**
Dream and Demon - Part 2
The Ahma dreamed.
A peculiar lucidity informed him that it was a significant dream. One to which attention should be shown. Either an insight of some kind was about to be revealed, or Soneillon was manipulating his unconscious.
In his dreamscape, Eadric sat upon a rock and smiled wrily, wondering which it was.
He watched as a slender fey – a sprite perhaps four feet tall, and approximately male – approached and sat on a similar rock which had appeared nearby. Eadric spoke first.
"If I asked you who you were, you would, no doubt, give me an oblique paradox in return. Have I met you before?"
"Not precisely, no," the Sprite answered opaquely.
"Do you serve Oronthon?" Eadric asked.
"I serve the Dialectic," the Sprite replied.
"Is there a difference?"
"In my mind, yes," the Sprite answered, "although perhaps not in yours."
"I do not trust you."
"That may be wise," the Sprite nodded. "But you once dreamed of who I was. You trusted him."
"You were Jovol, before…" Eadric realized in a flash.
"You are correct. I have, however, adopted the form of a fey for my current manifestation: the significance of this may be revealed in due course. But you should not confuse Jovol's character with my own – our perceptions are quite different."
"And the Claviger?"
"That particular strand of doubt is now resolved. It no longer interests me."
"It reassures me that you are still active…" Eadric began.
"It shouldn't. I serve the Dialectic, not Oronthon."
"Why are you speaking to me now?" Eadric asked.
"Because complexity must increase," the Sprite answered.
"Suddenly, I mislike your agenda," Eadric scowled.
"That is because you cannot hope to comprehend it."
"Are you benign?" The question was incisive in its naïveté.
"Presently, yes. But I am a fey, and you will find your ethical standards somewhat inadequate to the task of describing me."
"What is your name?" Eadric asked.
"I haven't decided yet."
Eadric woke up and groaned.
After he had brooded for an hour, Eadric returned to sleep. He dreamed again.
*
He sat upon a lichen-covered stone bench within a shady arbour. A flower garden lay before him, and the blooming rhododendrons within it alerted Eadric to the fact that it was late spring, or early summer. Somewhere in the distance – although from which direction he could not tell – cheers and laughter could be heard: swords struck shields, and hooves galloped to and fro. A tourney, or a joust, most likely. The sound of a lyre drifted over the other noises: the tune was unknown, and, although played in a major key, bore a subtle melancholic undertone.
Eadric watched as a girl in a white dress approached, turned, and sat next to him. Her presence was comforting. Her smell, familiar and intoxicating. She smiled.
"I was unsure of what your reaction would be," Eadric said, "after we fled from Throile."
"Guilt and regret are futile emotions," Soneillon said easily. "Assuming you feel either in any measure. Do you, Eadric?"
Eadric sighed. "You utterly confound me," he said.
"How did the prospect of my demise make you feel?" She asked. "You must have considered the possibility."
He groaned. "Why do you ask such questions? And why did you evoke this particular scenario? I suppose it is somehow for my benefit – I doubt that such gardens grow in the Abyss, or that tournaments are routinely held there."
"There are an immeasurable number of delights for those who know where to look," Soneillon replied. "Can you say with certainty that nothing like this could be found there?"
"For a brief while in some place, maybe. Before entropy caused another random scene to appear, and then it too was swallowed by baseness and depravity."
"You cling to transience in the hope that it will be eternal," she shrugged. "I admit to the inevitability of change, and embrace it. Which of us is more authentic?"
He shook his head. "Your rhetoric does not move me."
"That is because you are secure in the knowledge that you are right, irrespective of any ideas offered to the contrary. If you were truly interested in results, rather than abstract ethical concerns, then you would embrace me and what I have to offer you. I could show you the secret path, Eadric. I believe you have integrity enough to withstand the void. To overcome unbeing..."
A look of horror crossed his face as the magnitude of what she was suggesting sank into his consciousness. "I am sure that if I were to fall in the process of defeating Graz'zt, then few things would make you happier."
