Between
Aeon.
Wyrm? Eadric wonders. Not so much by its shape; dimension is not, in fact, a concept which is altogether appropriate. Nor by its nature, a notion which is entirely moot. It is made of and contains all color. Potentiality focused at a single point, awaiting time to commence. It is poised upon the interstices Between.
Even it has a shadow. The never-realized; that-which-cannot-be. An Apparition.
Eadric turns his thoughts to the World. Within Finitude, a torrent of Flames has already descended in anticipation of the Aeon. They are hidden, save those few which might reveal themselves to the blessed or the mad. In his mind, Eadric smiles. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Nwm had invoked the Sun-God. An inpouring of light and fire; a divine immanence carried by those resurrected at the Reversal. What exactly did the Preceptor expect?
The Urn. The Moment. The Spell. The Flame. One thrice-transcended? Thrice-fallen? Thrice reborn; or remade?
Nehael? Soneillon? Teppu? Ortwin(e)? Hummaz? Mostin?
If Wyre survives, the Illuminated of Morne and their descendants will dominate history for fifty millennia.
In Dream, Darkness moves; Carasch prepares to assail the Viridescent Seraphim.
Moment. It must be at an appropriate moment.
The Dragon coils around the Tree.
There is an awareness that this perspective is impossible, and Eadric returns to Finitude.
Reality commences.
**
**
"Fumaril is not built to withstand conventional siege," Mulissu explained, "much less earthquakes and goristros. Visuit can and must press the attack; she may petition for more magical help – possibly another immortal, or more than one. Yeshe has yet to gather the ritual power of her cabals; even if her reservoir is dry, she is not toothless.
"When this storm blows out, I will not conjure another; nor will the Paling go up again. I lack further patience for these delaying tactics. Mostin has therefore devised a plan…"
Waide groaned. "Are you now the charismatic face of Mostin's deranged schemes?"
"Precisely," Mulissu smiled.
"I am nervous around deities," Tozinak sniffed.
"Our advantage is in versatility," Mostin's entrance, although flamboyant in his own eyes, was accompanied by such a distortion of normality in the senses of those others present that it caused heads to spin and stomachs to heave.
"We can adapt our strategy much more effectively than they," the Alienist continued. "We have greater spell resources. We have regained the prescient edge. They have outmoded spellcasting techniques and their repertoire is limited. Choach is gone again, for a while; Yeshe is exhausted. Guho is recovered, and still potent, but she is only one."
"As has been said, Visuit must press on. I foresee that Rishih will join them, but under duress. The Cheshnite leadership is fragmenting; or rather, the illusion of unity is finally being dispelled. Powerful warlords who are effectively vassals of K—laan—la. Those few demons which remain – by few I mean few thousand – are the last of their kind. We may not see their like again. We should consider preserving some specimens.
"But I digress. Ladies and gentlemen, imprisonments and disjunctions are your friends. Sonics – if available to you – are good friends. Transmutations are of limited utility; time stops, yes! Necromancies and enchantments, useless.
"We will approach mind blanked and under superior invisibility…"
"This strategy did not work for Eadric," Jalael observed.
"Visuit is less likely to experience abject nausea when we approach her," Mostin said sagely.
"How much of this did you learn from Soneillon, and at what cost?" Jalael's irritation was apparent.
"Much. And none to you. If I may continue? Prismatic walls and spheres… "
[Mulissu]: Enough speak! Whether you invoke her or no, her gaze is turned upon us again.
[Daunton]: It matters not. As has been pointed out to me, we are all figments of Mostin's imagination in any case.
**
Ortwine galloped northwest upon Narh through Nizkur Forest. Eadric's steed bore her faster than she could wind walk; the trees parted for the sidhe as she rode. Blood and ichor still clung to her and caked her hair; her cloak was a billowing shadow, distorting perception around her.
Her course led her toward Kinthei and the Tree. Her instinct cautiously probed those tracts to the west of her as she rode; the limits of Hummaz's realm, if such notions as limit meant anything to the enigmatic fey.
