I'm not sure whether this update addresses any of the speculation offered by some of the readers, or not. Oh, well.
****
****
Innocence
Shomei reclined into an enormous leather chair, and tilted her head inquisitively. She sipped slowly from a large silver goblet, imbibing a volatile liquid of unknown potency. The Infernalist seemed unusually calm and languorous.
"Your dwelling is…beautiful," Eadric said with surprise and genuine feeling. He was sat upon the edge of a similar chair, absorbing his surroundings. The room was exquisite – if somewhat bizarre – in its décor and furnishings. Purples and midnight blues predominated, and things hung upon walls or rested upon shelves. Crystal lamps emanated a soft, diffuse light, and a faint hint of incense hung within the air.
"Thank-you," she smiled.
A spined devil flew past quietly, and glowered at Eadric.
Shomei gestured, and it flapped away, closing a door silently as it exited.
"Would you care for a drink?" She offered, refilling the goblet from a huge crystal decanter.
"What is it?" He asked.
"It is called kschiff," she replied. "Do not consume too much – it will stupefy you. A little will relax you, however."
"How much is too much?" Eadric had the impression that Shomei was fast approaching that point.
"I will tell you when to stop."
The goblet floated gently towards him, and he caught it uncertainly. Its contents smelled faintly of orange blossoms, and the taste was astringent. But curiously agreeable.
'Thank-you for receiving me at such short notice," Eadric said. "I know that the time of a wizard is precious."
"That is particularly true in my case," she half-smiled.
He swallowed. "Shomei, I…"
She held up a hand. "We will not speak of it."
He sank back into the chair.
"You are here to talk about Soneillon," Shomei said.
He nodded, wondering whether she had foreseen it, guessed it, or determined it through some other means.
"Am I being asked in the capacity of friend, spiritual advisor, or advocate for the antinomian perspective?" She asked.
"I'm not sure," Eadric furrowed his brow. "Although the idea of you as a spiritual advisor is disturbing. You are something of an authority on fiends, however, and I thought your perspective might be useful."
"Have you considered speaking to the Sela?"
Eadric smiled. "I consider speaking to the Sela approximately once every three seconds."
"That is probably a good thing," Shomei ventured. "It would indicate that you are in touch with the source of your Truth. Your internal dialogue has not been compromised. May I ask a number of difficult questions?"
"Er, yes," he said dubiously.
"If Nehael's release is achieved, how do you think Soneillon will react to a rival?"
He shifted uncomfortably.
"Perhaps it would be better for you if somehow Soneillon were conveniently destroyed prior to liberating Nehael?"
"Shomei, that is most unfair."
"These are practical considerations, Eadric." She gestured, and the goblet floated back towards him again. He hadn't noticed that, at some point, she had refilled it. "May I ask you another question?"
He nodded. He felt that he was beginning to relax.
"Have you entertained the possibility that Soneillon may be fertile? Succubi can enter the equivalent of oestrus at will, and the gestation is extremely fast – days, if I recall correctly. She may use this to exert leverage over you. How would you react if this transpired to be the case?"
His mind span.
"Let me posit another scenario," Shomei said, reaching out as the goblet returned to her.
Eadric found that he was watching her lips move. Her voice seemed to drift slowly through his head.
"What if Nehael perishes? I am assuming that she is presently alive, of course – the web of motes indicated as much. Can you retain your integrity of purpose under those circumstances? If Soneillon were to – for example – offer you a way out, would you accept it?"
He groaned.
"Because you could endure the Void, Eadric. I have no doubt on that count. I have seen the tendril of possibility."
"It will not happen," he said.
"Nor will Shomei the Infernal ever embrace Saizhan," Shomei smiled ironically.
The goblet seemed to appear from nowhere, hovering in front of Eadric's face. He grasped it, and set it down.
There was a brief silence.
"Why is the darkness so compelling, Shomei?" He asked.
She smiled. "Because it is dark, of course."