"Unlike Titivilus, I have no desire to see you fall, Eadric," Soneillon replied with surprising earnestness. "Nor would I push you. But if you were to seize your potential with both hands – if you were to jump – then I would say that you had done the right thing."
"No doubt you would find me more tractable in such circumstances."
"Far less so, in fact. You have no concept of the power and dominion that you could wield."
"Power holds no attraction for me."
"That is because you have never truly exercised it," Soneillon whispered.
"If it came at the price of eternal madness and self-loathing, then I think that I would do better without it."
Soneillon reached out to touch his face, and he recoiled. She sighed. "If I evinced these qualities, then I would admit that your argument is valid. The offer remains open, Eadric, if at any stage you should change your mind – not that I expect you to."
"You are very, very dangerous."
"You are afraid."
"Of an eternity shackled to you in a pit of despair?" Eadric laughed. "I think that is a reasonable fear."
"There are no shackles. I offer only self-determination, and an end to anguish."
"No doubt," he said wrily, "you think that I would come willingly to you after this 'liberation.'"
"I think you would," Soneillon half-smiled. "And I know nothing of 'eternity' – which is your construction, not mine. A millennium, maybe. Or an epoch. Or an aeon."
"Put the possibility from your mind, Soneillon."
"As you wish, Ahma." The religious epithet was not lost on Eadric, although he was unsure of why she chose to use it now. But it would be a good aeon.
He smiled and shook his head. She just couldn't resist.
Soneillon stretched, and her manner became more practical. "Shall we stroll? The sun is warm, and we can watch the joust while we iron out the details of how to proceed. We have much to discuss."
He nodded. "At least I can tolerate this scene – you could have chosen a far darker one."
"This is your dreamscape, Eadric, not mine. I am an interloper – although I think perhaps I should maintain this dream's cohesion, to appease your misplaced sense of continuity."
*
They sat in a small booth. Eadric winced as he watched a knight fall to the ground, expertly unhorsed by a cavalier who wore armour enamelled with intricate motifs in gold and green. Every detail was so precise that it was impossible to label the experience as anything other than completely real.
A pixie appeared and poured him a large glass of iced tea. Eadric raised an eyebrow.
"Forgive the inconsistency," Soneillon apologized. "I stole the fey from Ortwin's dream. He won't miss it."
Eadric said nothing of the sprite who had visited him previously.
"Abyssal politics are complex, Eadric," the Demoness sighed. "And the more power one possesses, the more complex they become – with a few notable exceptions, such as Carasch, of whom I believe Nufrut already informed you."
As the knight in gold and green trotted in a slow circuit, Soneillon languidly raised a silk scarf.
"Graz'zt," she continued, "being very powerful, is enmeshed in a web of interlocking interests of enormous subtlety. In order to hold Throile, he needs to divert resources from other areas – such as his war with Orcus – or risk losing it back to me in short order."
The knight rode up and lowered his lance, and Soneillon pinned the scarf to it. She tossed a garland of black lotuses towards him.
"Thus, conquering Throile is one thing, but holding it is entirely another. There is no defense that he can erect which I cannot overcome – unless he comes there personally. Even then, given sufficient time and preparation, I can probably circumvent it. Moreover, the Paling is my construction: it responds to my commands – not his. And there are interconnected wrinkles within the fabric of the plane which his servants cannot penetrate."
"Wrinkles?" Eadric asked.
"Nondimensional spaces. Demiplanes. Pockets of time and space which abut Throile itself."
"And Adyell? How close was she in your confidence? How many of your secrets does she know?"
"Less than she would like to think. Nonetheless, I have underestimated her ability. The disjunctions that she used to bring down the defense were something of a surprise – I thought I had siphoned her power more effectively.* She must have hidden a little from me."
"Where is she now?"
"In Azzagrat," the Demoness replied. "No doubt she is petitioning Graz'zt for suzerainty of Throile, and using every wile within her means to persuade him."
Soneillon clapped politely as her chosen knight unhorsed another rival.
"Your forces have been overwhelmed, Soneillon. I wonder if you are really this unperturbed, or whether this demonstration of calm indifference is for my benefit?"
