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Soneillon. Part 2. (Updated 10/7)
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Sepulchrave II
Legend
I'm still in the looking phase, and man, is it draining.
That said, I'll post an update in the next day or two.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Church and Steeple - Part 1
The chapel at Kyrtill’s Burh was a compact space, perhaps twenty-five feet in its longest dimension, which abutted the main keep. Like the rest of the castle, its exterior – recently repaired by Nwm’s efforts – was smothered in an ivy of an unusually prolific variety, which required continual management and pruning. And pruning seldom happened within the Burh.
There were two entrances to the sanctuary: a pair of stout oak double-doors which led into the courtyard, close to the archway at the base of the Steeple; and a smaller lintel, constructed of steel, which joined the portico in the keep proper. The metal door was hidden in a concave, behind the plain white arras which formed a backdrop to the altar space – raised upon a low dais reached by three shallow steps. The area below the dais was clear, except for a thick carpet some twenty feet long which stretched to the main doors, two low benches, and a dozen or so prayer cushions – some of which were extremely threadbare.
Ortwin sat in the centre of the floor, uncharacteristically tense. He disliked the chapel for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the draught – barely noticeable – which issued from beneath the floor covering: cold air from the crypt, finding its way through cracks in the flagstones. Nwm had specifically instructed the gnomes who had restored the rest of the keep’s interior to leave the chapel untouched: it was Eadric’s sanctum, and the Druid had felt that it would have been the worst breach of etiquette to engage in unapproved remodeling. Whilst Eadric appreciated the gesture, he had privately wished that Nwm had done something about the chapel. The austerity which had marked his earlier years had given way to a more balanced outlook, and sometimes comfort was no bad thing. Somehow, the chapel hadn’t caught up with him.
The Satyr grumbled about the cold. "Can’t we light a fire or something?" He watched as Shomei placed a dimensional lock in the centre of the sanctuary, barring all forms of extraplanar movement. The Infernalist had already invoked a screen upon the whole of Kyrtill’s Burh – it appeared as nothing more than a rugged outcrop of rock to magical scrutiny.
Eadric sighed. "Perhaps if you ask Mostin nicely, he will modify the temperature."
"Why are we here, anyway?" Ortwin continued. "Doesn’t the place need to be reconsecrated or something? I seem to recall there being a demoness of some power in here several hours ago."
"Yes," Eadric sighed, "it does. It is still the most defensible place in the keep, however."
"Consecration is highly advisable," Mostin said morbidly. "The Succubus might be tempted to turn your dead relatives into vampires."
"That is in particularly poor taste," Eadric replied nervously. "But you have a point. I will send to Morne for someone to come here as soon as possible. Probably Asser. Unless Nwm would care to do the honours*?"
"I had assumed that you would require someone of ‘true faith’ to perform the rite."
"I am more flexible in that regard than I was previously, as the definition of ‘true’ is now revealed to be somewhat ambiguous."
"Perhaps Mostin could gate a solar," Ortwin suggested. "It could perform the necessary magic, and would be a reassuring presence."
"For you maybe," Mostin said acidly. "And I am not sure that Gihaahia’s subsequent punitive visit here would contribute to the sanctity of the place. We are safe enough for the moment, barring Soneillon herself – and I suspect that there is no precaution which we could take that would bar her if she were determined."
"If you had prepared a magnificent mansion…" Ortwin began.
"Or if you had spent your time studying magic instead of fornicating and drinking firewine," Mostin snapped irritably. "We will be fine. Those hideous cohorts of Eadric are outside keeping guard. Ungrateful creatures. At least they could of thanked me for dispelling their paralysis."
"They are grateful," Eadric reassured him. "But tend to communicate little. I was surprised that Soneillon didn’t destroy them."
"She is wooing you," Nwm said wrily. "Killing celestials would make a bad impression, I’m sure."
"So is he safe?" Ortwin asked, with a wicked grin, "Or will she invade his dreams and cause him to experience impure thoughts?"
Mostin shrugged. "Good question. Technically, the dimensional lock should prevent a creature in dream-form from gaining ingress. I say technically because she may have tricks that we do not know of. And Dream is odd, to say the least."
"In ‘dream-form?’" Ortwin persisted. "You mean she may be nearby?"
"Coterminous? Why not?"
"She is not," Eadric said. "At least, not very near. The Eye of Palamabron would reveal her if she were."
Ortwin smiled sarcastically and scratched his haunch. "Then your thoughts will remain pure! How blessed you must feel! You must teach me the secret someday."
Eadric sighed. Ortwin was beginning to get on his nerves. He closed his eyes, and experienced the frustration. He sighed again, stood up, and walked towards the doors.
"Er, where are you going, Ed?" Ortwin asked.
"The Steeple," Eadric replied.
"Excellent idea! You have a stash of fine firewine, and…"
"Alone, Ortwin. I am going alone."
"Oh."
Mostin mind blanked him first.
**
Outside, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall. Nwm’s storm – as promised – had arrived, and Eadric hoped that it wouldn’t prove too violent. He ascended sixty of the seventy-seven steps of the Steeple, passing through a small door into the chamber situated below the open roof.
It was a comfortable space – once a round guard room, but since adapted to the function of a parlour. During the garrisoning of Kyrtill’s Burh, it had briefly enjoyed a return to its original function, although the Templars stationed there had done nothing to alter its furnishings. A single window of lead glass in the west wall admitted the remaining light of the failing day. The room, and those below it, had been those ‘rented’ by Mostin in his attempts to fabricate a plausible story following his violation of the first Injunction – before the Claviger had acquiesced to act as the guardian of the moral fibre of Wyre’s Wizards.
Eadric lit an oil-lantern – the flame of which flickered unsteadily in the draught before he closed its shutter – threw off his armour, opened a tall cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of firewine. He smiled at the fact that Ortwin knew where he kept it – and poured himself a small glass. He was mildly amused that it should still feel such an indulgence to him: he had violated so many of his vows that ignoring the precept which warned against alcohol seemed utterly trivial in comparison.
Sitting on one of the three narrow pallets which served as the room’s couches, Eadric set Lukarn down next to himself, reached into his belt-pouch, and retrieved a tiny piece of tightly-rolled parchment. He opened the lantern hood, and thrust the paper into the flame, holding it between his fingers and watching as it quickly burned to nothing.
Soon after, a gate opened, and Titivilus stepped through.
"Thank-you for your prompt response," Eadric said.
The Devil smiled laconically. "Hello, Ahma. I had hoped to run into you in Afqithan but, alas, you fled before we had a chance to speak. If you had answered my sending then things may have advanced at a faster pace for you."
"I was reluctant to place myself in your hands at that time," Eadric raised an eyebrow. "And who would arbitrate between the arbiter and his client?"
"I have a friend called Furcas who might volunteer in that capacity," the Duke replied caustically.
"You have friends? That surprises me."
"You are correct," Titivilus answered. "In fact, I despise him. But we are working together for the moment. This is a cosy little chamber. I almost prefer it to your study in the keep."
Eadric narrowed his eyes, unsure of whether the Devil jibed him or not. "I require advice, and perhaps mediation. If there is a price, then I would be grateful if you informed me of it prior to further communication."
"There is no price, Ahma," Titivilus replied easily. "Although my perspective is a little different from yours, and the advice I give may not necessarily be that which you seek. As both the voice of your conscience and your divinely ordained tempter, I have more than one agenda to maintain. I presume that your inquiry concerns the demoness Soneillon?"
Eadric sighed, and nodded.
"She is something, is she not?" Titivilus laughed. "And, I should say, she is nothing, if you understand my meaning. It was whispered in the narrow streets of Zelatar that she could bring a corpse to orgasm – forgive me, Ahma, I do not wish to offend your sense of propriety. I am sure that your interest in Graz’zt’s former concubine is purely pragmatic."
"You know her then? You have met her?"
"Perhaps. I do not recall." Titivilus replied vaguely.
"She is a potential ally," Eadric said.
"So I hear," Titivilus smiled.
"Does Graz’zt know of her interest in me?"
"Graz’zt has an extensive network of spies, but he is ultimately ill-informed and disorganized. I would hazard that he does not, but I make no assurances to that effect."
"If a confrontation occurs between the Prince and myself, I would – if possible – prefer to keep it out of Wyre and the World of Men. Do you think Afqithan would be a suitable locale?"
"It offers greatly augmented magic. Mostin – and Shomei, to whom, incidentally, you should extend my warmest regards – would benefit from this. As would Graz’zt himself, of course. I suspect that the risks would be greater, but the possibility of victory higher."
"Soneillon has powerful allies – and dangerous, it seems. She denies direct association with them, or rather seems reluctant to admit responsibility for their actions."
"This is not unusual for a Demon Queen," Titivilus replied drily.
"She subjected me to an extremely powerful compulsion. Could a mind blank have warded me?"