Abruptly, shadow passed across her mind; a vast, dark fire impinging on her consciousness at a distance of a mile. Ortwine cursed, and veered east, spurring Narh to an incredible pace. Too slow. The shape hurtled towards her with uncanny speed, and within three seconds had manifested itself directly in front of her; a raging inferno of black flames surrounding a great, sinuous wyrm. Qematiel.
The forest ignited. The fire burned her and Ortwine drew Heedless, but backed up upon Narh. "I am about the Tree's business. You would be ill-advised to thwart me."
With such power and confidence did the sidhe speak, that the wyrm paused uncertainly. Then she remembered her mission.
"My, you are a suave one. Do not attribute your continued existence to anything other than my whimsy," Qematiel smiled wickedly, displaying many hundred teeth.
Inwardly, Ortwine sighed. This fact was undeniable.
Her aura extinguished itself and the dragon assumed the shape of a female devil of not-inconsiderable allure. She held a tiny hazel twig, barely longer than a splinter, between thumb and forefinger; she proffered it to the sidhe with an arched eyebrow.
Ortwine looked sceptical. "I am generally reluctant to accept gifts from powerful entities with opaque agendas."
Qematiel smiled again; in diabolic form, the expression seemed even more malign.
"I don't believe I gave you a choice," the wyrm said. "And the Hazel certainly hasn't."
"What is it?" Ortwine took the twig in a resigned fashion. She screamed as it buried itself into her left palm.
"Power," Qematiel replied.
**
He is a boy of ten again, standing in the courtyard of the keep below the Steeple. His father tosses him the sword. He feels its weight in his hands.
"It is too heavy," Eadric complains.
"They need to feed you more meat and less scripture in the Temple," his father says without sympathy. "The men of Kyrtill's clan are large; hence we use large swords. Be about you!"
Orm is sitting nearby. He jeers.
"Shut up!" The boy shouts. "You're just jealous because they wouldn't take you."
"I was," Orm admits calmly. "Now I am relieved. I do not require a syllabus censored by the Inquisition."
"Father?" Eadric pleads.
"As I love you both, shut up and learn how to fight. This is eminently practical advice: if you are dead, you are of no use to anyone."
**
"Where is Nwm?" Ortwine inquired.
"He has not returned yet," Nehael answered. "He is assessing the situation from a different perspective before he commits. You wear Hazel's mark; that may have been a rash promise of fealty."
"I am confused, and my fealty – which is to myself – has not changed. What does the dragon have to do with this?"
Teppu sighed. "She is a useful agent."
"A useful agent for whom? For Hazel? Or for the Tree? For you? For Hummaz?"
"This has yet to be demonstrated," Teppu conceded. "She is also a liability; Kaalaanala now plots to break Hazel's spell on her and unleash the wyrm's destructive potential. Which is considerable."
"Many balances have been struck," Nehael sat upon the ground. "Energy has become diffuse. This is natural."
"Mine has not," Ortwine said dismissively. "What of Hummaz? Have you made contact with him?"
"No," Nehael shook her head. "And I would advise you likewise avoid him. If we are fortunate, he may revel blissfully for a thousand years before he awakens one morning in a bad mood. Or he may stub his toe whilst chasing a nymph, and become enraged. These things are hard to predict. Nonetheless, I feel a certain maternity toward him; it is hard to explain."
"Adopting the Adversary is a bold undertaking," Ortwine said drily. "I'm not persuaded that his new clothes will fit to his liking."
"You would know better than I," Nehael nodded. "You demonstrate many convergences."
Ortwine scowled.
"What is your purpose here, Ortwine?' Nehael sighed. Even her intuition could not penetrate the sidhe's motivation.
"I have come to ask for your help."
"I have no authority beyond Nizkur," Nehael shook her head.
"No, but you have great power beyond Nizkur. In any event, I require your intercession not your intervention: Kaalaanala sees everything which transpires in Fumaril. A Tree could veil us…"
"There is no scion there; a ludja feels protective only toward its scions."