"Scattered is not overwhelmed," she replied smoothly, "although it's true that my goristroi and my jariliths have been all but eliminated, and that is a sore loss. Or maybe not: I am no longer fighting a defensive action."
"Mostin had hoped that you would deploy them in Afqithan – if he carries off his dimensional lock, then they would have proven useful. He fears Kostchtchie's giants."
"Mostin exhibits an unusual degree of prescience," Soneillon smiled, turning to Eadric. "It is enough to cause me to wonder where he gets his information. I have myself only recently heard news that Kostchtchie is mobilizing for certain."
"Mostin is..."
"You are a terrible liar, Eadric, so I will not press the point: I suspect that it would make you uncomfortable. As to Afqithan, I will still commit what I can when Nhura has gathered her rabble together. I feel somewhat responsible – after all, it was I who made her queen in the first place."
Eadric refocused. The Demoness's manner was so natural, so effortless, that it was easy to forget who she was. Responsible? Hardly, he thought. "And Throile?"
"Throile can wait," she answered. "It will be there when the current crisis has passed. And Graz'zt expects some kind of counter-offensive there. Helitihai will lead a group of insurgents – which should occupy whoever Graz'zt or Ainhorr appoints as despot. But I will reserve a sizable force for Afqithan."
Eadric sighed. "What of Rhyxali, Soneillon? She remains only a name to me."
Soneillon laughed. "I think that is the way that she prefers it. She is very furtive."
"I still don't understand what her interest in this is."
"Nor am I entirely sure," Soneillon admitted. "I suspect that it goes beyond reclaiming Afqithan – maybe even beyond taking Azzagrat for herself. I am not privy to her wider schemes."
"Is her manner as disarming as yours?"
"I'm sure it could be, if she so chose."
He groaned. "Fiends are so indirect. I often feel that it would be better if I could simply deal with them as they are. You spoke of authenticity before – but I have yet to see you display that quality. You play games, and hide behind masques and personae in order to achieve your ends."
"I am authentic in that regard – that is my nature. And although I understand your grievance, you need to comprehend that, even amongst the Fallen, I am a rarity. I have tasted oblivion Eadric, and it is sweet."
"Still you dissemble."
Her wings unfurled. Suddenly, the malignity in Soneillon seemed palpable. It was so profound that Eadric shook. His head span. Even in Throile, she had never evinced it to him, hiding it behind a veneer of lightness and courtesy. Here was an abomination, with a billion lifetimes of wickedness and hatred to its name.
"Is this what you want?" She asked.
The dreamscape around them melted into a scene of agony and madness. His limbs atrophied, and his mind screamed as her claws sank into him, sapping his strength. She straddled him, and consumed him.
Reeling, Eadric strove to regain consciousness, and a hundred false awakenings dragged him yet further into a mire of despair. Her release was so sudden – and so violent – that he feared he would be annihilated. Her Will – which seemed irresistible – drew him with her.
Like one who has dived too far, he gasped as he broke the surface of the nightmare, only to find himself within the booth again, watching the tourney. Soneillon sat next to him. She seemed unfazed, and poured another glass of iced tea.
"Dreams within dreams," she smiled. "Shall I show you more?"
He turned his face away from her.
She vanished and reappeared in an instant, kneeling on his left side with her face inches from his. Her eyes bored into him.
"It is merely another facet, Eadric. A persona. It is part of me, but I am more complex than that. Nothing becomes – you know this. Jump, Eadric. I will catch you."
**
The raven watched as the heavy torc dropped from its talons and turned three times in the air, before landing in the still water below with a plop.
Gone. The torc was gone. A feeling of liberation mixed with sadness and loss washed over the bird. In order to do what he had to do, the raven needed to sever his connection with the thing he wanted to be closest to. The irony was not lost on him. Centuries before, worshippers in the nascent cult of Uedii had tossed gold into lakes in supplication, or to appease the dangerous moods of their Goddess. The raven wondered whether they had felt the same wrench that he did now. But if the sacrifice did not diminish the devotee, then how could it be genuine?
In due course, perhaps the nereid who dwelt in the lake would find the torc. Nwm hoped that, if so, she would put its magic to good use.