"Perhaps, although doubtless she possesses dweomers that can circumvent such magic. For a creature of her age, with her power, what can she not do, Ahma? Magic is formulaic, and in practical terms holds a finite – albeit astronomically large – set of possibilities. There might be a quintillion combinations which she is technically capable of manifesting alone. If she has unlocked merely a hundred thousand of them – the most efficient, given a certain set of circumstances – how versatile do you think that makes her?"
Eadric swallowed. The Devil’s premise was plausible. "And Graz’zt? Could the same be said?"
"To a lesser degree. He possesses more raw native power, but lacks that which Soneillon draws freely and most heavily upon – unbeing. I do not claim to fully understand it."
Eadric stared hard at Titivilus. "You are unusually forthcoming. I wonder which of your numerous agendas you are serving by sharing this information."
The Duke of Hell smiled.
"I have other questions," Eadric said unsurely, "and I would be interested in hearing your perspective – or the Adversarial perspective, if you are towing a particular line. I should also, at this point, like to seek further assurances that there are no hidden fees, contracts, compacts, reciprocal obligations or responsibilities involved."
Titivilus raised an eyebrow. "Your caution is admirable, Ahma, but you are somewhat over-concerned. Ask away! There is no obligation upon you."
"The Marilith Nufrut mentioned an entity named Carasch. Mostin was unaware of its existence. A balor which fell within the orbit of the Ancient Void, and then rose from it again. Is the name familiar to you?"
"Yes," Titivilus answered. He seemed unperturbed, but Eadric knew that gauging the Confuser’s true reaction was close to impossible.
"What distinguishes one fiend from the next, insofar as some possess the ability to withstand annihilation?"
Titivilus laughed. "That is more profound than you understand. I do not know, Ahma. Perhaps they are endowed with a particular strength of Will which sets them apart from their peers. Perhaps they are lucky. Perhaps they apprehend some greater Truth which allows consciousness to persist, even in the face of nonexistence."
"Such an entity," Eadric continued, "Carasch. It would be as far removed from Rurunoth as Soneillon is from a succubus of the least stature."
"That is probably a reasonable parallel."
"How many of these entities – chthonics, as Shomei dubbed them – would you say exist?"
"I am not privy to that information," Titivilus admitted.
Eadric scowled. "Would you even hazard a guess? A handful? Dozens? Thousands? Millions?"
"I would not know, Ahma. I suspect we are talking in terms of relative infinities. How many fell from grace? How many fled to the Abyss? How many were enmeshed in the Ancient’s power? Mere numbers cease to have meaning, after a certain point."
"Why is no reference made to them in texts – legitimate, heretical, magical or otherwise? I use those descriptors loosely – I do not wish to engage in a debate on the nature of heresy."
"Certain names and concepts are taboo. Unbeing, Demogorgon, existent nonexistence – this is an example of such. Before the Church of Oronthon was established, when it was still a tribal religion whose God vied with a dozen others – this was a taboo. It persisted."
"Saizhan addresses this issue."
"Saizhan claims to address many issues.’
"Is Oronthon then rewriting the past? Changing the Truth of what has gone before?"
"That is one possible interpretation. I do not doubt there are others."
**
Mostin sat and leered at the effigy upon the altar – an eagle rearing above a solar orb – and felt a frisson of disgust at the avian symbol.
Nearby, Shomei sat in a contemplative trance, Ortwin snored loudly, and Iua – silent as a cat – practiced with her rapier, repeating maneuvers endlessly, each time with subtle variations on a complex theme. Nwm, apparently enraptured with the Green, paid no heed to any other.
The Alienist groped within his portable hole and retrieved an ornate box of carved wood from among the objects stored there. Opening it, he pulled the contents – a stone slab – from its red silk wrappings, and set it upon the rug in front of him.
Mostin closed his eyes, focussed inwards, and inspected his valences: nested shells which grew outwards from a central hub, rapidly blurring into an indistinct haze where no differentiation yet existed. He placed his mind beyond the order, beyond the haze, in the swirling, chaotic morass which surrounded it.
Tiny buds of potential were burgeoning, seeking to make contact with each other and the hub of consciousness at the centre. Deliberately, he focussed upon them, drawing on his reservoir. His mind opened like a sluice, pouring its contents forth. Rapidly, the buds blossomed gloriously, and bore fruit which ripened in a heartbeat. He shook, and sweated profusely.
The Alienist turned his attention to the tablet in front of him, his eyes scanning over it, and his fingertips tracing the etchings and designs upon it. There was a sudden crack, as the slab shattered, and the sound of grinding stone. An eddy of wind arose, and all that was left before him – a pile of dust – was blown across the floor of the chapel.
Shomei observed him with a mixture of envy and mirth.
"Congratulations," the Infernalist said drily.
"Thank-you," Mostin replied. "How long before you…?"
"A week at most. I had hoped to beat you to it."
"Hah! No chance. This means that I am – if only for a brief while – the most potent spellcaster in Wyre, and the first in two generations to achieve this notable achievement. I don’t include Mulissu in that statement – she is not native, and doesn’t count."
Nwm smiled quietly, but said nothing.
*
As Mostin sat and contemplated the spell called Graz’zt – designed by Fillein-who-would-later-be-Jovol in the heyday of his power and influence – he shifted uncomfortably. Something was amiss. Within the perfectly executed formula which comprised the spell, there was no room for error: each component and factor was optimized for an efficiency of purpose which Mostin deeply appreciated, both functionally and aesthetically.
Fifty-five years. The Prince was bound for fifty-five years, if the stories are true. Why? Why was he not bound permanently? The dweomer indicates no provision for an expiry.
"I am uneasy," he whispered to Shomei.
"I am tired, Mostin. If you are having an episode of paranoia, then talk to Nwm."
"This is important," the Alienist hissed. Nearby, Ortwin grunted in response, and turned over in his sleep. Mostin resumed a quieter voice. "The spell which now resonates in my mind preoccupies me. There is an inconsistency."
Shomei yawned and gestured impatiently.
"The incarceration should have been permanent. Why was it not? According to tradition he was bound for fifty-five years. This leads me to three possible conclusions, none of which are particularly pleasant to entertain: One, the effect ‘wore off’ over time; two, the spell contains a flaw in its formula which I cannot perceive; or, three, he was released by someone."
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "I see your dilemma. Magic of this magnitude is enduring, and I find it hard to accept the first solution. Fillein was a perfectionist beyond compare, rendering the second answer even less likely. I would opt for the third possibility, or a fourth which you have not considered."
"Which would be?"
"I do not have a fourth solution, Mostin. I am merely pointing out that it would be premature to discount the possibility of its existence. I think that he was probably released."
"By whom?"
"Who can tell now, Mostin? It was three hundred years ago. A rival mage?"
"Fillein – or Jovol – was – or is – without peer. He had – or has – no rival. Was he in possession of the web of motes at that time? If so, surely he would have anticipated the possibility in any case."
"Then one of the cabal? Or Fillein himself, maybe, for whatever unknown reasons motivated him. This is idle speculation. We cannot know. They are all dead and gone."
"Hlioth remains," Mostin pointed out.
"Hlioth is deranged, but not stupid. Why would she release the Prince of Azzagrat? And if so, why did he not eliminate her afterwards?"
Nwm interrupted unexpectedly. Neither of the Wizards had been aware that he had been paying attention. "If she released Graz’zt, then I commend her actions. Such creatures have no place in this world, bound or not. Rurunoth was bad enough, but a Demon Prince?"
"Then she is most inconsistent," Mostin pointed out. "She participated in the binding of the Enforcer."
"To prevent further summonings in Wyre," Nwm smiled. "Didn’t that clause in Jovol’s Injunction ever strike you as odd, Mostin? Why do you think it was singled out, above and beyond the ban upon mages assaulting other mages?"
"Because of the circumstances prior to it," the Alienist replied. "There were too many bindings, too many gates opening. The possibility of too many more."
"Too many for what?" Nwm asked.
"For the established order to sustain," Mostin admitted. "But if you are somehow intimating that your Goddess insisted upon including a clause in the Injunction which would prevent further offense to her…"
"You are trapped in discursive thought – Uedii is a consciousness of what is Natural, not some other being ‘out there.’ Jovol was a Dreamer, who negotiated with Celestials, protected both Eadric and Tramst, acted in the interests of maintaining a peace, and directed the binding of an atavism from a previous reality. He was nothing, if not eclectic. I think you underestimate the scope of his vision."
"Hmph!" Mostin muttered. "Anyway. If we attempt to bind the Prince anytime soon, it will not be here. I have already given thought to it."
Shomei sighed, as Mostin proceeded to explain about permanent dimensional locks, pocket demiplanes and spells which foiled all perception.
*All of Kyrtill’s Burh was consecrated by Tahl, and the chapel hallowed. Soneillon dispelled the effect in the chapel before dominating Eadric and the guardians. I use the ToH version of Movanic Devas (more martial, less magical), so hallow was not available to the celestials in order to restore the chapel.
