ELVEHELM: Starmeadow XXIII - Stern Questions

“You’re certain?” Thanos pressed.

“I am.”  Atandis, the High Priestess of Miros, spoke through clenched teeth, eyes bulging with the strain of the spell she was sustaining.  Her face was white and she was sweating profusely; and the hand raised before her, fingers crooked into a peculiar grasping gesture, was trembling.  The warcaster was surprised, and not a little alarmed, to see a welter of golden sparks glittering against the elf-woman’s skin,

“He knows nothing?” Breygon asked, leaning on his bow.  His eyes were as narrow as the cleric’s, and his jaw as tight, but for different reasons.

“Nothing!” Atandis hissed.

“No point in continuing, then,” Thanos shrugged.  “You might as well –”

With a sudden convulsive gasp, the grey elf’s shoulders sagged, and she toppled backwards.  The warcaster had been expecting this, and stepped forward to catch her, cradling her easily in his arms.  Though she was close to his own height, she was as slender as a willow wand, and her weight was negligible.

Before them, the individual who had been the focus of her spell – an elf, a man of middle years and well-worn features, as if he were a tradesman or hunter – sagged in the high-backed chair that Tua had brought in from the dining room.  He was only half-conscious. 

After the mob had been dispersed, Thanos had sent Karrick out into the streets to find one of their number for questioning.  The warrior had returned within minutes, the unconscious labourer over one shoulder, a bruise already purpling on the man’s cheek.  Thanos had tried to rouse the fellow, without success.  Casting a jaundiced glance at his adjutant, he’d asked, “What’d you hit’im with?”

“My fist.”

“Use a club next time,” the warcaster had grunted.  “Or a mace.  You’ll do less damage.”

To forestall further mucking about, an impatient Breygon had called upon the Protector’s might to heal the man.  When the fellow began blinking his eyes, the ranger balled up a fist and prepared to ask his questions.

“Allow me.”  Thanos had thrust his comrade summarily aside.  Then, to the utter astonishment of his long-time allies, he’d laid a hand on his surcoat, raised the other, and had whispered something under his breath.  The bruised elf, blinking, had turned his eyes immediately to the human’s.

“We’re friends,” Thanos had said pleasantly, not taking his eyes from those of their impromptu guest.  “All we want to do is ask you some questions.”  A glance at Breygon.  “All right?”

“Yes,” the ranger had replied slowly, raising an eyebrow at his colleague.  “Just a few questions.  That’s all.”

“Placet,” their guest had replied, sounding dazed.

“And after that,” the ranger had said, looking oddly at Thanos, “I’m going to have some questions for you.”

“No doubt,” Thanos murmured.

 

Their interrogation of the man had taken only moments.  His name, it transpired, was Damran Tosk, and he was, as his garb and calloused hands suggested, a labourer who spent his days loading carts on the docks of the Arsenal, and his nights wherever he might lay his head in peace.

“After a cup of wine or two,” he’d added with the open honesty of the enchanted.

“But that,” he’d added before either of his interrogators could pose another query, “was before I found the truth of the Fire.”

Thanos saw the half-elf’s fingers clench again and cleared his throat hastily.  “Who showed you this truth?” he’d asked.

“Orotil,” the man had replied, sounding half asleep.  “Orotil Nyissta.  We’d heaved bales together on barges up and down the river.  He knew I was down on my luck, and brought me along one night.”  A theatrical sigh.  “Promised me a cup, he did; but by the time the lady’d finished her talk, I were done with wine.”

“She’s that convincing, is she?” Thanos had murmured.

“Talk the birds down outta tha' trees,” Tosk had replied.  “Thass' where I met Lady Lissy, too.  She healed me.”

“You were wounded?” the warcaster had asked, surprised.  “How? In battle?”

“Yeah.  Battle o’the sheets,” the fellow had admitted, completely unabashed.  “Red fester.  Got it at the Hook’n’Tackle.  Hurts like a pike up the ar – ”

“I'm sure,” Thanos had interjected.  He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw that Atandis was frowning mightily. 

Karrick, though, was grinning.  “Hook and Tackle, eh?” he’d muttered.  “Gotta remem –”

“Shut it,” Thanos had whispered.  Turning back to their subject, he’d said, “Tell me everything you know about Shaivaun Shabat.  And the one you call 'Lady Lissy'.”

That, it turned out,  had been annoyingly little.  Tosk had attended services at the Lucum for five years without ever witnessing anything untoward.   He approved of ‘Lady Lissy’s’ preaching, and had nothing but shy admiration for the stirring words of the high priestess, Shaivaun.

“She’s wonderful,” he’d sighed, while Karrick made sotto voce retching noises.

Frustrated, Thanos had asked their own high priestess, Atandis, to examine the man’s motivations more closely.  Rather than waste time with lesser magics, the grey elf had exercised a form of might exclusive to the mortal servants of the Powers, opening herself to the glaring majesty of Miros herself, and then – at considerable personal cost – directing that awful power into the heart and soul of their guest.

The spell had been for naught; no magic, however potent, can compel a victim to reveal something that he does not know.  Worse, the effort involved was staggering, and left Atandis on her knees, white-faced and gasping.

While Breygon watched the still-dazed prisoner, Thanos bent over the high priestess.  “Are you well?”

“I will be,” the woman murmured.  “After a couple days’ rest.”  She put a slender arm around his shoulders, and he helped her to another chair.  Tua appeared with a cup of wine, and the elf-woman took several unsteady sips.

“I’ve never seen a casting take such a toll,” he said, deeply concerned.  “What manner of spell was that?”

“We call it Quaestiuncula,” she replied unsteadily.  “ ‘The little question’.  It is a sanctified spell, and like all such spells, draws its potency directly from the holy might of our divine mistress.”

“I wouldn't've thought that Miros would harm one of her own servants,” the warcaster frowned.

Atandis smiled wanly.  “The harm is not deliberate.  And do not mistake me; it is glory and joy, joy most profound, to open one’s self to her holy touch.”  She took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Great joy.  But…it is not easy.”

“I can see that,” the warmage mused.  “Are you able to cast the spell again?”

The elf-woman shook her head without speaking.  “I did not…arm myself to do so twice in one day.”  She held out a shaking hand.  “The cost is high.  It would not…not be wise.”

“Perhaps we should’ve saved it for the other one, then,” Thanos grimaced.  “ ‘Lady Lissy’,” I mean.

“There’s always Karrick,” Breygon growled.  He was still staring at Tosk, his lip curled in an angry snarl.

The warrior frowned.  “Nice to be appreciated,” he said.  “But I don’t hit girls.”

“That ‘girl’, as you call her,” the ranger said drily, “is at least two hundred years your senior.  She tried to kill us, she traffics with demons –”

“If she isn’t one herself,” Thanos interjected.

“She’s not,” Joraz said quietly.  He had been watching the proceedings from a chair of his own, observing silently without speaking.  “I’d know.”

