has passed; you no longer belong. This is the Void [thus]. It is peace. It is your right. Do you wish it?
[Qematiel]: I cannot remember it.
[Soneillon]: Choose to trust me, or not. I will slay you either way.
[Qematiel]: I will take it.
“You were something glorious,” Soneillon smiled gently, stroked the wyrm’s great snout, and kissed her.
Qematiel – first, last and greatest of the hellfire wyrms, and the paragon of her kind – vanished in a dark fire into oblivion.
Soneillon returned to the melee.
*
[Yeqon]: Almost…
Shomei turned to Irel, Who Smites – the only episeme whom she had not deployed into the combat, and raised an eyebrow.
“Stay here,” she instructed.
A superb dispelling of incredible power struck Soneillon.
[Yeqon]: Now. Go [here]
Shomei sensed her moment and stopped time, teleporting into the doorway of the chapel amid the chaotic fight which was underway. She paused momentarily to gain her bearings; Soneillon was in the process of slaying another seraph – the Prosecutor Pineme – and demons and fallen celestials clawed or hewed at one another nearby.
The Infernalist’s left hand began to coil temporality, a slow, purposeful movement which repeated time stops at regular twelve-second intervals. Her right charted a faster counterpoint, building hellfire in a rapid crescendo. There was no margin for error; if Shomei’s concentration faltered or she risked even one of her temporal interruptions to stretch beyond its safe duration, Soneillon, she knew, might finish her in an instant. But Shomei gave reality no opportunity to recommence.
Energy coalesced. From a subjective perspective, Shomei continued her motions for more than two minutes; outside of her bubble, no time had passed. The continuum in her vicinity threatened to snap under the pressure which she applied to it. Sweat poured off of her, as an unrealized maelstrom of power grew to incredible intensity. She emptied herself utterly. All power, all will, focused on a single Moment. That which must be done; that thing which she must have.
She teleported to a distance of twenty miles, beyond the range of the perception of Carasch.
Time began again.
Soneillon extinguished Pineme. A fraction of a second later, there was a detonation and she was engulfed in hellfire of unimaginable heat; an exquisite pain, which burned Void itself and pushed her to the brink of annihilation – where she teetered – but not quite beyond. The strength which she had sapped from her recent conquests had buoyed her to a point where she could withstand it; she sighed. This girl is such a tease, Soneillon thought.
[Shomei]: Well?
[Yeqon]: No. What now?
…
[Yeqon]: Mistress?
…
**
Shomei hurled herself at an invisible barrier in a fury; Hellfire surged from her in waves as she raved. Beyond the confining circle stood Mostin, Teppu, Mulissu and Nwm; somewhat removed, Ortwine watched without emotion. Hindmost, the Ahma, who regarded her with concern.
Shomei fumed within the thaumaturgic diagram and glowered at Mostin and Eadric. The Alienist motioned; the others made their way in some relief from the chamber. He waited until her turbulence had subsided to a point where she could communicate.
“Very clever, Mostin,” she finally nodded, looking at the glyphs which contained her.
“Finding the apposite symbolism was difficult,” he agreed. “But I think I did a good job.”
“Will this argument be a presentation from both of you at once or a sequential attempt to change my perspective? How did you get out, Eadric?”
“Nercamay killed me; Nehael resurrected me.”
“Oh?” Mostin inquired. “The muse? What is she like?”
“Quite charming,” Eadric nodded.
“You treat death lightly, Ahma,” Shomei smiled. “I cannot afford to.”
“I do nothing of the sort,” he said stonily. “How much collateral damage did you cause, Shomei?”
“I? – None. All of my actions are intensely focused, Ahma – as you know. I do not thrash wildly about. Soneillon’s demons, on the other hand, are no doubt running riot.”
“The universe does not consist entirely of you, Shomei.”
“Yes, Ahma, it does: that’s precisely my point.”
“And the I as relational?” Mostin asked. “Didn’t your Sela mention something like that to you in one of your more religious moments?”
“You have already been in dialogue?” Eadric was astonished. “You haven’t been communicating very well, Shomei.”
“It’s none of your damn business.” Shomei said.
“When will you assume some responsibility, you petulant child?” Eadric thundered.