The chapel at Kyrtill’s Burh was a compact space, perhaps twenty-five feet in its longest dimension, which abutted the main keep. Like the rest of the castle, its exterior – recently repaired by Nwm’s efforts – was smothered in an ivy of an unusually prolific variety, which required continual management and pruning. And pruning seldom happened within the Burh.
There were two entrances to the sanctuary: a pair of stout oak double-doors which led into the courtyard, close to the archway at the base of the Steeple; and a smaller lintel, constructed of steel, which joined the portico in the keep proper. The metal door was hidden in a concave, behind the plain white arras which formed a backdrop to the altar space – raised upon a low dais reached by three shallow steps. The area below the dais was clear, except for a thick carpet some twenty feet long which stretched to the main doors, two low benches, and a dozen or so prayer cushions – some of which were extremely threadbare.
Ortwin sat in the centre of the floor, uncharacteristically tense. He disliked the chapel for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the draught – barely noticeable – which issued from beneath the floor covering: cold air from the crypt, finding its way through cracks in the flagstones. Nwm had specifically instructed the gnomes who had restored the rest of the keep’s interior to leave the chapel untouched: it was Eadric’s sanctum, and the Druid had felt that it would have been the worst breach of etiquette to engage in unapproved remodeling. Whilst Eadric appreciated the gesture, he had privately wished that Nwm had done something about the chapel. The austerity which had marked his earlier years had given way to a more balanced outlook, and sometimes comfort was no bad thing. Somehow, the chapel hadn’t caught up with him.
The Satyr grumbled about the cold. "Can’t we light a fire or something?" He watched as Shomei placed a dimensional lock in the centre of the sanctuary, barring all forms of extraplanar movement. The Infernalist had already invoked a screen upon the whole of Kyrtill’s Burh – it appeared as nothing more than a rugged outcrop of rock to magical scrutiny.
Eadric sighed. "Perhaps if you ask Mostin nicely, he will modify the temperature."
"Why are we here, anyway?" Ortwin continued. "Doesn’t the place need to be reconsecrated or something? I seem to recall there being a demoness of some power in here several hours ago."
"Yes," Eadric sighed, "it does. It is still the most defensible place in the keep, however."
"Consecration is highly advisable," Mostin said morbidly. "The Succubus might be tempted to turn your dead relatives into vampires."
"That is in particularly poor taste," Eadric replied nervously. "But you have a point. I will send to Morne for someone to come here as soon as possible. Probably Asser. Unless Nwm would care to do the honours*?"
"I had assumed that you would require someone of ‘true faith’ to perform the rite."
"I am more flexible in that regard than I was previously, as the definition of ‘true’ is now revealed to be somewhat ambiguous."
"Perhaps Mostin could gate a solar," Ortwin suggested. "It could perform the necessary magic, and would be a reassuring presence."
"For you maybe," Mostin said acidly. "And I am not sure that Gihaahia’s subsequent punitive visit here would contribute to the sanctity of the place. We are safe enough for the moment, barring Soneillon herself – and I suspect that there is no precaution which we could take that would bar her if she were determined."
"If you had prepared a magnificent mansion…" Ortwin began.
"Or if you had spent your time studying magic instead of fornicating and drinking firewine," Mostin snapped irritably. "We will be fine. Those hideous cohorts of Eadric are outside keeping guard. Ungrateful creatures. At least they could of thanked me for dispelling their paralysis."
"They are grateful," Eadric reassured him. "But tend to communicate little. I was surprised that Soneillon didn’t destroy them."
"She is wooing you," Nwm said wrily. "Killing celestials would make a bad impression, I’m sure."
"So is he safe?" Ortwin asked, with a wicked grin, "Or will she invade his dreams and cause him to experience impure thoughts?"
Mostin shrugged. "Good question. Technically, the dimensional lock should prevent a creature in dream-form from gaining ingress. I say technically because she may have tricks that we do not know of. And Dream is odd, to say the least."
"In ‘dream-form?’" Ortwin persisted. "You mean she may be nearby?"
"Coterminous? Why not?"
"She is not," Eadric said. "At least, not very near. The Eye of Palamabron would reveal her if she were."
Ortwin smiled sarcastically and scratched his haunch. "Then your thoughts will remain pure! How blessed you must feel! You must teach me the secret someday."
Eadric sighed. Ortwin was beginning to get on his nerves. He closed his eyes, and experienced the frustration. He sighed again, stood up, and walked towards the doors.
"Er, where are you going, Ed?" Ortwin asked.
"The Steeple," Eadric replied.
"Excellent idea! You have a stash of fine firewine, and…"
"Alone, Ortwin. I am going alone."
"Oh."
Mostin mind blanked him first.
**
Outside, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall. Nwm’s storm – as promised – had arrived, and Eadric hoped that it wouldn’t prove too violent. He ascended sixty of the seventy-seven steps of the Steeple, passing through a small door into the chamber situated below the open roof.
It was a comfortable space – once a round guard room, but since adapted to the function of a parlour. During the garrisoning of Kyrtill’s Burh, it had briefly enjoyed a return to its original function, although the Templars stationed there had done nothing to alter its furnishings. A single window of lead glass in the west wall admitted the remaining light of the failing day. The room, and those below it, had been those ‘rented’ by Mostin in his attempts to fabricate a plausible story following his violation of the first Injunction – before the Claviger had acquiesced to act as the guardian of the moral fibre of Wyre’s Wizards.
Eadric lit an oil-lantern – the flame of which flickered unsteadily in the draught before he closed its shutter – threw off his armour, opened a tall cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of firewine. He smiled at the fact that Ortwin knew where he kept it – and poured himself a small glass. He was mildly amused that it should still feel such an indulgence to him: he had violated so many of his vows that ignoring the precept which warned against alcohol seemed utterly trivial in comparison.
Sitting on one of the three narrow pallets which served as the room’s couches, Eadric set Lukarn down next to himself, reached into his belt-pouch, and retrieved a tiny piece of tightly-rolled parchment. He opened the lantern hood, and thrust the paper into the flame, holding it between his fingers and watching as it quickly burned to nothing.
Soon after, a gate opened, and Titivilus stepped through.
"Thank-you for your prompt response," Eadric said.
The Devil smiled laconically. "Hello, Ahma. I had hoped to run into you in Afqithan but, alas, you fled before we had a chance to speak. If you had answered my sending then things may have advanced at a faster pace for you."
"I was reluctant to place myself in your hands at that time," Eadric raised an eyebrow. "And who would arbitrate between the arbiter and his client?"
"I have a friend called Furcas who might volunteer in that capacity," the Duke replied caustically.
"You have friends? That surprises me."
"You are correct," Titivilus answered. "In fact, I despise him. But we are working together for the moment. This is a cosy little chamber. I almost prefer it to your study in the keep."
Eadric narrowed his eyes, unsure of whether the Devil jibed him or not. "I require advice, and perhaps mediation. If there is a price, then I would be grateful if you informed me of it prior to further communication."
"There is no price, Ahma," Titivilus replied easily. "Although my perspective is a little different from yours, and the advice I give may not necessarily be that which you seek. As both the voice of your conscience and your divinely ordained tempter, I have more than one agenda to maintain. I presume that your inquiry concerns the demoness Soneillon?"
Eadric sighed, and nodded.
"She is something, is she not?" Titivilus laughed. "And, I should say, she is nothing, if you understand my meaning. It was whispered in the narrow streets of Zelatar that she could bring a corpse to orgasm – forgive me, Ahma, I do not wish to offend your sense of propriety. I am sure that your interest in Graz’zt’s former concubine is purely pragmatic."
"You know her then? You have met her?"
"Perhaps. I do not recall." Titivilus replied vaguely.
"She is a potential ally," Eadric said.
"So I hear," Titivilus smiled.
"Does Graz’zt know of her interest in me?"
"Graz’zt has an extensive network of spies, but he is ultimately ill-informed and disorganized. I would hazard that he does not, but I make no assurances to that effect."
"If a confrontation occurs between the Prince and myself, I would – if possible – prefer to keep it out of Wyre and the World of Men. Do you think Afqithan would be a suitable locale?"
"It offers greatly augmented magic. Mostin – and Shomei, to whom, incidentally, you should extend my warmest regards – would benefit from this. As would Graz’zt himself, of course. I suspect that the risks would be greater, but the possibility of victory higher."
"Soneillon has powerful allies – and dangerous, it seems. She denies direct association with them, or rather seems reluctant to admit responsibility for their actions."
"This is not unusual for a Demon Queen," Titivilus replied drily.
"She subjected me to an extremely powerful compulsion. Could a mind blank have warded me?"
"Perhaps, although doubtless she possesses dweomers that can circumvent such magic. For a creature of her age, with her power, what can she not do, Ahma? Magic is formulaic, and in practical terms holds a finite – albeit astronomically large – set of possibilities. There might be a quintillion combinations which she is technically capable of manifesting alone. If she has unlocked merely a hundred thousand of them – the most efficient, given a certain set of circumstances – how versatile do you think that makes her?"
Eadric swallowed. The Devil’s premise was plausible. "And Graz’zt? Could the same be said?"