A spell, he thought to himself. I must make a spell, to reestablish the connection. Some day.
As he winged away northwards, towards the mountains and the encroaching winter snow, Nwm exulted in the feeling of wind on his wings. Perhaps he would stay as a bird for a week or two. The perspective might be good for him.
Over Iald – not too far from Hullu's former abode – he spotted a group of crows and ravens circling above the treetops.
A wolf kill, he knew.
Nwm descended to feed.
*
"He's just gone?" Eadric groaned. "Why didn't he speak to me about it?"
"Probably because he thought you would talk him out of it," Ortwin said. He handed a letter to the Ahma. Eadric grunted, and read it:
I'm going on retreat for three months or so. Don't disturb me, please. I'll see you when the thaw begins.
Nwm.
"This is inconvenient," Eadric remarked.
"It’s a damned pain in the arse, that's what it is," Mostin grumbled bitterly. "I need Nwm for the quiescence of the spheres. Now I'll need to tweak it, and Koilimilou will have to participate. We've just lost a third of our firepower."
But as he sat later in reflection, Eadric felt numb and listless. His dreams – if they could be called dreams – of the previous night lay heavily upon him. He had spoken to no-one of them. The only person whose perspective he really valued had decided to disappear for a season. And Iua had gone – was she coming back? What was Ortwin doing? Attempting to seduce Koilimilou?
His stomach turned. A pall of corruption seemed to be settling over them – not entirely unexpected, given their allies, but no less unwelcome. He wondered if Nwm was getting out for precisely that reason.
**
Mulissu exited the extradimensional space – a variation of Mostin's permanent magnificent mansion where she spent much time – and stepped into the courtyard of the small palace in her pocket demiplane.
She was expecting a visit from a djinn called Rauot, a messenger from Magathei who brought Mulissu a stipend every six months: her fifty-pound alimony of gold from the estranged Ulao. Typically – and ironically – Mulissu would fritter the money when she made her occasional secret visits to the marketplaces of Magathei itself.
She flew past screens and archways into a comfortable reception chamber – an open and well-lit conservatory. A variety of exotic foliage bloomed in clay tubs and crept up slender pillars which supported the enamelled ceiling. As she floated – absorbed in aery thought – she became alerted to another presence in the chamber. Suddenly, the world felt dead.
She froze.
"Please sit," a voice said from behind her.
Without word or gesture, in a moment's thought, Mulissu exited the time stream. The Elementalist, although no coward, was no fool either. And more time was always better than less.
She turned to observe a demon sitting comfortably in one of her large wicker chairs. Beautiful was a woefully inadequate description of him: his skin was a deep, bluish-black; his musculature, perfect. He possessed features which were somehow both bestial and refined, as though infinite barbarity and utter sophistication had been distilled into a single face. The force of his presence was staggering, and even within the stasis of the spell, his stillness seemed impossible or unreal: here was an entity of utter dynamism. Mulissu – no expert in demonology – was immediately aware of his identity. The fact that Graz'zt had made no effort to disguise himself was also significant, although Mulissu wrily observed that there were any number of possible reasons for his apparent lack of subterfuge.
Mulissu attempted to make a passage of lightning**: her destination was Morne in Wyre. The translation failed, and she realized that Graz'zt had already placed some kind of ward which prevented the use of the spell. And, no doubt, teleport, gate and any number of other transportation spells.
She could not flee, nor could she realistically assault her uninvited guest. She stood small chance of penetrating his defenses with anything other than an electrical evocation – which might tickle him at best.
She invoked a limited wish in order to issue a sending to Mostin. It failed.
Calling upon the power in the sapphire which hung around her neck, Mulissu tried to erect a prismatic sphere around herself. Somehow, the force of her amulet was subdued, and the defensive spell did not manifest.
In fact, nothing which was not a transvalent spell would work, it seemed.
She fled away at breakneck speed. The restricted area could not be big – even for Graz'zt, such an act would surely require a monumental effort. She would retreat back into the magnificent mansion.