Mostin raised a hand. “It seems that I must act as arbiter of your passions as well, Eadric; perhaps a little restraint is in order?”
“I…” Eadric began, and then calmed himself. “Yes, Mostin; thank-you. Shomei, the Sela asked me to remind you that the Flame needs nothing. It is always Perfect. It cannot Fall.”
She looked uncertain. “I am not sure what…”
“It is my function as the Ahma with regard to you to impress this point upon you.”
“Your perfection is certainly achievable, Shomei,” Mostin agreed unexpectedly. “The Web of Motes revealed as much. But there is some kind of gap which prevents the catenary from forming. I cannot intuit precisely what the gap is; its order is Aeonic and thus inscrutable to the Web.”
“I do not understand…”
Pharamne’s Urn landed in the dirt near the Alienist. Mostin twitched. Shomei gaped. Eadric turned his head and swallowed.
Soneillon smiled and approached. She had appeared in the guise of the Trempan peasant-girl. “There is your gap, Mostin. Ah…don’t touch it; my gesture was purely for dramatic effect.”
“Soneillon…” Eadric began.
She struck Eadric’s face soundly with her palm, flooring him. Mostin winced. Soneillon sighed, drew close to the thaumaturgic diagram, placed her hands behind her back, and inspected Shomei as though she were an exhibit on display. She arched an eyebrow.
“She is very short, Eadric,” Soneillon remarked, turning to him.
“You are very strong,” the Ahma stood groggily. He realized that she had never, before, committed any act of violence against him.
“I am not sure what you mean by the Urn being the gap,” Mostin licked his lips and looked at the amphora at his feet. “It is merely a source of great power. It is some kind of impediment to her Self-realization? ”
Shomei sat within the diagram and groaned.
“I do believe your short friend just had a little epiphany,” Soneillon smiled at Eadric.
Shomei sighed. “The power is the problem, Mostin. The Urn is external to and greater than myself; it is of the transcendent order, and is not-I. Possession of it – and a focus of myself upon it – and my own perfection – which must necessarily be described in terms of I – might be deemed mutually exclusive. I can choose one route or the other.”
“And you would deem perfection preferable?” Eadric asked.
“Well obviously, yes.”
“This irony should be preserved for all posterity,” Eadric observed drily.
Soneillon approached Eadric. He gave a nervous smile. Her eyes bored into him. “You seem to have lost my token, Eadric.”
“Well, I…”
“No matter. I have another.” She reached within her pocket and withdrew a scarf of black samite which cracked as she unfurled it, causing him to start. “For the time being, you remain mine.” She spoke through gritted teeth and tied it tightly around his wrist, cutting off his circulation. “Let’s see if you can go a week, this time.”
“Soneillon, I…”
“Later, dear.” She smiled sweetly.
The demoness turned back toward Shomei and regarded her with a mixture of scepticism and curiosity; the Infernalist appeared to have regained her focus, and seemed calmly absorbed in herself. Soneillon slowly walked toward the circle and looked intensely at her. She placed her foot within, scraping dirt across the diagram and breaking its confining power.
“Do not…” Mostin gave a horrified look.
Soneillon spoke softly. “Drishhtavanaasi varca avadhya tvamayaa.”
“Leika kunnan sauili Thiudan, kuntho.” Shomei replied. “Sezho saizhia thatei saizhio. Antharuhthan? Saizhi?”
“Nitya iisi.”
There was a pause. Fear gripped Eadric.
“I do like Irel,” Soneillon remarked. “I didn’t see him.”
“Yes, he’s sweet; I kept him back. He smites, you know.” Shomei stood.
“Really? How intriguing. Perhaps I might borrow him?”
“I am sure some arrangement can be made,” Shomei nodded. She gave a sidelong glance toward Eadric. Soneillon caught the exchange.
“But not before midsummer.” The demoness reached down, picked up the Urn, and smiled at Mostin.
“Mine,” she said.
*Thou art That
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The fact that it started from and reflected a D&D game throughout most (all?) of the story makes it a unique and uniquely engaging form of storytelling. The fact that it's spawned an entire philosophical theology (philisophology?) still has my brain reeling at the very idea of such a thing. Nice job on all fronts, and I'll keep an eye out for the movie sextology 