"Hence I require your intercession. If…"
Nehael held up her hand. "I will do what I can."
She communed momentarily.
"The answer is no," Nehael said plainly.
"But…"
"No," Nehael repeated. "Neither Oak, not Elm nor Ash will lend you aid, as you now bear Hazel's mark. In other words, Hazel has pre-empted your efforts; you must petition it directly."
"But Hazel is in Hell."
"You are marked. You need merely invoke her by name. A votive offering to a scion would place you in better standing."
"And where might I find a Hazel scion?" Ortwine asked, exasperated.
"Unless you wish to enter the realm of Hummaz, the only one is in the gardens of the Wyrish Academy. Shomei's abode."
"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Ortwine said. "And I'm sure the wizards will be thrilled. Is this ludja feminine or neuter? You have implied both."
"It is not masculine," Nehael nodded.
"And when do I receive this power that I am promised? The wyrm was vague."
"It is already bestowed. In the Forest, you must fight left-handed."
Ortwine narrowed her eyes. "This is an odd restriction." She moved to draw her weapon, but froze involuntarily.
"No!" Nehael hissed. A celadon light flared around her. "Not here. You will not unsheath that thing here. This is a holy place."
The Image of Uedii. The sidhe's façade collapsed entirely, and she backed away, her countenance full of righteous dread.
Her opacity suddenly made utterly transparent, Ortwine wavered, turned, and fled.
When she reached Narh, the sidhe encountered Nehael again. The goddess stood before the great horse, which nuzzled her affectionately. Her palm was offered outward; her expression was benign.
"Kindly step aside," Ortwine said. She still shook.
"You will need a votive offering," Nehael emphasized.
"I have something in mind," Ortwine said through gritted teeth.
"I am what I am, and you must decide how you relate to that. Your insecurities are your own."
Nehael vanished.
**
Eadric sat beneath the Yew in Saizhan. Viridescent devas surrounded him. He experienced a subtle tugging: Lai and Mesikammi were beckoning him to return, and he merely need reach out and touch the gnarled trunk…
He felt their entreaty, but did not act upon it.
He watched as Tramst, the Sela, quietly approached and sat opposite. There was a long silence.
Eadric breathed deeply – a chill, forest-mountain air scented with resin – and looked into the Sela's face.
"I have seen a little of what you see," Eadric finally said dubiously. "If only for a moment, or was it an eternity? I marvel that Tramst – who is a fragile vessel – can contain the magnitude of the Sela, although this truth is also somehow quite mundane. I am conflicted. I should return, of course. But this is a fine spot; the light is of a perfect, blended quality. The air is crisp and clear."
Tramst laughed. "This is your Heaven; are you surprised that you like it?"
"Not entirely. Sela, I cannot overcome Visuit. Twice, I've faced her now. She is beyond me."
"Yet overcome her you must," Tramst nodded. "And Kaalaanala also. Visuit is but a minor test. Observe."
A light sprang into being within the Sela's palm. At first, it seemed perfect and undivided, but on closer inspection, differentiation existed – or at least Eadric inferred as much. Motes whirled about in a cloud; around each mote, yet more motes span, and around them, yet more. The light shone upon the face of the Sela – a visage both empty and complete.
"Radiance illuminates Mind," Tramst smiled. "And Mind reflects upon Radiance. But what is behind me?"
Oblivion. A terror so complete and all-consuming that Eadric's thought was utterly paralyzed. He teetered on the brink of annihilation.
"Look beyond Nothingness," the Sela said calmly.
The Darkness called to him. He could not rest his gaze there.
The Sela sighed. "Beyond, not into. Stare not at Apparitions of Demogorgon; merely practice Saizhan. Tools I offer you. How many motes do you see?"
They span wildly. To observe one was to lose its identity to perception. A grand cosmic uncertainty.
"Seven," Eadric replied. "And seven times seven unnumbered times." His knowledge was oblique, but the intuition certain.
"You may choose two."