"To a lesser degree. He possesses more raw native power, but lacks that which Soneillon draws freely and most heavily upon – unbeing. I do not claim to fully understand it."
Eadric stared hard at Titivilus. "You are unusually forthcoming. I wonder which of your numerous agendas you are serving by sharing this information."
The Duke of Hell smiled.
"I have other questions," Eadric said unsurely, "and I would be interested in hearing your perspective – or the Adversarial perspective, if you are towing a particular line. I should also, at this point, like to seek further assurances that there are no hidden fees, contracts, compacts, reciprocal obligations or responsibilities involved."
Titivilus raised an eyebrow. "Your caution is admirable, Ahma, but you are somewhat over-concerned. Ask away! There is no obligation upon you."
"The Marilith Nufrut mentioned an entity named Carasch. Mostin was unaware of its existence. A balor which fell within the orbit of the Ancient Void, and then rose from it again. Is the name familiar to you?"
"Yes," Titivilus answered. He seemed unperturbed, but Eadric knew that gauging the Confuser’s true reaction was close to impossible.
"What distinguishes one fiend from the next, insofar as some possess the ability to withstand annihilation?"
Titivilus laughed. "That is more profound than you understand. I do not know, Ahma. Perhaps they are endowed with a particular strength of Will which sets them apart from their peers. Perhaps they are lucky. Perhaps they apprehend some greater Truth which allows consciousness to persist, even in the face of nonexistence."
"Such an entity," Eadric continued, "Carasch. It would be as far removed from Rurunoth as Soneillon is from a succubus of the least stature."
"That is probably a reasonable parallel."
"How many of these entities – chthonics, as Shomei dubbed them – would you say exist?"
"I am not privy to that information," Titivilus admitted.
Eadric scowled. "Would you even hazard a guess? A handful? Dozens? Thousands? Millions?"
"I would not know, Ahma. I suspect we are talking in terms of relative infinities. How many fell from grace? How many fled to the Abyss? How many were enmeshed in the Ancient’s power? Mere numbers cease to have meaning, after a certain point."
"Why is no reference made to them in texts – legitimate, heretical, magical or otherwise? I use those descriptors loosely – I do not wish to engage in a debate on the nature of heresy."
"Certain names and concepts are taboo. Unbeing, Demogorgon, existent nonexistence – this is an example of such. Before the Church of Oronthon was established, when it was still a tribal religion whose God vied with a dozen others – this was a taboo. It persisted."
"Saizhan addresses this issue."
"Saizhan claims to address many issues.’
"Is Oronthon then rewriting the past? Changing the Truth of what has gone before?"
"That is one possible interpretation. I do not doubt there are others."
**
Mostin sat and leered at the effigy upon the altar – an eagle rearing above a solar orb – and felt a frisson of disgust at the avian symbol.
Nearby, Shomei sat in a contemplative trance, Ortwin snored loudly, and Iua – silent as a cat – practiced with her rapier, repeating maneuvers endlessly, each time with subtle variations on a complex theme. Nwm, apparently enraptured with the Green, paid no heed to any other.
The Alienist groped within his portable hole and retrieved an ornate box of carved wood from among the objects stored there. Opening it, he pulled the contents – a stone slab – from its red silk wrappings, and set it upon the rug in front of him.
Mostin closed his eyes, focussed inwards, and inspected his valences: nested shells which grew outwards from a central hub, rapidly blurring into an indistinct haze where no differentiation yet existed. He placed his mind beyond the order, beyond the haze, in the swirling, chaotic morass which surrounded it.
Tiny buds of potential were burgeoning, seeking to make contact with each other and the hub of consciousness at the centre. Deliberately, he focussed upon them, drawing on his reservoir. His mind opened like a sluice, pouring its contents forth. Rapidly, the buds blossomed gloriously, and bore fruit which ripened in a heartbeat. He shook, and sweated profusely.
The Alienist turned his attention to the tablet in front of him, his eyes scanning over it, and his fingertips tracing the etchings and designs upon it. There was a sudden crack, as the slab shattered, and the sound of grinding stone. An eddy of wind arose, and all that was left before him – a pile of dust – was blown across the floor of the chapel.
Shomei observed him with a mixture of envy and mirth.
"Congratulations," the Infernalist said drily.
"Thank-you," Mostin replied. "How long before you…?"
"A week at most. I had hoped to beat you to it."
"Hah! No chance. This means that I am – if only for a brief while – the most potent spellcaster in Wyre, and the first in two generations to achieve this notable achievement. I don’t include Mulissu in that statement – she is not native, and doesn’t count."
Nwm smiled quietly, but said nothing.
*
As Mostin sat and contemplated the spell called Graz’zt – designed by Fillein-who-would-later-be-Jovol in the heyday of his power and influence – he shifted uncomfortably. Something was amiss. Within the perfectly executed formula which comprised the spell, there was no room for error: each component and factor was optimized for an efficiency of purpose which Mostin deeply appreciated, both functionally and aesthetically.
Fifty-five years. The Prince was bound for fifty-five years, if the stories are true. Why? Why was he not bound permanently? The dweomer indicates no provision for an expiry.
"I am uneasy," he whispered to Shomei.
"I am tired, Mostin. If you are having an episode of paranoia, then talk to Nwm."
"This is important," the Alienist hissed. Nearby, Ortwin grunted in response, and turned over in his sleep. Mostin resumed a quieter voice. "The spell which now resonates in my mind preoccupies me. There is an inconsistency."
Shomei yawned and gestured impatiently.
"The incarceration should have been permanent. Why was it not? According to tradition he was bound for fifty-five years. This leads me to three possible conclusions, none of which are particularly pleasant to entertain: One, the effect ‘wore off’ over time; two, the spell contains a flaw in its formula which I cannot perceive; or, three, he was released by someone."
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "I see your dilemma. Magic of this magnitude is enduring, and I find it hard to accept the first solution. Fillein was a perfectionist beyond compare, rendering the second answer even less likely. I would opt for the third possibility, or a fourth which you have not considered."
"Which would be?"
"I do not have a fourth solution, Mostin. I am merely pointing out that it would be premature to discount the possibility of its existence. I think that he was probably released."
"By whom?"
"Who can tell now, Mostin? It was three hundred years ago. A rival mage?"
"Fillein – or Jovol – was – or is – without peer. He had – or has – no rival. Was he in possession of the web of motes at that time? If so, surely he would have anticipated the possibility in any case."
"Then one of the cabal? Or Fillein himself, maybe, for whatever unknown reasons motivated him. This is idle speculation. We cannot know. They are all dead and gone."
"Hlioth remains," Mostin pointed out.
"Hlioth is deranged, but not stupid. Why would she release the Prince of Azzagrat? And if so, why did he not eliminate her afterwards?"
Nwm interrupted unexpectedly. Neither of the Wizards had been aware that he had been paying attention. "If she released Graz’zt, then I commend her actions. Such creatures have no place in this world, bound or not. Rurunoth was bad enough, but a Demon Prince?"
"Then she is most inconsistent," Mostin pointed out. "She participated in the binding of the Enforcer."
"To prevent further summonings in Wyre," Nwm smiled. "Didn’t that clause in Jovol’s Injunction ever strike you as odd, Mostin? Why do you think it was singled out, above and beyond the ban upon mages assaulting other mages?"
"Because of the circumstances prior to it," the Alienist replied. "There were too many bindings, too many gates opening. The possibility of too many more."
"Too many for what?" Nwm asked.
"For the established order to sustain," Mostin admitted. "But if you are somehow intimating that your Goddess insisted upon including a clause in the Injunction which would prevent further offense to her…"
"You are trapped in discursive thought – Uedii is a consciousness of what is Natural, not some other being ‘out there.’ Jovol was a Dreamer, who negotiated with Celestials, protected both Eadric and Tramst, acted in the interests of maintaining a peace, and directed the binding of an atavism from a previous reality. He was nothing, if not eclectic. I think you underestimate the scope of his vision."
"Hmph!" Mostin muttered. "Anyway. If we attempt to bind the Prince anytime soon, it will not be here. I have already given thought to it."
Shomei sighed, as Mostin proceeded to explain about permanent dimensional locks, pocket demiplanes and spells which foiled all perception.
*All of Kyrtill’s Burh was consecrated by Tahl, and the chapel hallowed. Soneillon dispelled the effect in the chapel before dominating Eadric and the guardians. I use the ToH version of Movanic Devas (more martial, less magical), so hallow was not available to the celestials in order to restore the chapel.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Church and Steeple - Part 2
Nhura uttered a string of black profanities when she received the news from Koilimilou that Crosod had fled back to Shadow, and was, by now, probably dead. The hunting party descended into the woods of Hethio, two leagues from the ancient dolmens at Groba. A madness fell upon the birds and animals as they fled from the umbral sidhe and the creatures which accompanied them: griffons, the chthonic thing, and the Lamia Jetheeg – another sorceress of no mean ability. Koilimilou was incapable of subsequently scrying the Wyrm, which only made his death seem that much more likely. Threxu’s demise was all but certain.