"Do you think Ortwin was correct – when he suggested that my desire to overcome duality through any means is the source of my fascination? That it might prove my undoing?"
"The hierosgamos? Maybe. But I think there was no such moral judgment implicit in Ortwin's words, merely that you inferred one. Are you inclined to symbolic microcosmic speculation?"
"I might be, if I knew what it was," the goblet had appeared in front of him again. He sighed, and drank. He found his eyes resting on the curve of Shomei's neck, and tore them away.
She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should have warned you that kschiff also possesses aphrodisiac qualities. Don't worry – I have no intention of seducing you. Your life is complicated enough already." She sighed. "I think you are teetering on the edge of oblivion, Eadric – this is a place rife with temptation, but it also possesses infinite spiritual possibility. Everything will become a paradox, and you will be forced to redefine who you are on a continual basis."
"Now you begin to sound like an advocate for the short, steep path," he said grimly.
"I think your role is ultimately Adversarial, Eadric."
"The Sela once said something similar to me, regarding my place in the downfall of Orthodoxy."
"Perhaps you should have listened to him," she remarked wrily. "To avoid falling, all you must do is remain grounded in Saizhan. Everything else is superfluous."
A longer silence followed.
"In the past I have misjudged you, Shomei," Eadric sighed. "I'm sorry."
She shrugged, and looked away.
"You are very defensive."
"Yes," she replied.
"I feel I've missed the opportunity of a good friendship."
She swallowed, unwilling to meet his gaze.
"Bliss is not so bad, Shomei. If the weight of becoming is so heavy…"
She raised a hand, her eyes filling with tears. "There is no possibility that I have not considered, Ahma."
He held her hand gently. It seemed tiny.
She wept.
*
After Eadric had returned to Deorham through the portal which Mostin had opened, Shomei sat alone in reflection.
Somewhat before midnight, she renewed her mind blank, protected herself with other, sundry wards, grasped her rod, and opened a gate to Phlegethos. Soon thereafter she met with Bathym for their third – and Shomei hoped last – series of negotiations.
She was furious to discover that the Duke of Hell had reneged on their agreement utterly, and would no longer be committing a single devil to the 'situation' in Afqithan. Nor would he explain why.
It made no sense. The reason for Shomei's initial involvement in Afqithan had been because certain powerful devils had expressed a desire that Graz'zt be removed from the cosmic scheme of things. She wondered what had changed.
She returned to Wyre.
Mostin was awakened at two in the morning – from his usual bizarre dreams – by an incessant banging on his door.
*
The Alienist appeared in his robe of eyes. Shomei glared at him, and wondered whether he wore it to bed like a night-gown, to avoid being surprised by things which might otherwise surprise him.
"I've been f*cked over," the Infernalist spat, barging in.
"I see the kschiff has worn off," Mostin remarked.
"Bathym has backed out."
Orolde arrived from his room in order to answer the door. Mostin sighed.
The two Wizards repaired to Mostin's study, and the Alienist instructed that the Sprite bring them cakes and hot buttered firewine. He kindled a fire, and spent several moments adjusting the illumination such that it was just so.
Shomei fidgeted. She glanced around. Mostin's workplace was uncharacteristically cluttered and disorganized.
"What are you working on?" She asked suspiciously.
"A pseudonatural summons," he grumbled. "When I have the time and inclination – which seems seldom at present. What is happening, Shomei?"
"Bathym was on the verge of committing five legions of his devils. Belial had already sanctioned it."
Mostin gaped. "Five legions? Shomei, how do you do it?"
"Well, I don't – evidently. Support has been withdrawn. Presumably the interest has changed."
"Have you considered petitioning Belial directly?"
"I suspect that he is responsible for the about-face."
"Do you have any indication why?" Mostin inquired.
She shrugged. "Who knows, Mostin? Perhaps because of Rhyxali? Soneillon? Graz'zt? Tramst? Kostchtchie? Eadric? Me? Nehael? A perceived pseudonatural threat? A celestial conspiracy? The motives of a devil of Belial's stature are too convoluted to even begin to penetrate."