“So she’s not a demon,” Breygon snorted.  “Wonderful! She just ensorcelled a couple hundred commoners into trying to beat my door in and murder my servants, my friends and my lo...my lifemate.  And unless I miss my guess, she’s the one who summoned a quartet of elementals to try to beat us into the ground the other day, and cost me Angin, my only link to the divine." He snarled unconsciously. "I’m not overly concerned about the delicacies of her gender at the moment.”

He turned back to Karrick, gesturing angrily at the front of the house.  “I presume you’re under no illusions about what would’ve happened had they been able to get in here!”

“I’ve sacked a few cities,” Karrick replied phlegmatically.  “So...no.”  He shrugged.  “But don't forget, we won. They didn’t get in, the ringleader’s tied up with a couple of placemats stuffed in her mouth, the mob’s been dispersed, your lady's fine,” – he paused for breath – “and the big boss’s head is on a wagon in the stable.

“And even if none of that were true,” the warrior summarized bluntly, “I still don’t hit girls.”

“I’m not certain how our hostess would feel about you beating answers out of a woman in her house anyway,” Thanos said mildly.

“Oh, you might be surprised how your hostess feels about it.” All eyes turned to the dining room doorway.  Amorda was standing in the arch, one hand braced unsteadily against a door-post, the other clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

Breygon was at her side at an instant, offering her his arm.  “You’re supposed to be resting!”

She put a grateful hand on his wrist to steady herself.  “Tua said there’d been a to-do,” she murmured.  “That, and the shouting and screaming, Kakall trumpeting, and all the banging on the door...kind of woke me up.”

“It’s sorted,” the ranger shrugged.  “Go back to bed.”

“I don't think so,” she added with a tiny smile. “There also seems to be some sort of metal dragon statue in my garden.  I thought we’d talked about that.”  She poked him playfully in the chest.  “You do the killing; I do the decorating. Was I unclear?”

Breygon felt the strangling urge rise in his shoulder. “Bed!” He pointed to emphasize the command.

Amorda smiled weakly. “I’m fine.  Really!”  Leaning on him for support, she walked slowly over to where the dazed, captive commoner sat, head lolling, in his chair.  “Who’s this?”

“Damran Tosk,” Thanos supplied.  “He’s a stevedore, from the Arsenal.  He doesn’t know much.  Just that Shaivaun was an almighty motivational speaker.”

“I could’ve told you that much,” the elf-woman sighed.  “In fact, as I recall - I did.”

“And he mentioned somebody called ‘Lady Lissy’,” Karrick added.

“That would be Licia,” Amorda nodded.  “Licia Facis.”

All eyes snapped back to her again.  “You know who he’s talking about?” Thanos gaped.

“Of course,” their hostess shrugged.  “Lissy’s been Shaivaun’s protégé for…oh, I don’t know.  A hand of years, at least.”  She smiled wanly.  “It was quite the scandal, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Thanos, Karrick, Joraz, Breygon and Valaista all looked blank.  Tua, however, whistled and shook his head.  “Hooo, yeah!” the Wilder elf snorted.

Breygon glanced down at his would-be aide.  “Explain,” he growled.

“Domina Licia’s surname is ‘Hastafraxinus’,” Tua shrugged.

“Ah,” Thanos murmured.  “Duodeci. Of course.”

“Of course,” Amorda confirmed with a rueful nod.  “She’s the daughter of Jer Kavor Hastafraxinus, the Governor of Capavallis.  Which means that she’s the grand-daughter of Count Eoltan of Astraputeus, the Queen’s counsellor, who also happens to be head of prosapiae Hastafraxinus.  Which, I'm sure you'll recall,  is one of the houses most closely allied with House Æyllian and the throne."

 

She dropped a shoulder, and Breyon found his lip curling. "Eoltan," she went on without expression, "is a close personal friend of the Queen, a former comrade-in-arms of Landioryn and Kaltas, and the highest-ranking vassal of my…of your uncle. Duke Bræagond.”  She patted her husband’s hand. 

Breygon made a visible effort to master his disquiet. “I can’t believe anyone is willing to pay homage to that imbecile,” the ranger growled.

“Most of his vassals don’t,” Amorda allowed.  “Ever since he and Inscia agreed to live seiugatus, he’s stayed at the palace, and she’s kept up the ducal court, for Lamboris at least, at Heron Gate.  That’s here in town, up near the north end of Greatisle.”  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.  “Since she holds court, most of the Lamboris vassals end up paying homage to her, instead of to him.”

“I can see how that might be preferable for them,” Thanos nodded.  “But back to Licia, if you don't mind.”

“Of course,” Amorda nodded.  “Yes, as you can imagine, it was the talk of the town when she decided to take up the emerald stole of a priestess of Istravenya.”

“Why?” Karrick wondered aloud. "Why should that bother people?"

“Because,” Breygon growled before anyone else could speak, “the nobles disdain worship of the Forest Gods.  They praise Hara, and in doing so praise themselves; and they tolerate the Protector, because if they didn’t, the commoners would probably rise up against them.  But they consider the other forest gods to be...plebeiain.  Csaeleyan, Tioreth…even the Forest Mother herself; these are beneath the lofty notice of the so-called 'Divine Twelve'.”

“And Istravenya too, I suppose?” Thanos asked. curious.

The ranger nodded.  “Worst of the lot, from the perspective of the high-born.  Which, I suppose, is why it was so bloody odd that the nobles have been flocking to the White Fire.  That’s never happened before.”  He ground his teeth.  “I should’ve made that connection sooner.”

“I should have made it for you,” Amorda murmured.  She took her husband’s hand and held it gently.  “I’d told the Bird-catcher that the new lure of the cleansers for the nobles bothered me.   Told him months ago, in fact.  It was the reason he had me watching the Lustroares and Shaivaun’s cathedral in the first place.”

Breygon and Thanos both stared at her.  The elf-woman waved a dismissive hand.  “It’s not a secret anymore,” she snapped.  “My usefulness to the Queen as insidiatrix is over.”

“I thought we were going to talk about that,” the half-elf sighed.

“There’s nothing to talk about, cara meum,” the elf-woman smiled.  “Look at it this way: now I can stop pretending to be a loose-kneed fritterhead, and start acting like a real noblewoman.”  Her lip twitched – the closest thing she would allow herself to a grimace.  “Maybe I’ll be a better princess than I was a spy.”

The ranger, not knowing what to say, put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She seized it at once.

“Don’t beat yourself up about not figuring Shaivaun out,” Karrick snorted.  “When people start acting funny, demons ain’t the first thing you usually suspect.”

“If it’s so improper for nobles to worship the…the more rural of the forest gods,” Joraz asked, puzzled, “then why did the Queen…why did she permit her grand-daughter, Myaszæron, to become one of Valatanna’s elect?  They’re a sect of the White Fire....aren’t they?”

“They are,” Amorda confirmed.  “But there are two answers to that, both of them pretty simple.  The first is that members of the royal family do what they want.  Within reason, of course, and only so long as they’re not within the direct line of succession.”