Frustrated, and aware of the fact that it might prematurely attract undue attention, Nhura nonetheless instructed Koilimilou to scry Eadric of Deorham. Although the Lillend was aware of the general location of the Ahma’s stronghold, a lock upon him and a subsequent clairvoyance would pin him down. The Cambion’s efforts drew a blank.
Nhura cursed, and ordered Koilimilou to call and bind as many demons as she was capable of. A bitter argument ensued, but Koilimilou finally relented. Previously, she and the Lillend might have been well-matched; but now Nhura wore Irknaan’s mantle, and was unassailable by any magic which the Cambion possessed. As dusk fell, under the Lillend’s watchful eye – lest she order the creatures to turn upon her Queen – Koilimilou struck a series of bargains with profanities against which the soil of Wyre heaved in revulsion. Throughout, Nhura was poised to invoke destruction upon the Cambion if she spoke even a phrase out of turn.
Soneillon watched from behind a tree-trunk some fifty yards distant, hiding, invisible, and in the shape of a diminutive woodland spirit.
She had not anticipated Nhura’s determination, nor the resources at the Lillend’s command – albeit vicariously. Neither had the Succubus considered the lengths to which Nhura would go in order to assert her claims to Afqithan – in her retinue were knights loyal to Samodoquol and Menicau, and they needed to be suitably impressed.
The Queen of Throile passed into the unconscious world again, and returned her attention to Eadric. The mental landscape of dreamers in Hethio was fraught with hideous nightmares, the significance of which none understood.
**
In the topmost chamber of the Steeple, the Ahma sat closeted with Titivilus, probing the Infernal Duke on a variety of subjects, but retaining a healthy sense of scepticism with regard to any answers that he received. When they returned to the matter of Soneillon, Eadric stayed true to his words with Titivilus at their first meeting: he preserved a total honesty in communication. He was struck with the realization that whether the Devil adhered to the same premise was, in the final analysis, irrelevant.
"You would advise me to use her," Eadric said. "To slake my lust, draw upon her power, discard her when her utility has expired, and move on."
"That is what I would do, Ahma. I am not you, however. I lack your moral baggage."
"You lack compassion."
"If you prefer," Titivilus sighed. "Although I thought we had already agreed as to its redundancy as an effective tool."
"That is because you also lack the ability to understand it," Eadric smiled.
"As your understanding of compassion is obviously far more developed than mine," Titivilus laughed, "then perhaps you should also extend it to Graz’zt. And every other Demon and Devil between Azzagrat and Nessus. Set yourself up as a shining beacon of Love, Ahma, and watch as, no doubt, repentant fiends flock to your warm smile and welcoming arms. I will remain at the back of the line and observe as Astaroth and Moloch, like pubescent girls, shyly jostle for their places and anxiously think ‘will he choose me next?’ I think not."
"Your mockery does you no credit, Titivilus, and merely reveals the fear that you experience in the face of that which you no longer comprehend but secretly long to become reacquainted with. I am not crippled by my doubt, but draw strength it. You resent me, because I am mortal but still you are forced to acknowledge my spiritual authority. I see the limits of your perspective – the ‘Adversarial’ paradigm – and recognize the partial truth which it contains. But you fail to transcend the dichotomy of total self-determination and absolute surrender to the Will of Oronthon: they are identical. Accompany me later to Morne, and I will introduce you to the Sela. I guarantee your safety – I would happily defend your right to speak with him."
"No, thank-you," Titivilus replied calmly. "Although I’m sure I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time – in an aeon or two."
"The door to the Fane will remain open."
"And I will remain outside," the Devil finished. "Now, Ahma, before I grow weary of your proselytizing, and my mood becomes less accommodating, let us turn to ‘mediation.’ You are ready for me to act as a go-between in communicating with Soneillon?"
"I require the benefit of your perspective in order to better inform mine. You are adept at dealing with fiends, and penetrating their motives."
"That much is true," Titivilus smiled archly. "Am I to act as a chaperone to you also, lest you feel an uncontrollable urge to bed this demoness?"
"You have a singular sense of humour."
"And your track history speaks for itself. Nonetheless, my raillery may be pertinent – Soneillon is said to possess a peculiar way of eliciting sympathy."
"So I have discovered," Eadric said wrily.
"Now?"
"Now," the Paladin nodded.
Titivilus issued a sending. Three seconds later, Soneillon manifested. Dreamstuff swirled briefly around her – nightmares and visions of horror, which rapidly faded to nothing in the waking world. As before, her form – that of a Trempan peasant-girl – evoked a complex reaction in Eadric, despite a knowledge that it was entirely superficial.
*
"Charmed, I’m sure," Titivilus bowed with mock politeness.
"Is there any particular reason why I should not extinguish this gnat?" The Succubus asked the Paladin.
"If I thought it would carry any weight," Eadric replied, "then I would say ‘because he is divinely mandated.’ As I know that you recognize no such authority, I will simply say ‘because I ask you not to.’ I have requested the services of Titivilus as an arbiter. He is, in a manner of speaking, my guardian angel – albeit a fallen one."
"I may have misjudged Oronthon’s sense of the absurd. This monster is hardly a disinterested party, Eadric. Still, he risks much by being here alone – I wonder how he is being recompensed. Where are Murmuur and Furcus, Devil? Three together might pose a challenge to me, but one alone is an easy target."
"Alas, they lack my boldness and appetite for adventure," Titivilus replied, "and my legal expertise," he added.
Soneillon tilted her head inquisitively. "You wish for a formal compact then, Eadric?"
Eadric shook his head. "I wish for a third opinion – however partial. I am also highly dubious of the extent to which you would regard any compact as binding. You seem oblivious to most other established fiendish conventions."
Soneillon moved closer, and her eyes bored into Eadric. "You are perceptive. I wonder if Nehael recognized your potential for transcendence when she was first attracted to you, or she saw you merely as a redeemer and was romantically fixated? She was always somewhat idealistic."
Eadric squinted. "What do you know of her?"
"I knew all of the succubi in Graz’zt’s harem, Eadric. And the mariliths, the lamias, and every other shade of fiendish slut that he could lay his hands on. Each bitch is more wicked and depraved than the last, although, no doubt, each has her charms. When one spends a million years as his chief concubine, there isn’t much that one doesn’t discover."
"And you, Queen Soneillon?" Titivilus asked with an amused expression. "How wicked and depraved are you? I would almost say the wickeder, the better, from the Ahma’s perspective. He has a powerful urge to heal, you know. It continues to lead him into all kinds of trouble."
"I will tolerate your presence, but will brook neither innuendo nor veiled insults, Devil. This creature is a viper, Eadric – do not let his apparent openness and easy mannerisms deceive you. His only goal is your damnation, and if he can use me as a vehicle to achieve it then all the better for him."
Titivilus was about to speak, but Eadric held up his hand to stay him. "My circumstances are unusual," the Paladin said to Soneillon. "And it would seem that established mores do not apply to me. Somehow, I have been appointed a role in determining what is right from what is wrong, although I fail yet to fully understand my place in the new order. Damnation itself may be an outmoded concept – Saizhan is beyond such categories."
"You will be your own judge, Eadric. You know this. Who could be harsher?"
Eadric swallowed. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite her subtleties, Soneillon seemed to possess an uncanny knack for presenting stark truths in uncompromising terms.
"I do not understand what motivates you," Eadric said.
"That is part of my appeal," she replied. "I am disappointed that you severed the connection between us: had the spell I wrought not been negated, you could have met me in Dream. What do you fear?"
"His lust confuses him," Titivilus said, "and he is unused to acting for the simple purpose of sensory gratification. Evil and pleasure are intimately connected in the Ahma’s mind: Temple conditioning is hard to shake off, even when one is the Breath of God."
"The Devil’s words have some merit," Eadric nodded. "I would also add, however, that Dream is something which I have little understanding of. In Afqithan, the Duke offered to act as a mediator between myself and the Loquai and their allies – I assume that he included you in the equation. I refused him for the same reason that I was dubious of encountering you in Dream – it was not a familiar environment. I prefer reality to be more tangible – there are enough variables to deal with already."
"That is a specious argument," Soneillon smiled, "but, as I have said, I am no philosopher and prefer not to be drawn into ontological debate. It would be a terrible thing if my intellect succeeded in denying the possibility of my own existence."
Eadric laughed despite himself, before staring at her with a mixture of wonder and suspicion: was her humour genuinely self-deprecating, or merely an affectation assumed for his benefit?
"We should address the question of Graz’zt," the lightness in the Demoness’s tone had vanished. "Are you now ready to hear the worst?"
"I don’t understand."
"Nehael, Eadric. Do you wish to know what has become of her?"
Be careful, Ahma, she lies almost as well as I.
"No doubt you will take a perverse pleasure in relaying this information," Eadric sighed.