"I had not considered a sizable force of devils crucial to success," Mostin said. "The web of motes offered a number of other scenarios."
"Maybe not," Shomei conceded. "But thirty thousand barbazu would have guaranteed it, and acted as a balance on Rhyxali at the very least."
"I think that your perspective in this is flawed, Shomei – you are assuming that we can somehow retain sufficient control of this situation to actually direct the course of events. I have come to the conclusion that, at best, we can invoke a storm and let it blow as it will."
"Mostin…"
"It is realistic," he said. "We are dealing with entities of enormous power, any one of which can turn on us in an instant. We should be thinking in terms of self-preservation. You should be, at the very least."
"I am not getting into this argument again," she groaned.
"What other options remain open to you?"
"The glooms. Other Dukes. Possibly Murmuur: he is influential, commands a large force, and is – importantly – present. Time is running out to make such arrangements, however. And I have no relationship with Malbolge, other than vicariously through Belial – and he hardly seems reliable in this at present. Besides, I mistrust the involvement of Titivilus."
"You are still trying to control the situation," Mostin sighed. "Our first goal is the obliteration of Ainhorr's force in Afqithan – there is no need to be methodical about it. We can worry about Azzagrat afterwards."
"What exactly are you saying, Mostin?"
"I can dimensionally lock an area two miles across, Shomei. Outside of the quiescence – where demons will be forced to manifest – I can invoke a total of seventeen – seventeen – reality maelstroms if necessary. Afqithan is not my world, Shomei. There are no holds barred there. If I rip the spatial fabric of the demiplane to shreds, I don't care. If I can call the Horror, and bind it – as long as I can get away before the spell ends, I don't care. Shomei, even if I gate in Carasch and invoke an apocalypse I don't care. Are we on the same page here, Shomei?"
She looked at him. "Thank-you, Mostin. For a while, I was beginning to lose my perspective. I think you may have restored it to me."
"We are as gods, Shomei. Never forget it."
"You truly are at your best when you're at your craziest," she smiled.
**
She stood, and looked again at the tree for a long while.
It had an oddly compelling quality, which drew one's eyes to it and evoked a desire to run hands over soft, smooth bark. Its height and girth suggested that it was old, but it possessed a quality which seemed…youthful. Strange for a tree.
Around its base, bright flowers sprang between rocks and trailed into a pool fed by a small spring. The water moved, but she couldn't determine where it went, after it left the pool. Curious, she thought. She looked at the tree again.
Sometimes, she felt that it was watching her.
She gazed around, and wondered what else there was out there. Away from the tree. More than once, she had determined to leave – to walk away from the tree. To explore. But she never did.
Why leave the tree, after all? Whatever else there was, it couldn't be better than the tree.
She lay down against its warm bole, and it seemed to embrace her. She watched thoughts and memories pass through her mind, and wondered who had experienced them.
Bathe, she thought.
She vaguely recalled the fact that she liked to bathe. It seemed like a good idea – although she was unsure whether it had risen unbidden in her mind, or the tree had prompted the desire. She rose, walked the short distance over to the pool, and slid into the water. It was the perfect depth, and the perfect temperature. She immersed her head briefly – as that seemed the right thing to do – before leaning back and relaxing against a rock, which seemed to fit her head and neck very comfortably.
She suddenly noticed a small figure – maybe two thirds her own height – sitting on a branch of the tree, with its legs dangling freely. It wore grey hose and a leaf-green waistcoat.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello," the other replied. "Are you happy?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good," the other smiled.
"Where did you come from?" She asked. "I haven't seen you before."
"I came from the tree."
"Ahh," she nodded. She hauled herself easily from the water, and walked back towards the tree. She noticed that now she was covered in tiny flecks of silver – she rubbed them gently, but they seemed somehow part of her skin.
"They will not come off," the other said.