“What’s the other?”

Amorda grinned tiredly.  “Can you imagine anyone preventing Mya from doing something she really wanted to do?”

“The Queen might,” Karrick laughed.  “She’s tough as a week-old loaf, that bird.”

“The Queen might, but I’ll bet she wouldn’t,” Breygon snorted.  “Remember her daughter.  My grandmother – Mya’s mother – was a captain of the Defensores, the holy warriors of the White Fire.  Szæronýla didn’t just serve Istravenya; she went all the way and moved in with the torvae, too.”  He shook his head.  “I can just imagine how the Queen felt about that.  After grandmother becoming a Wilder-loving vagabond, Mya becoming a chaste servant of Valatanna probably seemed a blessing.”

“Don’t prejudge your great-grand-mama,” Amorda clucked.  “It’s hard to tell what she would and wouldn’t approve of.  I’m starting to think that there’s a lot more to her Serene Majesty than I once thought.”

“We’ll never know, unless she comes back,” Breygon shrugged.  “Which can’t come too soon.  I’m getting a little tired of standing attendance on Landioryn, running errands for him, and holding his bloody hand.”

“No offence, but the longer Her Divine Stunningness stays away, the better,” Thanos snorted.  “Until she’s back, or Landioryn pulls his thumb out of his bung-hole and assumes the crown, I can’t be charged.”

“Why is that?” Joraz asked.

“Diplomatic agreement between Ekhan and the elf-realm,” the warcaster shrugged.  “Reciprocal courtesy of rank.  Charges against general officers can only be preferred by a head of state.”  He grinned tightly.  “I think Kald bumped me up the ladder to forestall the lawsuit.  And maybe to thumb his nose at the Starhall a little bit.”

“I’m sure there were other reasons,” the monk said generously.

“I thought you didn’t care about the suit?” Amorda said, surprised.

“I don’t,” Thanos snorted.  “But we don’t need anymore diversions to pull us away from our quest.  We need to get out of this realm and get on with our business.  The longer we stay here, the faster the distractions seem to pile up.”  He bowed.  “Even the excrutiatingly lovely ones.” 

 

Amorda giggle prettily.

Thanos sighed. He nodded at the side-chamber where they’d secured the captured priestess.  “Licia, eh?”

Amorda nodded, eyeing him narrowly.

“Married?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“Not that I know of,” the elf-woman shrugged.  “No side-loves either.”

The warcaster blinked.  “Would you know, necessarily?”

Amorda stared at him.  “Are you joking?”

“Of course not.”  Thanos stood, rubbing his hands together.  “Okay.  We need answers, and Atandis isn’t in any shape to provide any more right now.”  He nodded at the gray elf, whom Tua had helped to a couch, and who was dozing open-mouthed in an uncomfortable slouch. “As much as I dislike it,” he continued, looking unhappy, “I think we’re going to have to get physical with ‘Lady Lissy’.”

“Count me out,” Karrick growled.

Thanos’ face coloured and he looked about to shout something when Amorda intervened.  “Why not let me try?”

Karrick snorted.  “You?  Due respect, lady, but you look like you just went three rounds with a hill giant.”

“Oh, thank you,” the elf-woman said coolly, cocking an eyebrow at the warrior.  “With that silver tongue, I can see why the ladies find you irresistible.”

“They do, though,” Karrick laughed.  “Why, there’s this noble lass up at the Fang – Domina Letifera, they call her – who can’t get enough of me!”

“Yes, I know her,” Amorda replied in the same, disinterested tone.  “Her real name’s Tchamma Soheek.  She’s a legend in the capital, and a regular at places that feature…ahh, exotic fare.”

“Like me,” Karrick nodded.

“Hardly.  You’re a vanilla blancmange compared to her normal menu,” Amorda chuckled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the word around the palace,” the elf-woman shrugged, “is that she’s doing her best to work her way through the orders.  And that she’s gone better than two-thirds of the way.”

“The knightly orders?” Thanos asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“No, she finished them off a century ago,” Amorda replied neutrally.  “Quickly.”

“The religious orders, then?” Breygon asked, curious despite being certain that he did not really want to hear the rest.

“I’m fairly certain,” Amorda said clinically, “that she had covered all of the faiths before her Saltatio.  At least, all of the faiths represented in the Realm.”

“Well, what the hells do you mean, then?” Karrick expostulated.

“I mean that she’s working her way through the orders of life,” the elf-woman said with a nasty grin.  “You know – animals, magical beasts, fey, giants…”

Thanos and Joraz stared, wide-eyed. Tua laughed out loud.  Breygon turned slightly green.

“And I know for a fact that she didn’t start with humanoids,” Amorda added mischievously.  “And you’re certainly not her first son of Esu, my friend.”

“Even aberrations?” Joraz asked, white-faced.

“It’s possible,” the elf-woman shrugged.  “There are humanoid aberrations.  Shape-shifters and such.  They’re not all beholders and rust monsters.”

“Anything’s possible, isn’t it?” Breygon snarled.  “What about dragons?”

Before Amorda could answer, Thanos held up a hand.  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said harshly.  “You don’t bring up dragons, and I won’t bring up fey.”

Breygon thought about that for a moment, then nodded agreement.  “How about plants, then?”

The elf-woman’s answer was an eloquent shrug.

“Constructs too?” Karrick asked, appalled.

“Hunh, nothing odd about that,” Tua interjected.  “Just gotta pay the Disciples a visit, and they’ll fix you right…what?” he asked, suddenly nervous as all eyes turned to him.

“Enough!” the ranger snarled, interrupting their reverie.  “I’m ending this before somebody asks about oozes and revenants!  I’d rather keep my breakfast where it is, if it’s all the same to you.”  He turned to his wife.  “Do you really feel up to questioning our prisoner?”

Amorda shrugged.  “You’re short on time, Atandis is out cold, and since Ony and Kallie have gone back up the hill, I’m all you’ve got right now.  Besides,” she added with a playful flick of her finger against his lips, “you know how persuasive I can be.”

“I do indeed,” he said drily.  “Very well.  Let’s – ”

“And then, once we’ve learned evertything we can,” she continued, overriding his words, “We’ll bundle her up and take her to the Bird-catcher.  I promise you, he’ll wring her dry.”

The four adventurers turned to stare at her.  Thanos recovered first.  “Excellent!” he exclaimed.

“The Bird-catcher? Really?” Breygon asked, startled.

“Really,” his wife nodded.  “I’ve been trying to crack the Lustroares for him since he put me on to them last summer.  You lot managed it in a week.  He’s going to want to hear what you have to say.  And you’re going to want to ask him some questions, too.”

“And why is that?” Thanos asked.

“Because of what Lissy was shouting,” Amorda replied.  Her face grew serious again.  “The ‘worship of the worm’, as she put it…that’s the innermost cult of the Secrecy.  The Secrecy of the Rod, I mean.”

“Not them again!” Breygon exclaimed.

Amorda started.  “‘Again’?”