Slowly, an action which itself seemed aeons long, the Sela moved his hand toward him; Eadric stared into the maelstrom of light – for such it had become – until it overwhelmed him entirely. It asserted ens with such ferocity that it threatened to extinguish all other notions of being. Its magnitude was unguessably vast. It was Magnitude.
Silence.
"Which did you choose?" The Sela asked wrily. As though he might not know.
"This and That," Eadric laughed.
"They are called Fultum and Anto," the Sela nodded. "Or Steadfastness and Wrath; or Vigilance and Requite; or Succour and Renewal. You choose well. Share these meditations with those whom you trust and who might understand. Look now beyond Unbeing. What do you See?"
Eadric wept. The Void shone.
"Thus," the Sela smiled. He held Eadric's head in his hands and breathed gently.
The Ahma entered him.
He awoke beneath the Yew beside the Great Fane in Morne.
"You took your time," Nwm said.
The Preceptor watched silently as a vast, aquiline shape receded towards a setting Sun.
*
In the gathering dark, Narh walked steadily through the wide grounds of the Academy southwest of Morne. Ortwine's eyes moved suspiciously; any number of the trees there possessed a rudimentary sentience, and most were malign. Now a far more sinister Intelligence – that of a Hazel scion – held banyans, viper trees and night twists in thrall away from the main trail. Ortwine scowled. The Hazel itself was remaining elusive. She knew she was being toyed with.
A familiar sensation came upon the sidhe, the quality of which was reminiscent of a prior incarnation. Ahead of her, the barest rumour of a path had appeared, winding its way through dense briars. She drew Heedless and progressed cautiously, at first upon Narh, and then – due to some internal impulse which she felt obligated to heed – on foot. Through the foliage, a light flickered through the gloam. Ortwine wrapped her cloak around her and moved towards it, silent and unseen.
It was a stone cottage – a coppicer's cottage, of all things, as evidenced by a number of tools which rested neatly against the wall by its open door. Outside, a lone devil of thoughtful and melancholic aspect sat upon a stool carving a slender hazel switch. He was in a state of deep concentration, and seemed oblivious to the sidhe's presence. Despite her efforts, Ortwine's deific sense could not reach within the structure itself. Unperceived, the sidhe slipped past the devil and entered.
Ortwine raised an invisible eyebrow. In seeming contradiction to the Tree's limitation on such spatial manipulation, it was larger within than without, and scrolls and codices crowded shelves upon the walls. Stacks of tomes reached the ceiling; in places, there was barely room to move. Ancient books. Forbidden books. Books bound in the hides of unknown creatures, and whispering secrets best left untold. Accursed books. Thousands of them. Through dark doorways, stairs led up or down: to rooms filled with yet more books.
She moved towards a space where a pair of plush chairs flanked a large hearth, within which a fire crackled merrily. In a large wicker basket, neatly stacked, half a stère of cut hazel. Hints of cinnamon hung within the air; on a small table by the fireside, an unstoppered bottle of kschiff stood.
Above the mantlepiece, framed within crystal, was a large parchment of impossible antiquity bearing one hundred and sixty-nine signatures. Below the names – Infernal appellations which themselves made the sidhe's head reel – the Empyreal seal, as borne by Enitharmon himself. Below that, an empty rune which held no meaning; it could not, in fact, be said to exist beyond the context of the document itself. The endorsement of Oronthon's Nameless Adversary. The Accord.
"Take a seat," Shomei's voice reached her from a nearby room. "Have a drink. I'll be with you in a moment."
Ortwine glanced around.
"Check the small cabinet," Shomei added. "I have several bottles of Loquai vintage, liberated from Menicau's estate should you prefer."
Ortwine relaxed. She loathed the taste of kschiff and found its particular psychotropic effects disagreed with her.
Shomei the Infernal appeared presently. She smiled, poured herself a generous goblet of liquor, and sank into one of the chairs. Ortwine regarded her closely; upon her forehead, Shomei bore a faint mark not unlike that which ratified the document above the mantle.
"You have become a devil," Ortwine observed.
"Of sorts," Shomei nodded.