"What are they?' She asked.
The other smiled sadly. "The memory of a great injustice."
She cocked her head inquisitively.
"It would take too long to explain," the other said. "Nor does it matter – the injustice never really happened now. Your transition is passed at last, and you have been finally surrendered: from one Truth to another. This place is two things: a prison hallowed by an angel, and a womb which has always been here. If sometimes the Truth that you chose seems cold and indifferent, then it is Her nature. Maybe She forgot you for a while. Don't blame Her: She doesn't love you any less."
"You think too much," she laughed. "What will happen now?"
"Something nobody expects," the other replied.
"And what is that?" She asked.
"A Viridity," the other said, his eyes blazing.
**
Nwm felt the snow and pine cones beneath his feet as he ran. The air was frigid, his breathing deep but measured. The smell of resin permeated everything, and his eyes streamed in the cold. His pulse was audible to him, above the noise of his passage, thumping through his skull.
His focus was perfect: he was meditating. No symbolism moved through his mind. No recollection of memory, nor thought for the future. No expectation of revelation, nor seeking for something other than moment in its fullness. There was reflection, but it was dynamic and engaged – not introspective and divorced. Each moment was precious – but Nwm did not cherish it. He merely experienced it.
He ran until he finally dropped from exhaustion, and collapsed gasping. Still, he meditated. Whilst he slept naked in the snow, he meditated, and when he woke again with the pale winter sun, he meditated.
He came to a rock under an icy waterfall, and sat. Water cascaded over him as he gazed over a frozen pond for nine days. He neither ate, nor drank; nor did he crave warmth nor comfort. He needed nothing.
He meditated. He began to run again, and meditated.
After a week, he rested, and allowed himself to engage in discursive thought. After an hour, he got bored.
He meditated again.
In the tuerns of the Linna, Tunthi shamans said that some primaeval spirit had awakened, and come from the forests which nestled in the deep vales, south of the Heaped Thunders.
**
Several rumours – substantiated by more or less reliable evidence and witnesses – were current among the inhabitants of western Trempa and southern Tomur, and spreading rapidly through the rest of Wyre.
First, a group of twenty pilgrims to Kyrtill's Burh had, purportedly, undergone a terrifying ordeal wherein demonic or diabolic forces had manifested to them within the castle. The significance of this event was interpreted according to the various inclinations of those for whom it held an interest: a test of faith; a sign of the Ahma's eccentricity, madness or evil; a cryptic revelation couched in terms which lesser mortals must strive to understand; or religious hysteria induced by too much privation and self-mortification – or perhaps the consumption of ergotized rye bread.
Second, Eadric, Earl of Deorham sought a steward for his castle and estates. This aroused much interest among various landless nobles, former church grandees who had surrendered estates at the end of the infeudation, as well as numerous unusual characters of mystical bent.
Third, in the face of the expectations of those who considered chastity a necessary prerequisite for the successful cultivation of saizhan – and there were many – the Ahma had taken a lover. She was seldom seen but was, by all accounts, beautiful and magnetic. Her lineage and credentials were unknown, and it was suspected that she was a peasant-girl. Or a foreigner. Or a celestial companion. Or a demoness. It depended on who you asked.
The drip-drip of pilgrims and mendicants to Kyrtill's Burh rapidly became a steady stream, and then a rushing torrent. It expanded to include potential retainers, philosophers eager to engage the Ahma in conversation and debate, Urgic and Irrenite ex-heretics who no longer felt the need to practice in secret, atoning Templars, and the merely curious. They lodged in Deorham – which had never seen so many new faces – and occupied barns, fields and rooms in farmsteads for miles about. The Innkeeper of the Twelve Elms quickly became very rich.
Eadric closed the gates to the Burh, and returned to his impossibly circular, self-referential kius:
What is Soneillon, if both Saizhan and extinction are not unattainable?