The ranger sighed.  “We cleaned out a hidden temple of their order.  In Ellohyin, in northern Zare, about four months ago.  They’d managed to capture a celestial being – Lööspelian’s sister, in fact, an archon of the horn called Elliastralee – and were torturing her to extract...err...her tears.  We thumped the acolytes, and set her free.”

“Angel tears?!” Amorda cried.  “Holy Mother! What’d you do with them?”

“Destroyed them,” the ranger replied tersely.  “It was the right thing to do, but...we handled it badly.  It caused a rift in our party and cost us our priest, and later our caster.”  He nodded at the two Ekhani soldiers.  “Thanos and Karrick joined us shortly after those two left.

“In any event,” he went on sourly, before his wife could interrupt again, “we defeated the high priestess – she was a Gasparri human, one Shier Tyrek – but she escaped before we could kill her.  And, as was the case today, we had to plow through an awful lot of deluded commoners to get to her.”

“That is the way of those who serve chaos,” Joraz said quietly.  “The price of their power is ever borne by their misled minions.  So it has always been, with those who follow dread Vilyacarkin.”

Thanos sighed. "The Secrecy of the Rod.  Bad news.  But what do they have to do with the Auceps?”

“Vilyacarkin is the patron goddess of the Sobrinatrii,” Amorda shuddered.  “Our shadowed cousins.  They call her Dashnorrej in their tongue.”

“‘The lover in the darkness’,” Joraz translated helpfully.

“Just so.”

“I still don’t see the connection,” Thanos said, looking puzzled.

Amorda sighed.  “When she needed someone to fill the Bird-Catcher’s post,” she said reluctantly, “the Queen looked for the sneakiest, most devious, most underhanded professional ne’er-do-well she could find.  One who met the definition of an ‘honest traitor’.”

“What’s an ‘honest traitor’?” Karrick asked, frowning.

“One who stays bought,” the elf-woman replied.  “Unfortunately, to find a suitable candidate, she had to look outside of the Realm.  A very, very long way outside.”  She shuddered suddenly.  “If you get my meaning.”

Thanos rubbed his brow.  “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“Not unless you can see in the dark,” Amorda jested weakly.  “The current Bird-Catcher is the best man she could find for the job.  He’s a wizard and a master of arcane lore, a brilliant thinker, a subtle politician, a deadly assassin, and a terribly skilled liar.  He’s the most deceitful, conniving scoundrel I’ve ever met.”

“Sounds like you admire him,” Karrick said thoughtfully.

“ ‘Admire’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Amorda grimaced.  “You see, he’s also a Drow.”

 

♦♦♦

ELVEHELM: Starmeadow XXII - Bleak Vision

He was perfect.

She could feel it at once; he was a priest, junior but respected, middle-aged, quiet, polite.  He had been a shop-keep once, and had risen through his trade as a polisher, using dusts and slurries to smooth the imperfections in gemstones cut by more expert men.  She felt the wearing residue of his long-practised skills in the skin of his hands – rough, calloused, toughened by centuries of work.  He was muscular, too, despite his advanced years; long hours leaning over the stone and the wheel had given him a wrestler’s shoulders and a strangler’s hands.  These had served him well in the exercise of his baser appetites.

The ancient, lofty city of Starmeadow, the site of elven greatness and glory since Tîor had first laid stone upon stone in the long-distant past, was a place of gilt splendour, shining like a jewel in the light of the Lantern, reflecting its glory back at the sky, as a mirror reflects the image of the vain, primping beauty seated before it.  There were those who held that the great city shone brighter than the sun, and that the golden eye in the sky above was nothing more than a reflection of its eternal and unchanging glory. Such overweening pride, such casual blasphemy, were all too common in the capital.  Starmeadow taught its inhabitants many things, but humility was not one of them.  The Anari were revered, to be sure; but so too were the oldest of all Kindred gods: pride, ambition, and appetite.  The priest-polisher was an avid worshipper of them all.

Even the most beauteous of gems has flaws; and what distinguishes the great gem from the truly magnificent one is not the absence of defects, but whether they are visible.  Starmeadow was a great gem, perhaps the greatest gem in all of Anuru, and its flaws were equally great; but the ancient city had become adept at concealing them.  Its inhabitants overlooked its manifest faults, seeing without noticing, without understanding what it was that they saw. 

In shadowed alleys, in dark corners; in the depths of the gardens and groves, along the riverbank beneath the adamant spines of Xîardath’s ancient walls; in back rooms and bedrooms, between the rows of books in the libraries, behind curtains in the public houses, and even in the gloomy nooks of the great mansions, the small evils lurked.  Like spiders, they wove webs of malice and despair; in their contempt for the contented, self-satisfied pride and narcissism of the great city, they exuded their stench.  To some, dissatisfied with what the lights and brightness of Starmeadow offered, the perfume of vice was so very sweet...

She had followed the polisher-priest for more than a week, certain that she had found her quarry, that he was the one she sought.  She could smell it on him; she could taste his need, feel the warped and roiling desire that lurked within his heart of hearts, struggling, shrieking for release.  The roil of his sielu did not astonish her; she had preyed upon the Kindred for eons, and knew well what lay within the deepest wells of their innermost thoughts.  Most of her kind dreamed only of ravening and destruction; few, very few, understood how much could be accomplished by giving, by satisfying the urges she observed, rather than simply taking. 

It was Bræa’s fault, after all; the Golden Hag had made the mortals, had infused their essence with the same unconstrained, ravening desires that animated all of the beings that had their roots in the Void.  The Kindred were weak; but they were many.  And in the seething turmoil of their unbridled spirits, she had found the only kin she would ever know.

The thing that surprised her, astonished her, was how oblivious the others of their kind were to signs that seemed to obvious to her.  The instant she had touched the priest, she had known what he was.  But none of his countrymen had ever seemed to sense it.  Not even those privileged, damned few to whom he had shown his true face.

Not even the girl, a wan and empty-eyed thing that he approached now, near a dockside tavern, in the shadowed lee of one of the ancient watchtowers.

The mechanics were of no interest to her; she hung back, maintaining her contact with the priest with only the lightest of feather-touches, mind-to-mind, as with blushing fumbles he negotiated a price, showing the chit a heavy purse that clinked most enticingly.  The girl made a wry comment about the silver medallion he wore about his neck; engraved with a stylized black tree, she had regarded it with loathing, for it stymied her, and she longed for him to take it off. 

Her hope was realized. The girl said something about tumbling priests, and the man obligingly doffed his talisman.  She was so delighted by this sudden development that she paid their banter no heed as the girl, with an air of experience belying her years, led him down an alley to a shadowed place, a hutch that had once been a shed, and that smelled of tar and rope and smoked fish, and old, mildewed wood. There, on a pile of discarded sacking covered by a thin, dusty blanket, the agreed exchange was effected.  The mechanics of that act, too, were of little interest to her; she had been observing mortals for hundreds of their generations, and there was nothing of their tastes or desires that she had not witnessed and did not understand.