"And I suspect that you have a particular relationship with the Hazel which is germane to my current situation," Ortwine added. "What is this place?"
"A concursion," Shomei said carefully. "You are already within Hazel's domain. The coppice itself is behind the cottage."
"You have…permission…to cut wood? Hazel's wood?"
"Will must be tended, lest it become unfocused," Shomei the Infernal nodded.
"Then you are in thrall?"
"No. The arrangement is reciprocal. I am Exempt."
"Then you are paid for your work?" Ortwine asked slyly.
Shomei laughed, and gestured. "Look around you!"
"Books?"
Shomei narrowed her eyes, and lifted a large, weighty volume from a stack nearby. She handed it to the sidhe, who wiped grime and dust from its cover to read its title in the ancient Infernal tongue:
Two Hundred Discourses on the Nature of Depravity
"This particular volume was scribed by a devil named Enaia," Shomei explained. "Her seductive accomplishments rival those of the most notorious of succubi. Alas, she is no more; her subterfuge was unmasked by diviners sixteen epochs past: she was bound in dimensional shackles, and buried in a silver salt, gathered from the shores of a celestial ocean."
Ortwine cast her gaze through the dark doorways nearby which led to other chambers. "You have sequestered a portion of Hell's library?"
"I have sequestered the entirety of Hell's library," Shomei the Infernal smiled.
Ortwine looked dubious. "Moving countless million books would seem the occupation of many lifetimes. I assume that certain planar boundaries have been redrawn?"
"From this perspective," Shomei nodded. "Hell as it was is no more. It has been ejected from the continuum, so to speak. Forced Outside, or retreated into Dream might be alternate descriptors, were one inclined to view things in such a way. In any event, its influence will no longer be felt as directly. I have preserved its legacy and its wisdom. A quartet of great once-devils remain within what was Avernus, but which is now a great forest dominated by two of the darker ludjas."
"And these once-devils – which are now presumably Green – fill which roles in this new continuum?"
"That will depend on the Aeon," Shomei poured herself another goblet of kschiff.
"Then devils have become a scarce commodity."
"Not so scarce," the Infernalist smiled. "Merely transformed. And Azazel's legions wisely removed themselves and placed themselves under Holly's protection."
Ortwine's hackles rose.
"You are wise to fear Holly," Shomei nodded. She was becoming inebriated: apparently kschiff retained its potency with regard to her diabolic metabolism. "She is quite the bitch. The Kings of the Four Quarters, now Four Kings amid the Thickets: this movement was inevitable, even as the Adversary migrated. In a prior reality they were also of He; before a Fall which now never happened. Perhaps half of his Regents in the Undivided Sphere: the half which fell, even as half perished altogether? Each of the others lost one; sixty-four became forty-nine. This was necessary. The I is necessary to ens. For Radiance to penetrate beyond Tamasah."
The sidhe barely followed her. "And what is beyond Tamasah?"
"Truth," Shomei smiled lazily.
"And what might that be?"
Shomei laughed heartily. "Ask the Ahma, for he has seen it. I care not for the Unmanifest, Ortwine. Hence, I do not practice Saizhan."
The sidhe-goddess sighed and raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."
"You may leave both rod and talisman when you depart. I will ensure they are buried at Hazel's roots."
Ortwine scowled. Sibud's talisman, she had marked for an offering; Pazuzu's rod she had intended for Mesikammi.
Shomei raised an unsympathetic eyebrow. "Will is bought dearly."
*
Six hundred miles to the south, as the Wizards of Wyre made their preparations within Mulissu's throne room, Mostin noticed a subtle but irresistible reorganizaton of intangible membranes around Fumaril.
Saint Tahl the Incorruptible – recently resurrected by Lai, and who led a number of Flamines in meditation and vigil – felt the oppressive presence of Kaalaanala's scrutiny depart from his consciousness. It was immediately replaced by a cold, steely focus, which seemed barely less malign.
In Jashat, fires erupted in violence and anger, annihilating the priests who tended the altars. The Bhiti's perception had been forced into retreat.
Next: Fumaril Part 2.