I do not take my pleasure thus, sweet Eadric. "Nehael is currently held in a cell of adamant, deep below Zelatar, in immensely powerful magical bonds, and subjected to pain that you cannot begin to comprehend – Graz’zt is particularly skilled and inventive in these matters. She is guarded by the Nalfeshnee Trakkao – who administers punishment on the Prince’s behalf." Soneillon’s expression was one that, if offered by any other, the Paladin would have interpreted as genuine empathy and sorrow.
This whore is outrageous!
"Proceed," Eadric said coldly, scowling at Titivilus. He was beginning to feel sick.
"Violation of the body is only the beginning, Eadric. There is a limit to the trauma that even Demonic flesh – once fashioned of Empyrean stuff – can sustain before it loses all ability to renew itself. And Nehael is fragile – she has already relinquished much of the strength that was native to her. Little of her as you remember her remains, and her physical form has been stripped away: she consists now largely of essence. As to the integrity of her personality, who can tell? He may have broken her altogether. Prolonged pain of that magnitude often leads to madness and evil – such is the way of things."
"I fail to see what benefit relaying this information conveys to anyone."
"You should be prepared for the worst, Eadric," Soneillon answered. "She may be unrecognizable – not merely her form, but who she is. I would not keep this information from you, and later hear that you were deceived or misled by me."
Titivilus raised an eyebrow.
Outside, the storm raged.
Eadric looked at Soneillon. "I would request a brief moment to confer with my counsellor."
The Demoness nodded, and casually lay down upon one of the narrow pallets, lazily stretching her arms above her head.
**
Within the sanctuary, Nwm sat motionless, his perception reaching outwards through the weather system that he himself had conjured, and rapidly engaging in a series of penetrating mental glances towards his environment.
Eadric was masked from his faculties, but the creatures who were near him were not. Titivilus appeared to the Druid’s inner vision as a familiar set of dissonances which, when combined, left no doubt in Nwm’s mind as to the identity of the Devil. The other outsider – which defied conventional classification – seemed to be a shadow of the real, a fantasy which eluded direct scrutiny, but whose presence could be inferred by its effects on the Green in its vicinity. Soneillon, Nwm mused.
He furrowed his brow in concern. Eadric was playing with high stakes. Attempting to force some epiphany, no doubt, or construct a radical synthesis which would inform his direction.
The Druid found himself reflecting upon Jovol, the Injunction – both in letter and in spirit – and his own words to Mostin earlier that evening. A niggling doubt began to grow in his mind, quickly becoming an irritation with Eadric’s actions, and a realization that his own role in events had been too passive. The time for calculated inaction was passing.
Too many realities were in conflict, and the new one, offered by Tramst, did little to assuage Nwm’s concerns. Saizhan was too cerebral for his liking, despite its claims of relevance and immediacy. It was as though the devotional heart of Oronthonianism – however distorted and misaligned – had been ripped out and replaced with a philosophy which elevated the dialectical process itself to deific significance. Not that the majority of Oronthon worshippers would even notice, Nwm thought. Most would continue with the rites that they had observed for several hundred years, oblivious to the fact that their incarnate deity – or, rather, one aspect of him, his ‘gnostic intellect’ (whatever that was) – had utterly refuted half a millennium of dogma.
Nehael had spoken to him long before of a ‘Middle Way’ which avoided the extremes which had characterized Oronthonian thought and practice – of all thought and practice. Yet Nehael had rejected the Celestial Order a second time, when none other than Rintrah himself had offered to escort her back to Heaven. Uedii had calmly accepted her in the face of reason and expectation – an outsider to Nature’s order, admitted to her inmost secrets.
Saizhan. The Middle Way. The Dialectic. What had Eadric said that Titivilus named it? – Ahh, the ‘Path of Lightning.’ A suitably Left-handed spin on things. And Shomei had been moved on some level – but Shomei was Shomei, and carried her own fears and ghosts with her.
Somehow, Nehael was central – although, somewhere in the details, this had been conveniently forgotten. She had been the first to seek the reconciliation and transcendence of opposing Truths. She possessed a profound wisdom which the Druid missed.
Nwm sighed. If he understood the Green – and he was by no means certain of his own ability in that regard – then it would act accordingly through him. Would the tension between Oronthonianism and Uedii worship persist, although on a more rarefied level? Saizhan seemed to be a practice reserved for the educated classes. What relevance did it possess for a farmer, or for a trapper? What did they care for the much-vaunted ‘dialectic of negation?’
Retreat from the world into a life of contemplation was a luxury that few could afford, and was bought with the sweat and toil of Uediian peasants, however indirectly. The Church might be in the process of disestablishment, and its taxes lifted – as the Ahma had promised – but its principal funds still derived from the contributions of wealthy aristocrats. And their money was stolen from the farmers.
I suppose I should speak with Tramst, at some point, he thought. Although I fail to see what he could tell me that I don’t already know. Still, I should give him a chance. I might be pleasantly surprised.
The Druid returned his attention to the Steeple, where the Green warped uneasily around the interlopers.
I am sick of this. I am sick of them, being here, interfering.
He glanced at Mostin, who was fussing – attempting to arrange his padded mat to his satisfaction. Shomei was on the verge of sleep.
Nwm stroked his beard, and wondered how things would unfold.
**
You are enamoured.
Somewhat. But it will pass.
You haven’t used Palamabron’s Eye to interrogate her.
She subscribes to a different Truth. What use would it be?
[Laughter]. It is your truth which matters to you, Ahma, not hers.
You are incorrect.
Perhaps your lust blinds you.
No, it doesn’t, although it would be easier for you if it did. You are afraid of her.
[Irritated]. As should you be. She can annihilate you with a moment’s thought.
That is not what I meant. You are afraid of what she represents.
[Condescendingly]. And what may that be, Ahma?
An escape from the prison that you have created for yourself.
Your moralizing is becoming tedious, Ahma. Has she then escaped Oronthon as well? Has she placed herself beyond the infinite – your view of the infinite. Is she outside of his purview? That sword cuts both ways, Ahma. What is not Oronthon?
I will not be drawn into monistic thought.
You are avoiding the issue.
The issue is no longer a concern of mine. It is a road which leads nowhere. Now can we please consider the matter in hand – that of Soneillon. What is your opinion of her?
You are projecting your view of Nehael onto the Queen of Throile, Ahma. You have been seduced by her eloquence, wit and her – not inconsiderable – physical charm. You are confusing the two succubi in your mind. Both fly in the face of convention, and both have seized – or created – their own truth.
Are her words regarding Nehael’s current state plausible?
Utterly plausible. This does not mean that they are entirely true, however.
Do you believe that she is deceiving me?
If I told you either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ then you would – quite rightly – question my motivation for doing so. I will therefore say ‘I do not know,’ although you might also suspect that I am withholding an answer for some unknown reason. In fact, I do not know.
[Wrily] How hard it must be, to be Titivilus. Are there occasions when you speak the plain truth, and no-one believes you?
If I speak the plain truth, then it is invariably in an effort to deceive, so the point is moot.
Would you advise a formal compact, in order to insure me against any ill will that she might bear towards me?
As you pointed out yourself, she may not regard such an agreement as binding.
Does she have a history of compacting that you are aware of?
I believe she prefers informal arrangements, such as with Irknaan.
That is not reassuring.
[Wickedly]Of course, she may be attempting to avoid a compact precisely in order to give her greater latitude in her dealings with you later on.
Your mind is truly tortuous.
Why thank-you, Ahma.
*
"Have you reached a decision, Eadric? Will you trust me?"
"I will never trust you Soneillon, because I will never understand you. You are both too alien and too human for comfort. I will, however, temporarily suspend my doubt – and possibly my better judgement. If you betray me – to death or perdition – then I will hold no ill-will towards you. The fault will be mine alone."
She smiled, and offered her hand. "Come with me. I will show you what we have to work with."
Eadric stepped backwards suspiciously. "Nhura is still loose. I must deal with her first – assuming that you still refuse to intervene and discourage her. I need time to prepare."
"This will take only a short while. I will return you in an hour or two."
The Paladin shot a glance towards Titivilus. The Devil’s face was totally impassive.
Eadric groaned and, tentatively, reached out to touch her. She dissolved, and seemed to flow both into him and around him.
The nightmares of demons – which raged all around – were impotent against the Void which cradled him, and bore him to Throile.
Nhura uttered a string of black profanities when she received the news from Koilimilou that Crosod had fled back to Shadow, and was, by now, probably dead. The hunting party descended into the woods of Hethio, two leagues from the ancient dolmens at Groba. A madness fell upon the birds and animals as they fled from the umbral sidhe and the creatures which accompanied them: griffons, the chthonic thing, and the Lamia Jetheeg – another sorceress of no mean ability. Koilimilou was incapable of subsequently scrying the Wyrm, which only made his death seem that much more likely. Threxu’s demise was all but certain.
Frustrated, and aware of the fact that it might prematurely attract undue attention, Nhura nonetheless instructed Koilimilou to scry Eadric of Deorham. Although the Lillend was aware of the general location of the Ahma’s stronghold, a lock upon him and a subsequent clairvoyance would pin him down. The Cambion’s efforts drew a blank.