When the polisher’s fingers went to the girl’s throat, though, she came forward, feeling with careful tendrils of thought for the currents of sensation that arose in his spirit.  The medallion no longer blocked her perceptions, and she longed to taste what he felt.  This was joy; this was ecstasy; the apotheosis of his being, the only thing he truly longed for, truly enjoyed, the only bright spot in all the long, dreary centuries of his mortal existence.  A few moments only it lasted; but in those moments he was a lord, a king, a god holding within the span of his calloused hands the struggling, twitching spark of life itself, squeezing and squeezing until, like the last ember of a smothered fire, it went out.

At the culminating moment, she was there with him; an invisible, intangible passenger riding the currents of his lust like a boatman negotiating a torrent, or a horseman breaking a new mount.  At the shining heights of his passion, his spirit was laid bare to her; and like a kite, she dove down upon it, seizing the cords and ligatures of his thought, insinuating herself into and between the sparks of his being, setting the teeth of her soul into his own with speed and skill born of long practice. 

As she did so, her control nearly failed, for she had not anticipated the strength of will and purpose that rose up in him at this, the very moment that his greatest dreams and glories were realized.  The force of his reaction to her presence nearly expelled her.  Had she fought, will to will, she would have failed; but she was too canny a rider to attempt to meet strength with strength.  Instead of struggling against his outrage and lust, she fed them, with images of greater conquests, greater glories to come; with the taste, touch, smell and sensation of endless delights, which, with the powers she could grant him, were now within his reach.

In the end he agreed, ceding her the tiller of his soul, just as she had known he would.  His struggles to expel her ceased, and he accepted the gifts she offered.  As he left the hovel, walking with newfound purpose and confidence, he spoke a single word; and behind him, a gout of black, ravening fire exploded, igniting the sacking and dry timber, and consuming the cooling distaff flesh that he had left, sprawled and ruined, in his wake.

No rider, now. A passenger, a fellow traveler, she worked her way into the interstices of his sielu, learning everything about him, reading in full things of which she had hitherto only scented the surface, tasting the delicious, dark glory of the full litany of his past and squirming in ecstasy at the memories she found.  He was an old hand at murder, and she gloried in the remembered thrill of crimes long past.  His mind, too, was a labyrinth of purpose and mystery; with his willing connivance, she could hide there, tucked into the folds of his consciousness, and none would descry her. 

He was her chance; her chance for power, and aggrandizement, and most of all, ascension to the heights of glory longed for by all of her sisters; that acme of advancement for her kind, that eternal glorification that had eluded her for millennia.  The polisher-priest was her road to greatness.  The others she had touched at the temple had had their peccadilloes, their little hatreds and sins and transgressions; but these had been but a wine-cup of water next to the deep and delicious ocean of her new ally’s catalogue of perversion, lust and evil.  He stood low in their hierarchy, true; but with her knowledge and her powers, that would soon change.  She could give him that which he lacked; and with her aid, he would soon surpass the others.

And if her skill did not suffice to remove those others from their shared path...why, then, she reasoned gleefully, there were always his talented fingers...

 

♦♦♦

 

“AH!”

Breygon tore his hand out of Kalena’s grasp.  He had felt his own fingers close about the dying girl’s slender throat, and they were cramped and slick with sweat.  He felt a mild stinging in his palm, and was unsurprised to see that the wizard’s nails had dug shallow half-moons into his skin.

They were standing side-by-side in the stables that fronted Domus Casia.  With Karrick’s aid, the ranger had tugged the flat-bed cart containing the ghastly, staring demon’s head into the shallow barn, disappointing the crowd that had come to stare at the horrid thing, and closing and barring the heavy wooden doors behind them.  There he had prevailed upon Kalena to work her divinations upon the grim thing; and with obvious reluctance, she had agreed.

She had one hand flat on the thing’s slimy, scarred forehead, between the two horns that curled up and inwards, and just above its wide, staring eyes.  Even in death, those orbs leeched a terrible power of compulsion into the air, and Breygon had found himself gulping in an attempt to control a suddenly rebellious gorge.  The stench of decay and foulness was overpowering; Karrick had been forced to lead the horses away, and was watching them in the alley next to the house.

The spell, once begun, had immediately assaulted the wizard’s senses; she’d recoiled from the overwhelming power of the images flooding into her.  She’d flailed for support, and Breygon had provided it, clenching her slender hand in his; and, with the same skill she’d shown in an obscure jeweller’s shop in Joyous Light, had allowed a little of what she saw to seep through the link.  That little had smitten him like a mace to the brow.

“Hold!” she commanded.  Her eyes were still clenched shut; but tears were leaking from beneath the lids, cutting tracks down her cheeks.  “Hold, man!  You must...must see...”

She held out her hand, beckoning insistently.  At that instant he would rather have grasped a viper than touch her fingers and feel again the things that she had shown him.  You asked for this, fool, he raged inwardly.

Shoulders quivering with anticipation, he reached out, steeled himself, and took her ha –

 

♦♦♦

 

They came; in their hundreds, their thousands, they came.  Deadened by the bland and leaden preaching of the other priests and priestesses of the Forest Gods, downtrodden by heavy taxes and capricious lords, wearied by the sneers and jibes and the innumerable, petty harassments of life in the stratified and rigid society of the great city, they came.  They came for different reasons; for comfort, or release, or understanding, or assurance that they eyes of the Anari were upon them.  Some came for healing, or for atonement; or to seal vows, or name children.  Always, they came with hope in their eyes, words of praise on their lips, and secret desires in their hearts.

Hidden deep within the recesses of her new ally’s mind, using his tongue, his influence, and her ancient craft, she touched them all.  With a twisted phrase, weariness became exhaustion; a gentle, understanding bit of counsel turned frustration to rage; a few honeyed words made discontent slide towards hatred, hatred towards rebellion, and – in a few memorable, delicious cases – rebellion towards murder.  Some responded readily to the advice and blandishments she administered with her ally’s tongue, and with her powers, she turned them swiftly and unerringly towards malice and evil.  Those, she embraced.

 In the still, silent shadows of the old temple she whispered to them, touched them, granted them a portion of her power; weakening herself, yes, but gaining from each small sacrifice a willing, ready slave, one eager to do her bidding.  Such new allies were few, oh so very few, in the first months; for the masses of the temple’s parishioners were, by and large, folk of good character, and some recoiled at the thought of the things she, through her mouthpiece, suggested.  At least at first.  When she met resistance, she withdrew at once, assuaging alarm with nimble speech and tiny gifts.  It nearly always worked; and when it did not, she simply closed the doors and drew the curtains; and her ally had new flesh upon which to sate his dark desires.

With the power she leant him, he rose swiftly through the ranks of the hierarchy; his matchless piety, it seemed, was accompanied by great knowledge, great wisdom, and great strength of spirit.  The common folk heeded his words, and came in vast throngs to listen when he spoke, and be blessed by his touch.  The elders took note of this; and soon he was given opportunities that others were denied.  He always made good; for the strength of his secret friend, she who whispered to him in the cold stillness of the night, was proof against all ills, and sufficient to all of his needs. At first he feared and adored her; but in time the fear disappeared, and only the adoration remained.