But even as he sat in contemplation, she would come to him and any insight that he thought he might have gleaned would be dispelled. She would purposely arouse him, or drive him to distraction by her presence. Her heat never abated. There was no indication of artifice in her desire, only the need for continual and infinitely varied sensation: taboo did not exist, or existed only to be broken, and when they coupled violently on the shattered altar of the chapel, Eadric didn't know whether they had profaned it, or sanctified it.
Constructed reality was overturned so swiftly, so thoroughly, that it seemed as though the cosmos disintegrated into its component atoms and they, in turn, evaporated into a Nothingness from which they were never unidentical.
This was the 'Path of Lightning' to which, he knew, Titivilus had referred – hard as a diamond, sharp as a razor, upon which only the mad could walk. But the Nuncio of Dis knew it by name only, and any formulation that Titivilus had posited regarding its nature was shallow and vacuous. The Abyss loomed on both sides of Eadric, and if he missed a single step, it would claim him.
On the night of the full moon before the winter solstice, Mostin arrived with Ortwin, Shomei, and Koilimilou at Kyrtill's Burh. Eadric ushered them into the great hall, and Ortwin raised an eyebrow: the place was as he had never before seen it.
A fire roared in the hearth, and wolf-hounds lounged before it. Lanterns hung from chains and torches burned in sconces: light was everywhere. Servants moved about busily. The smell of roasted game, wine and fresh bread filled the air. The sound of a lute carried over the hubbub.
Music? Ortwin was incredulous. At Kyrtill's Burh? Played poorly, to be sure, but music nonetheless.
The tune faltered as the Satyr, sidhe-cambion, Mostin – with his lidless eyes – and Shomei the Infernal entered the hall. Silence and uncertainty descended upon those present.
Eadric clapped his hands. "Go about your business," he smiled. "These people may appear odd, but there is no need for concern."
They went about their business, and soon the volume resumed its previous levels.*
The Satyr turned to Eadric. "So the rumours are true. You really have gone nuts. Where's the Queen of Darkness? Lurking in the crypt? Or embroidering a quilt in the drawing room?"
"I believe she Dreams. Why are you here?"
"You mean this is normal?" Ortwin gestured around. "I thought that you'd put it on for our benefit. Who's that boy over there?" The Satyr pointed to a handsome nobleman in a fashionable doublet.
"His name is Canec. He is my steward."
"A Uediian?"
"He is Caur's maternal uncle. He marched on Morne with us. Do you not remember?"
"I have a poor memory for aristocrats," Ortwin said drily, pouring himself a cup of wine. "Is everything alright, Ed? You're not schizo are you?"
"Yes. No. In that order."
"Is it true? Are you screwing her?"
Eadric groaned. "You have a foul mouth, Ortwin."
"Man, you're in big trouble," the Satyr grinned. "Let's get drunk."
"Will you always be a hedonist, Ortwin?"
"I hope so. But there again, I can. I have a supreme advantage over you."
"And what might that be?" Eadric sighed.
"I'm a fey, Ed. Sh*t doesn't stick to me."
Eadric smiled and shook his head. "Why are you here?" He asked.
"Mostin said something important is about to happen. A 'convergence of tendrils,' apparently. He had some flashback of a possible future that he'd seen. A kind of mini-nodality."
"Should I be nervous?" Eadric asked.
"Probably," Ortwin replied.
Within fifteen minutes, Soneillon returned: she had located the balor Irzho in an abandoned temple in the mountains of Bedesh, together with several succubi and the demonist Rimilin of the Skin. They were willing to aid the cause against Ainhorr in Afqithan, provided that a price could be agreed.
Before the information had sunk in, the gate-ward entered, with news that a traveller stood outside who would not be turned away.
"What is his name?" Eadric asked.
"He says he is called Rhul. He...er…forgive me, Ahma. He claims to be a god."
Moments later, the hag Jetheeg and two Loquai knights arrived. Nhura was finally ready.
* This is one of the minor social advantages of possessing a +39 Diplomacy score.