Nhura cursed, and ordered Koilimilou to call and bind as many demons as she was capable of. A bitter argument ensued, but Koilimilou finally relented. Previously, she and the Lillend might have been well-matched; but now Nhura wore Irknaan’s mantle, and was unassailable by any magic which the Cambion possessed. As dusk fell, under the Lillend’s watchful eye – lest she order the creatures to turn upon her Queen – Koilimilou struck a series of bargains with profanities against which the soil of Wyre heaved in revulsion. Throughout, Nhura was poised to invoke destruction upon the Cambion if she spoke even a phrase out of turn.
Soneillon watched from behind a tree-trunk some fifty yards distant, hiding, invisible, and in the shape of a diminutive woodland spirit.
She had not anticipated Nhura’s determination, nor the resources at the Lillend’s command – albeit vicariously. Neither had the Succubus considered the lengths to which Nhura would go in order to assert her claims to Afqithan – in her retinue were knights loyal to Samodoquol and Menicau, and they needed to be suitably impressed.
The Queen of Throile passed into the unconscious world again, and returned her attention to Eadric. The mental landscape of dreamers in Hethio was fraught with hideous nightmares, the significance of which none understood.
**
In the topmost chamber of the Steeple, the Ahma sat closeted with Titivilus, probing the Infernal Duke on a variety of subjects, but retaining a healthy sense of scepticism with regard to any answers that he received. When they returned to the matter of Soneillon, Eadric stayed true to his words with Titivilus at their first meeting: he preserved a total honesty in communication. He was struck with the realization that whether the Devil adhered to the same premise was, in the final analysis, irrelevant.
"You would advise me to use her," Eadric said. "To slake my lust, draw upon her power, discard her when her utility has expired, and move on."
"That is what I would do, Ahma. I am not you, however. I lack your moral baggage."
"You lack compassion."
"If you prefer," Titivilus sighed. "Although I thought we had already agreed as to its redundancy as an effective tool."
"That is because you also lack the ability to understand it," Eadric smiled.
"As your understanding of compassion is obviously far more developed than mine," Titivilus laughed, "then perhaps you should also extend it to Graz’zt. And every other Demon and Devil between Azzagrat and Nessus. Set yourself up as a shining beacon of Love, Ahma, and watch as, no doubt, repentant fiends flock to your warm smile and welcoming arms. I will remain at the back of the line and observe as Astaroth and Moloch, like pubescent girls, shyly jostle for their places and anxiously think ‘will he choose me next?’ I think not."
"Your mockery does you no credit, Titivilus, and merely reveals the fear that you experience in the face of that which you no longer comprehend but secretly long to become reacquainted with. I am not crippled by my doubt, but draw strength it. You resent me, because I am mortal but still you are forced to acknowledge my spiritual authority. I see the limits of your perspective – the ‘Adversarial’ paradigm – and recognize the partial truth which it contains. But you fail to transcend the dichotomy of total self-determination and absolute surrender to the Will of Oronthon: they are identical. Accompany me later to Morne, and I will introduce you to the Sela. I guarantee your safety – I would happily defend your right to speak with him."
"No, thank-you," Titivilus replied calmly. "Although I’m sure I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time – in an aeon or two."
"The door to the Fane will remain open."
"And I will remain outside," the Devil finished. "Now, Ahma, before I grow weary of your proselytizing, and my mood becomes less accommodating, let us turn to ‘mediation.’ You are ready for me to act as a go-between in communicating with Soneillon?"
"I require the benefit of your perspective in order to better inform mine. You are adept at dealing with fiends, and penetrating their motives."
"That much is true," Titivilus smiled archly. "Am I to act as a chaperone to you also, lest you feel an uncontrollable urge to bed this demoness?"
"You have a singular sense of humour."
"And your track history speaks for itself. Nonetheless, my raillery may be pertinent – Soneillon is said to possess a peculiar way of eliciting sympathy."
"So I have discovered," Eadric said wrily.
"Now?"
"Now," the Paladin nodded.
Titivilus issued a sending. Three seconds later, Soneillon manifested. Dreamstuff swirled briefly around her – nightmares and visions of horror, which rapidly faded to nothing in the waking world. As before, her form – that of a Trempan peasant-girl – evoked a complex reaction in Eadric, despite a knowledge that it was entirely superficial.
*
"Charmed, I’m sure," Titivilus bowed with mock politeness.
"Is there any particular reason why I should not extinguish this gnat?" The Succubus asked the Paladin.
"If I thought it would carry any weight," Eadric replied, "then I would say ‘because he is divinely mandated.’ As I know that you recognize no such authority, I will simply say ‘because I ask you not to.’ I have requested the services of Titivilus as an arbiter. He is, in a manner of speaking, my guardian angel – albeit a fallen one."
"I may have misjudged Oronthon’s sense of the absurd. This monster is hardly a disinterested party, Eadric. Still, he risks much by being here alone – I wonder how he is being recompensed. Where are Murmuur and Furcus, Devil? Three together might pose a challenge to me, but one alone is an easy target."
"Alas, they lack my boldness and appetite for adventure," Titivilus replied, "and my legal expertise," he added.
Soneillon tilted her head inquisitively. "You wish for a formal compact then, Eadric?"
Eadric shook his head. "I wish for a third opinion – however partial. I am also highly dubious of the extent to which you would regard any compact as binding. You seem oblivious to most other established fiendish conventions."
Soneillon moved closer, and her eyes bored into Eadric. "You are perceptive. I wonder if Nehael recognized your potential for transcendence when she was first attracted to you, or she saw you merely as a redeemer and was romantically fixated? She was always somewhat idealistic."
Eadric squinted. "What do you know of her?"
"I knew all of the succubi in Graz’zt’s harem, Eadric. And the mariliths, the lamias, and every other shade of fiendish slut that he could lay his hands on. Each bitch is more wicked and depraved than the last, although, no doubt, each has her charms. When one spends a million years as his chief concubine, there isn’t much that one doesn’t discover."
"And you, Queen Soneillon?" Titivilus asked with an amused expression. "How wicked and depraved are you? I would almost say the wickeder, the better, from the Ahma’s perspective. He has a powerful urge to heal, you know. It continues to lead him into all kinds of trouble."
"I will tolerate your presence, but will brook neither innuendo nor veiled insults, Devil. This creature is a viper, Eadric – do not let his apparent openness and easy mannerisms deceive you. His only goal is your damnation, and if he can use me as a vehicle to achieve it then all the better for him."
Titivilus was about to speak, but Eadric held up his hand to stay him. "My circumstances are unusual," the Paladin said to Soneillon. "And it would seem that established mores do not apply to me. Somehow, I have been appointed a role in determining what is right from what is wrong, although I fail yet to fully understand my place in the new order. Damnation itself may be an outmoded concept – Saizhan is beyond such categories."
"You will be your own judge, Eadric. You know this. Who could be harsher?"
Eadric swallowed. He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite her subtleties, Soneillon seemed to possess an uncanny knack for presenting stark truths in uncompromising terms.
"I do not understand what motivates you," Eadric said.
"That is part of my appeal," she replied. "I am disappointed that you severed the connection between us: had the spell I wrought not been negated, you could have met me in Dream. What do you fear?"
"His lust confuses him," Titivilus said, "and he is unused to acting for the simple purpose of sensory gratification. Evil and pleasure are intimately connected in the Ahma’s mind: Temple conditioning is hard to shake off, even when one is the Breath of God."
"The Devil’s words have some merit," Eadric nodded. "I would also add, however, that Dream is something which I have little understanding of. In Afqithan, the Duke offered to act as a mediator between myself and the Loquai and their allies – I assume that he included you in the equation. I refused him for the same reason that I was dubious of encountering you in Dream – it was not a familiar environment. I prefer reality to be more tangible – there are enough variables to deal with already."
"That is a specious argument," Soneillon smiled, "but, as I have said, I am no philosopher and prefer not to be drawn into ontological debate. It would be a terrible thing if my intellect succeeded in denying the possibility of my own existence."
Eadric laughed despite himself, before staring at her with a mixture of wonder and suspicion: was her humour genuinely self-deprecating, or merely an affectation assumed for his benefit?
"We should address the question of Graz’zt," the lightness in the Demoness’s tone had vanished. "Are you now ready to hear the worst?"
"I don’t understand."
"Nehael, Eadric. Do you wish to know what has become of her?"
Be careful, Ahma, she lies almost as well as I.
"No doubt you will take a perverse pleasure in relaying this information," Eadric sighed.
I do not take my pleasure thus, sweet Eadric. "Nehael is currently held in a cell of adamant, deep below Zelatar, in immensely powerful magical bonds, and subjected to pain that you cannot begin to comprehend – Graz’zt is particularly skilled and inventive in these matters. She is guarded by the Nalfeshnee Trakkao – who administers punishment on the Prince’s behalf." Soneillon’s expression was one that, if offered by any other, the Paladin would have interpreted as genuine empathy and sorrow.