Her lore aided him, too, in his depredations; for her power did not sate the desires that drove him to seek new, supple flesh.  If anything, her presence sharpened his tastes.  She became a willing participant in his crimes, as eager as he to savour the life that seeped from those he took in violence.  The powers she leant him made it easy, all too easy, so that soon the thrill of the chase palled; and so, drawing upon eons of knowledge, of the horrors of the deepest pits of corruption of the dark places whence she had come, she educated him in the boundless depravity of her kind. His crimes, though perhaps less frequent than before, took on a new, innovative character.  He came and went like a ghost, leaving behind him twisted, violated bodies, rooms sponged black with blood, limbs bent into unnatural shapes – or severed entirely, and arranged into configurations that pleased him (and her), but that drove more than one unlucky passerby to madness.

He, though…he did not go mad.  Not entirely. He had made an accommodation with his ally, and madness was his bedfellow.  She gave him her strength, and he allowed her to feed upon the stinking offal of his lusts.  They were perfectly matched, the priest and his secret friend.  Together in the day, they worked to climb the tower of ambition, to seek ever new heights, striving for the mastery of the temple; and together in the night, they haunted the side-streets and shadows of the greatest city in the world, tasting its degeneracy, revelling in its despair, plumbing the depths of suffering and dismay, drinking deep of its wantonness and vice, and painting its ancient stones with terror, blood and screams. So his life ran, and he was content.

Until the girl came – and everything changed.

 

♦♦♦

 

“That’s her!” Breygon gasped, shaking with the effort of maintaining his concentration.  “Younger, but...but I’m almost certain...”

“Silence!” Kalena hissed.  “Concentrate!  I cannot maintain this link much longer!”

The ranger shuddered and tried to still the quivering of his limbs.  The Hîarsk woman was so slight, so slender, so bookish; and yet there was a strength in her that in many ways surpassed his own.  It was not will, exactly, but he recognized it nonetheless.  It was poise; a sure and certain trust in her own skill and knowledge, the confidence that her wit and power would see her through this trial, or any other.

He had no such strength.  He was content to stand toe-to-toe with the demon, plying his bow and blades, and trusting to his strength and skill to spare him from death; but these arcane workings were beyond him.  His body was not at risk, now; instead, his mind, his sielu, were drowning beneath the tsunami of hideous impression that washed through the thought-link like a flood of refuse, lust and gore.  It was a thing wholly beyond his ken, a horror out of all reckoning, and he feared it.  He feared that he would be lost beneath a tide of filth and decay.

At the last possible instant, when his heart and mind were foundering, the green came to his rescue.  He felt the warmth, the native strength, of the earth beneath his feet; through it, he felt the tender shoots of kesatuan, grasping them in the fist of his spirit, and drawing strength and focus from them.  He was no wizard; no shaper of forces unseen.  He was neither elf nor man.  He was Lewat, and he would not be cowed by this evil, or any other.  He was Lewat, and the strength of kesatuan buttressed the essence of his being, and upheld him, and exalted him.

He was Lewat, and he would endure.

 

♦♦♦

 

“I am Shaivaun,” the girl said, her voice crisp and clean, resonant with promise.  Oh, his fingers ached, ached for her throat; but his secret friend would have none of it.  She saw, with eyes far more ancient and knowing than his, what it was that knelt before them; a vision of perfection, of loveliness, of pure and untainted faith, of devoted service to the green, and to kesatuan, and to the glory of the White Fire.

“I come to serve,” she continued placidly, and his hands twitched with involuntary desire; but his dark ally had ridden him now for a ten-year, and held his reins firmly.  She denied him.

As his sieulu quaked and quivered with longing she came forth, as she almost never did anymore, smothering his will with her own, and bringing her own potent spirit and strength to the fore.  His own feeble spirit retreated, wailing and gnashing its teeth, to the depths of his intellect.  No longer a mere rider, she was mistress now.  His body was her body; his hands, her hands. 

“Welcome, Shaivaun,” she said – gently, oh so gently.  She took the girl’s hand and raised her up, saying, “I see your strength, daughter of Istravenya, and the potency of your will.  Apply yourself, and learn our rites, and you will prosper; for the time is coming when others will stand aside, and cede you their places, and you will stand high in the service of the White Fire.”

And the girl was exalted by the high priest’s praise, and gloried in the touch of the high priest’s hand; and she went forth from the high priest’s presence a changed woman, invigorated, confident, and ambitious. And she never new that the high priest that she so trusted and admired was in truth a fiend in mortal guise.

Years passed.  The girl Shaivaun grew in power, while the high priest grew old.  His ally had withdrawn a portion of her power from him, and was using it instead to shape the girl’s ascendancy.  It was difficult, to aid her without possessing her; but the dark one had a feeling, deep in the dimmest recesses of the viscid pit of slime that served as her soul: this girl was different.  She could not escape the notion that, properly raised and assisted and instructed, this girl might one day become a willing and potent acolyte, bringing power and glory to them both.  That would bring greater fame to the dark ally than any other conquest, and greater power, too.

As the years passed, their numbers grew.  The White Fire had always been a narrow sect, confined to worship by happenstance, centred among the Torvae.  The high priest, controlled almost entirely now by his shadowy passenger, worked to change that, making the White Fire an exclusively High Elven phenomenon; barring from the priesthood all but pure-blooded scions of the Third House, and condemning all others as unclean and unfit for holy office.  The girl Shaivaun played a part in that.  Her fame spread wide ‘round the realm; her beauty and the strength of her words were all the talk of high tables and of low.  All came to lay their troubles at her feet, and receive her blessing and the blessing of the high priest.  To some, the dark ally granted gifts; to others, strength; still others begged for children, and got them.  And if these children were a little feral, or a little dire, what mattered that?  None so desperate as to plead for increase would scruple at birthing a whelp that was healthy, even if it cried incessantly, or struck the other children, or harmed livestock, so as to suckle at the blood that flowed from seeping wounds.

With numbers came influence, and with influence, wealth.  The temples of Istravenya had always been a refuge for the rural folk, or the commoners in the great cities; but now, for the first time, the nobility flocked to hear the words of the White Fire.  The dark ally had to tread softly, now; for the highest of the elven houses counted among their number many subtle children of Hara: mighty lords, great ladies, stern warriors and cunning wizards, any of whom might have seen through her mask, penetrating her guise, descrying her true nature and intent, to the ruin of all her carefully laid plans.  As it happened, though, she needn’t have worried; the nobility were as beguiled by her words, as besotted by the girl Shaivaun’s beauty, as were the common folk, and the nobles were as wearied and as jaded as any.  It was only their distractions that differed.  Indeed, she found many among their number to be easier converts to her own extreme tastes and desires than the commoners she had worked so hard to seduce.  The scions of the Duodeci, the storied houses of the Divine Twelve, proved to be readier clay to her wheel than the subjects that served them.