As she approached the portal to the extradimensional space, a breeze stirred from a bound elemental, alerting Mulissu to the fact that time had resumed its normal flow. To the Elementalist's utter confusion, a gate was already open within her courtyard. The scene through the new portal was of another courtyard, in which Mostin stood, beckoning to her.
Guessing correctly that the Alienist had had some presentiment regarding her straits, Mulissu sped through the gate into the bailey of Kyrtill's Burh.
*
Mostin had been walking from the Steeple to the library in the main building of the keep when the prolepsis had overwhelmed him: the sum total of events within Mulissu's demiplane revealed to him in an instant, together with several dozen possible outcomes. He had also known that he only had around six seconds to act – an uncomfortably brief period.
He had invoked a time stop, plane shifted and passed through into the courtyard of Mulissu's palace with a quickened dimension door. He had swallowed as he saw her, suspended in the air next to a fountain, the flow of which was frozen in time and space. Behind her, half-manifested from a teleportation, Graz'zt was an insubstantial haze. Mostin knew that the demon had dismissed whatever ward he had set upon the place in order to intercept the fleeing Elementalist. He knew that Mulissu was incapable of invoking another transportation spell. And he also knew that she must not enter her own extradimensional retreat: it was not safe. He had quickly interposed a wall of force between Mulissu and Graz'zt, blocking the demon's line of effect – opened a gate and retreated back to Wyre.
*
Mulissu appeared next to Mostin.
"You have the web of motes, am I correct?" Mostin asked. He knew that she did, but he still sought a verbal confirmation.
Mulissu nodded dumbly. She turned and looked back through the gate. Graz'zt disintegrated the wall of force and walked calmly towards the portal.
"Dammit Mostin, shut that thing down. Stop screwing around." Like the Alienist, Mulissu knew that the Demon could not pass through – the gate was not for him, and the Interdict forbade his entry. It was, nonetheless, a disquieting scene.
Mostin ignored her. He was taking the chance to study his enemy – knowing that such an opportunity was unlikely to arise again. The membrane which separated the two realities seemed uncomfortably thin.
"Mostin!" Mulissu screamed.
He closed the gate abruptly.
*
Eadric was confused. "You said that he would not leave Azzagrat."
"Technically, he didn't," Mostin replied, smiling. "He corporeated a body from the Astral Plane. He was projecting."
"Does that make any difference?" Ortwin asked.
"In practical terms, no," Mostin admitted. "Except that this is a tactic which he will start to employ against us routinely, and we are in trouble. Even if we kill him, it won't kill him – if you know what I mean."
"Why didn't he simply eliminate Mulissu?"
"The most likely explanation is that he wished to interrogate her – I foresaw that she might be taken to Azzagrat and subjected to scrutiny within his sanctum."
Mulissu looked horrified. "This is your fault, Mostin. Gods, I should blast you for involving me in this. My work. My books. I must retrieve my scrolls…"
"You most certainly will not," Mostin snapped. "Forget your pocket paradise, Mulissu – it will never be safe again. Nor will the extradimensional space. And be thankful that he underestimated your power – you're lucky that he didn't anticipate that you might have a transvalent temporal escape plan."
"And your retreat, Mostin?" Eadric asked. "Is it safe?"
"No," Mostin replied sadly. "I suppose not."
"Was it ever?" Eadric grumbled. "What has changed, which makes it vulnerable now?"
"He is bending his mind upon us now, Eadric. In earnest. He glimpses possibilities which disturb him. He is laying intricate plans. I suspect that things will start to get very messy. Very soon. Mulissu, we could use you – will you…"
"Where is Iua?" She hissed.
"Fumaril," Ortwin said.
"Scry her, and take me there now, Mostin."
The Alienist nodded.
"And Mostin, after you have done that, I never want to see you again. Are we clear on that?"
"Yes, Mulissu. Quite clear." Mostin exhaled sharply, unsure of whether she really meant it this time.
* In game terms, Soneillon ensures that her chief servants (who are sorceresses) never advance beyond a certain level (17th) by drawing on their xp reserves to fuel her own epic spells.
**A kind of plane shift – teleport combo.