This whore is outrageous!
"Proceed," Eadric said coldly, scowling at Titivilus. He was beginning to feel sick.
"Violation of the body is only the beginning, Eadric. There is a limit to the trauma that even Demonic flesh – once fashioned of Empyrean stuff – can sustain before it loses all ability to renew itself. And Nehael is fragile – she has already relinquished much of the strength that was native to her. Little of her as you remember her remains, and her physical form has been stripped away: she consists now largely of essence. As to the integrity of her personality, who can tell? He may have broken her altogether. Prolonged pain of that magnitude often leads to madness and evil – such is the way of things."
"I fail to see what benefit relaying this information conveys to anyone."
"You should be prepared for the worst, Eadric," Soneillon answered. "She may be unrecognizable – not merely her form, but who she is. I would not keep this information from you, and later hear that you were deceived or misled by me."
Titivilus raised an eyebrow.
Outside, the storm raged.
Eadric looked at Soneillon. "I would request a brief moment to confer with my counsellor."
The Demoness nodded, and casually lay down upon one of the narrow pallets, lazily stretching her arms above her head.
**
Within the sanctuary, Nwm sat motionless, his perception reaching outwards through the weather system that he himself had conjured, and rapidly engaging in a series of penetrating mental glances towards his environment.
Eadric was masked from his faculties, but the creatures who were near him were not. Titivilus appeared to the Druid’s inner vision as a familiar set of dissonances which, when combined, left no doubt in Nwm’s mind as to the identity of the Devil. The other outsider – which defied conventional classification – seemed to be a shadow of the real, a fantasy which eluded direct scrutiny, but whose presence could be inferred by its effects on the Green in its vicinity. Soneillon, Nwm mused.
He furrowed his brow in concern. Eadric was playing with high stakes. Attempting to force some epiphany, no doubt, or construct a radical synthesis which would inform his direction.
The Druid found himself reflecting upon Jovol, the Injunction – both in letter and in spirit – and his own words to Mostin earlier that evening. A niggling doubt began to grow in his mind, quickly becoming an irritation with Eadric’s actions, and a realization that his own role in events had been too passive. The time for calculated inaction was passing.
Too many realities were in conflict, and the new one, offered by Tramst, did little to assuage Nwm’s concerns. Saizhan was too cerebral for his liking, despite its claims of relevance and immediacy. It was as though the devotional heart of Oronthonianism – however distorted and misaligned – had been ripped out and replaced with a philosophy which elevated the dialectical process itself to deific significance. Not that the majority of Oronthon worshippers would even notice, Nwm thought. Most would continue with the rites that they had observed for several hundred years, oblivious to the fact that their incarnate deity – or, rather, one aspect of him, his ‘gnostic intellect’ (whatever that was) – had utterly refuted half a millennium of dogma.
Nehael had spoken to him long before of a ‘Middle Way’ which avoided the extremes which had characterized Oronthonian thought and practice – of all thought and practice. Yet Nehael had rejected the Celestial Order a second time, when none other than Rintrah himself had offered to escort her back to Heaven. Uedii had calmly accepted her in the face of reason and expectation – an outsider to Nature’s order, admitted to her inmost secrets.
Saizhan. The Middle Way. The Dialectic. What had Eadric said that Titivilus named it? – Ahh, the ‘Path of Lightning.’ A suitably Left-handed spin on things. And Shomei had been moved on some level – but Shomei was Shomei, and carried her own fears and ghosts with her.
Somehow, Nehael was central – although, somewhere in the details, this had been conveniently forgotten. She had been the first to seek the reconciliation and transcendence of opposing Truths. She possessed a profound wisdom which the Druid missed.
Nwm sighed. If he understood the Green – and he was by no means certain of his own ability in that regard – then it would act accordingly through him. Would the tension between Oronthonianism and Uedii worship persist, although on a more rarefied level? Saizhan seemed to be a practice reserved for the educated classes. What relevance did it possess for a farmer, or for a trapper? What did they care for the much-vaunted ‘dialectic of negation?’
Retreat from the world into a life of contemplation was a luxury that few could afford, and was bought with the sweat and toil of Uediian peasants, however indirectly. The Church might be in the process of disestablishment, and its taxes lifted – as the Ahma had promised – but its principal funds still derived from the contributions of wealthy aristocrats. And their money was stolen from the farmers.
I suppose I should speak with Tramst, at some point, he thought. Although I fail to see what he could tell me that I don’t already know. Still, I should give him a chance. I might be pleasantly surprised.
The Druid returned his attention to the Steeple, where the Green warped uneasily around the interlopers.
I am sick of this. I am sick of them, being here, interfering.
He glanced at Mostin, who was fussing – attempting to arrange his padded mat to his satisfaction. Shomei was on the verge of sleep.
Nwm stroked his beard, and wondered how things would unfold.
**
You are enamoured.
Somewhat. But it will pass.
You haven’t used Palamabron’s Eye to interrogate her.
She subscribes to a different Truth. What use would it be?
[Laughter]. It is your truth which matters to you, Ahma, not hers.
You are incorrect.
Perhaps your lust blinds you.
No, it doesn’t, although it would be easier for you if it did. You are afraid of her.
[Irritated]. As should you be. She can annihilate you with a moment’s thought.
That is not what I meant. You are afraid of what she represents.
[Condescendingly]. And what may that be, Ahma?
An escape from the prison that you have created for yourself.
Your moralizing is becoming tedious, Ahma. Has she then escaped Oronthon as well? Has she placed herself beyond the infinite – your view of the infinite. Is she outside of his purview? That sword cuts both ways, Ahma. What is not Oronthon?
I will not be drawn into monistic thought.
You are avoiding the issue.
The issue is no longer a concern of mine. It is a road which leads nowhere. Now can we please consider the matter in hand – that of Soneillon. What is your opinion of her?
You are projecting your view of Nehael onto the Queen of Throile, Ahma. You have been seduced by her eloquence, wit and her – not inconsiderable – physical charm. You are confusing the two succubi in your mind. Both fly in the face of convention, and both have seized – or created – their own truth.
Are her words regarding Nehael’s current state plausible?
Utterly plausible. This does not mean that they are entirely true, however.
Do you believe that she is deceiving me?
If I told you either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ then you would – quite rightly – question my motivation for doing so. I will therefore say ‘I do not know,’ although you might also suspect that I am withholding an answer for some unknown reason. In fact, I do not know.
[Wrily] How hard it must be, to be Titivilus. Are there occasions when you speak the plain truth, and no-one believes you?
If I speak the plain truth, then it is invariably in an effort to deceive, so the point is moot.
Would you advise a formal compact, in order to insure me against any ill will that she might bear towards me?
As you pointed out yourself, she may not regard such an agreement as binding.
Does she have a history of compacting that you are aware of?
I believe she prefers informal arrangements, such as with Irknaan.
That is not reassuring.
[Wickedly]Of course, she may be attempting to avoid a compact precisely in order to give her greater latitude in her dealings with you later on.
Your mind is truly tortuous.
Why thank-you, Ahma.
*
"Have you reached a decision, Eadric? Will you trust me?"
"I will never trust you Soneillon, because I will never understand you. You are both too alien and too human for comfort. I will, however, temporarily suspend my doubt – and possibly my better judgement. If you betray me – to death or perdition – then I will hold no ill-will towards you. The fault will be mine alone."
She smiled, and offered her hand. "Come with me. I will show you what we have to work with."
Eadric stepped backwards suspiciously. "Nhura is still loose. I must deal with her first – assuming that you still refuse to intervene and discourage her. I need time to prepare."
"This will take only a short while. I will return you in an hour or two."
The Paladin shot a glance towards Titivilus. The Devil’s face was totally impassive.
Eadric groaned and, tentatively, reached out to touch her. She dissolved, and seemed to flow both into him and around him.
The nightmares of demons – which raged all around – were impotent against the Void which cradled him, and bore him to Throile.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Unlurk Mode On
I had a question that came up while I was reading your last two fabulous chapters int he Wyre Saga.
How do the players react to compulsions? i.e. when they fail their Will saves and are forced to do things that they wouldn't ever do willingly?
I can see how I as a player would be miffed if my morals were compromised and it was beyond my control.
Thanks.
Return to Lurk
I had a question that came up while I was reading your last two fabulous chapters int he Wyre Saga.
How do the players react to compulsions? i.e. when they fail their Will saves and are forced to do things that they wouldn't ever do willingly?
I can see how I as a player would be miffed if my morals were compromised and it was beyond my control.
Thanks.
Return to Lurk
Joshua Randall
Legend
Boy, you've got to be somewhat nervous when Dispater himself is reading this story. Now where is Belial?Dispater said:
On another subject, I was intrigued by Nym's perspective on the interlopers, Soneillon and Titivilus. If Nym were more powerful, might he try to simplify the equation by destroying one or both of them? (That's what I would do.)
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