Soon, sooner than she had ever thought possible, the time was right.  The priest, the one-time stone-shaper, was no more.  His body was still there, to be sure; but it was hers, now.  She had held the reins for so long that his mind had fled, leaving the shell of his mortal existence in her claws.  She was tired of his form; it was old and spavined, wracked with the consequences of the dual life he had led.  Ravished by iniquity, the meat had failed her time and time again, and she had been forced to restore it repeatedly through magic.  Soon her repairs would become visible, too obvious to hide through any means.

But it no longer mattered.  The time was right.  Her parishioners, seduced by her words, drunk on the glory of her voice, thronged to the old temple.  On Slaughter’s-Eve, the most auspicious of nights for the worshippers of the Forest Gods, she spoke, and the temple was filled to bursting.  The nobles in their finery occupied the comfortable chairs near the front of the hall, the better to be seen by their peers, while the commoners stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind them, filling the old stone nave from front to back, and from wall to wall.  In the very forefront of the crowd stood her own clergy – both those she had duped, and those who were her willing subjects, full of lust and hate and venom and profane knowledge.  At the forefront of all were the acolytes; and in their midst stood the girl Shaivaun, untouched and pure; a thing of glory and glamour, radiant with promise.

As the moons sank to their nadir she spoke, and her words seized and captivated them all.  The spell spread, and sharp voices cried out in the night.  Casting aside now all restraint, all artifice, all concealment, she wove her magic, working the art as only one of her ancient wiles could do.  In moments, all within reach of her voice were enraptured by the glory of the White Fire; and when she called upon them to worship ‘in the old way’, there was only the briefest instant of hesitation before garments and inhibitions were flung aside, and the whole of the ancient, sacred place had become a vast, heaving, throbbing mass of flesh, caressing and carousing, shrieking with madness, worshipping their twisted vision of the goddess with cries of agony and ecstasy.

The moons sank below the horizon.  With a word she sealed the great doors; with another, the windows; and with a third, she cast off the last lingering shreds of her disguise.  The old priest’s withered body, the husk that had confined her for so long, burst like an infected pustule, showering nearby revellers with corrupted blood and stinking yellow ichor.  Like a serpent shedding its skin, she tore away the tatters of ruined meat and assumed her true shape: a being of white flesh and wonder, fully six feet tall, with a body forged of delight and dreams, a fair and beauteous visage; long, golden hair, slender ebon horns, a curling tail, and vast, leathery wings.

To the centre of the hall she strode, treading on the writhing bodies of her worshippers, her talons ripping through flesh, snapping bones, hauling entrails behind her like some gruesome bridal train.  Shouts of ecstasy and pleasure turned to screams of horror and fear; and they fled from her.

“Too late!” she thundered, using for the first time her true voice.  “Too late, vermin!”

Slicked by lust and gore, the people shrank from her, giving her a wide berth in the centre of the temple.  That suited her immensely.

“Welcome!” she roared, and flames jetted from betwixt black lips.  “Welcome, fools, to the service of the Mistress of the Rod! Welcome to the worship of the Worm!  Welcome all, to Slaughter’s-Eve!

Spreading her wings to the walls, and opening her hand and heart to the darkest depths of the outer world, she screamed a foul prayer of fulfilment.  And to the cries of fear and terror that surrounded her, she laughed, “Now, mortals…taste my sacrament!”

And with those words, she opened a portal to the fires below.  And the true rite of Slaughter began.

 

♦♦♦

 

Breygon woke gasping from the vision.  His hands were shaking.  “She burned them!” he whispered.  “She burned them to death!  All of them!  Hundreds!”

“Six hundred at least,” Kalena agreed, white-faced.  “Maybe more.”  She coughed suddenly, doubled-over, her shoulders quaking; and to the ranger’s horror, a wisp of smoke issued from betwixt her lips.  When she looked up again, her eyes were red.

“Why?” he whispered.

“She was a demon,” the wizard shuddered.  “Is not murder its own justification, for their kind?”  She clenched her fists spasmodically in an effort to still their tremoring.

“There must be some other reason,” Breygon mused.  “She had built up an enormous following.  That means power, here.  Why throw it all away?”

Kalena stared at him.  She looked fatigued, spent…even broken.  “Do you really wish to know?” she sighed heavily.

“We have to know.”

“Very well.”  She took a deep breath.  “Prepare yourself.”

Before he could protest, she placed two fingers of her left hand against his forehead, and put her right hand back on the demon’s brow…and the world exploded into – 

 

♦♦♦

 

– fire!

Scorching, savage flame poured from the portal at her feet, flooding into the temple like a tide of conflagration.  All around her, screaming worshippers burst into flames, their bodies sizzling and crackling like roasting pork.  The otherworldly flame was hotter than any of the fires of the mortal realm, and it burnt not only bodies, but souls, eating through the bonds of the spirit, destroying everything in its ravening hunger.  The stones themselves caught and burned, flaring and melting and running like water.  Overhead the beams exploded and collapsed, and a shower of embers and roof-tiles thundered down, crushing and killing those few who had miraculously escaped the flames.

In the middle of it all, she stood stock-still, immersed in and mesmerized by her glorification.  The fire burned her, too, consuming her flesh, and searing her soul.  But because she had worked the ritual in the correct wise, assembling the necessary number of followers, ensnaring and corrupting and sacrificing them in the fires of the Great Pit, the flames did not destroy her. 

Fire, after all, not only consumed and destroyed; it also changed.

In the forge-flame of screams and death, she felt the transformation begin.  First to go were her wings; the fire ate through the membranes, burning the aillelles down to ragged stumps jutting from her shoulders.  The agony was penetrating and exquisite, but she endured it, revelled in it, for she knew what it portended.  Fire licked at her flesh, consuming the last shreds of imperfection; and what had once seemed a divine, otherworldly beauty was enhanced tenfold.  Golden tresses changed to red, the red of the blood and the flame that had altered them; and her horns shrank, becoming little more than nubbins protruding from her brow.  Her nails toughened and became claws; and talons burst from her toes.  Her tail was eaten away by the unholy fire; and from her ribs, just beneath her heavy breasts, four long, fang-tipped tentacles exploded in a welter of viscid pus and gore. She could smell the venom oozing from them, and despite the tearing agony of the change, she smiled.

As the fire and shrieks spiralled to a crescendo and the culmination approached, she felt the blood rise in her – true blood, mortal blood, the blood of all those that she had slain in achieving her apotheosis.  Their blood empowered her, filled her, filled her to bursting…and as the last of the screams was silenced she gasped into the void, howling an unearthly shriek of her own.  Fountains of blood burst from her eyes, exploded from her nostrils and mouths, ran freely from beneath her nails and her gums and her fangs, poured like a damning benediction from every gap and orifice in her body.  She inhaled the blood, tasted it, bathed in it; luxuriated in it, running her hands over her new, altered form, shuddering in the delight and the power and the finality of the transformation.

And at last, as the fires were dying, she turned to the girl.

The unholy deflagration had taken everything else; there was nothing left in the temple but scorched stone and charred chunks of bone.  But in the midst of it all, the girl Shaivaun stood untouched.  Before beginning the ritual, the dark ally had woven a web of protection around her acolyte, and it had held.  In the face of all of the unbridled might of the Abyss, it had held.  That Shaivaun still lived was proof of her mistress’ newfound power.

Blood streaming from her, dribbling from her eyes and nostrils and lips, she strode toward the girl, who was standing stock-still, paralyzed both by magic and by the shock and horror of all that she had witness.  With a flicker of thought, the demon released the arcane web, and the girl staggered and nearly fell.

She seized the girl by the arms and held her upright, talons digging into fair flesh, the residual apocalyptic heat of the sacrifice raising blisters, and causing the thin cloth of her vestments to smoke.

She put her face close to Shaivaun’s.  The girl shied instinctively away from the blood-streaked visage, the gleaming scarlet eyes overflowing with gore.  “We shall forge a new beginning, we two,” the demon husked.  “Together.”

Her fangs shone bright and bloody in the dying firelight; and her breath washed over the girl, foetid and stinking of burnt flesh, and blood, and the rot of the grave.  “You are mine.  My ally.  My cloak.  My face, and my mouth, and my tongue.”

The girl, shaking in mortal terror, said nothing.

The demon grinned horribly, and whispered, “Taste my sacrament.”

At this the girl opened her mouth to scream.  In an instant the demon was upon her, pressing her backwards to the floor, burning her flesh against the still-hot flagstones, tasting her terror and drinking it in like wine; vomiting her blood-soaked, corrupted essence into unspoiled flesh, filling the girl, becoming one with her; owning her, as completely and thoroughly as she had ever owned the stone-polisher. But this was no aging, failed relic of a man.  This was a new form, new flesh.  Such youth, such innate strength, such potential!

It was, in every sense of the word, a new beginning.

 

♦♦♦

 

“Arrgk!”  On his knees, the ranger vomited, purging himself again and again.  He could taste the blood, smell the burnt flesh.  It was all he could do not to claw at his tongue with his fingernails.  He had felt the demon slither into him, seeking the byways of his body and spirit, insinuating itself into every nook and cranny of his being.  It was a violation far more intimate and horrid than any rape, and he felt weak and sickened from having experienced even the tenth part of the girl Shaivaun’s ordeal.

Kalena had managed to control her gorge, although just barely; she was green and groaning, clutching at her staff for support like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.  “Your pardon,” she whispered plaintively.  “Your pardon!”

Breygon waved her apologies away.  Struggling to his feet he spat to clear his mouth, and spat again.  When he could trust his stomach once more, he said bleakly, “I asked, you answered.” 

She seemed about to expostulate, and he cut her off.  This was not time for an argument.  Forcing a grin, he said, “This should teach me to listen when mages tell me that I really don’t want to know something.”

The wizard shook her head wearily.  “I am glad we learned it all.  The last mystery, explained.”

“How so?”

“The demon was a pleasure-fiend, expert in the ways of seduction and domination,” Kalena murmured.  “One with some skill at the divine arts.  Such fiends can rise to the heights of power through the corruption and sacrifice of the worshippers of the Anari.  When they do, they lose their wings, gain new limbs of prehensile flesh, and become immensely more beautiful and potent.  They are called lilitii; the Corrupters of the Flesh.”

“That’s what happened at the old temple, is it?” Breygon asked.  “A…a succubus, yes? She possessed an old priest, built a following, cultivated Shaivaun as a young acolyte...and then slaughtered all those people to secure her own advancement?”

“And it worked.  All know the tale,” the wizard shrugged.  “How Shaivaun Shabat, though only an acolyte, rose to the heights of the hierarchy because she was the only survivor of the great fire a ten-year ago, the blaze that killed all of the worshippers who had gathered at the old temple on Slaughter’s-Eve.  She alone was found, alive and all but unharmed, in the burnt wreckage of the place.”  She snorted.  “It was assumed that she owed her life to divine intervention.”

“She did,” Breygon said tonelessly.  “She certainly did.”  He put his face in his hands.

“What is wrong?” Kalena asked, cocking an eyebrow.  “Other than the obvious, of course?”

“She was an innocent,” the ranger sighed.  He lifted his head again and ran the back of one shaking hand across his brow.  “An innocent victim of a demon.  Shaivaun, I mean.  I destroyed her possessor…but I – we, I mean – we killed her, too.”

“Stop there,” the wizard snapped.  “Possession is the mightiest power available to the denizens of the Abyss.  Once they have established control and long held it, it is all but impossible to pry them out of a host.  Nor would the wronged one wish it.  Better to slay the creature outright; then, if you so desire and it is possible, you may have the innocent one returned to life.  Death, in such circumstances, is a boon; it not only destroys the possessor, but also erases the taint and corruption of the act itself.” 

She shuddered.  “Even then, it is not always a kindness to call back the spirit of one so wronged from the ease of the world beyond the world.  Unless the mind is…altered…the memory of what was done to the host, what tortures and blandishments were applied, can be nigh unbearable.”

“You’re adept at altering memories,” Breygon said softly.  “Or so I’ve heard.”

The wizard’s lip twitched.  “I am,” she acknowledged.  “And if you see fit to return Shaivaun to life, then I promise you, I will help to undo the…the memories that we just witnessed.”  She shook slightly.  “But I repeat – I do not think she would thank you if you returned her to the world.  Some taints cannot be expunged save by the Powers themselves.  Perhaps in Hara’s care, her sielu will be healed.”

“I’ll think about it,” the ranger murmured.  “What…what’s to keep the same thing from happening again?”

“How could it?” Kalena asked, taken aback.  “You did not merely banish the creature; you destroyed it.  It cannot now return.  Not for many years.”

“Then we’re done.  Problem solved,” Breygon chuckled weakly.

The wizard stared at him in disbelief.

“What is it?” he asked.

“How, solved?” she exclaimed, aghast.  “Have your grandmother’s shrine and temple been purged of all vestiges of the evil done there?  The murders committed in the name of the dark powers have tainted the earth itself, perhaps for all time! 

“Have the Lustroares been found and defeated?  Have their supporters among the nobility been identified and chastised?  For that matter, have you rooted out the last of Shaivaun’s willing acolytes – those who knew her for what she was, and enjoyed a share of her power?”

“Er…no,” the ranger admitted.

“Then you still have some way to go before you can declare this matter ‘solved’,” she said primly.

Breygon shook his head.  “You remind me of Qaramyn,” he sighed.

Kalena stared.  “I assure you,” she said coldly, “that I would happily accept death before I would chance the Ars Anecros in search of damned immortality.”

“That’s you,” the ranger laughed weakly.  “Believe it or not, becoming a skeletal abomination of unlife is not the most odd or annoying thing Qaramyn’s ever done.”

 

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