Tag Archives: Professor Tellwyrn

16 – 5

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“And this is the Sanhevid Suite, where you’ll be staying,” Ravana announced, coming to a stop in the center of the wide common area, planting herself beside a marble statue of a hooded woman wielding a bow and gazing sternly at some distant horizon. “Doors to either side of the hearth behind me lead to the residential area, where there are more than enough bedrooms for everyone. Beyond that, both halls open onto a small library with attached reading room and office. To the left, here, beyond the colonnade, is a solarium opening onto a private courtyard, with the dining hall adjacent. Kitchen, laundry, and servant’s quarters are in the basement; someone will be on staff at all hours, and the enchanted bell in each bedroom activates a signal in the kitchen, so do not hesitate to summon someone for anything you need, at any time. I do hope you’ll be adequately comfortable.”

“Wow,” Gabriel said simply, looking wide-eyed around the great hall of the Sanhevid Suite, which apparently counted for a small mansion in its own right. It was a two-story affair, with windows on the second floor admitting sunlight to complement the fairy lamps attached to each of the marble pillars. The place was laid out very much like a Shaathist lodge, a long area strewn with furniture extending from huge doors on one end to an enormous hearth on the other, though the décor ran toward marble, velvet, and gilt-framed paintings rather than hunting trophies.

“Adequately?” Toby added, grinning. “Ravana, this is… Well, it’s nicer than most of the places Tellwyrn’s made us stay on trips.”

“Most?” Gabriel gave him an incredulous look. “This is nicer than anyplace we’ve stayed. By orders of magnitude.”

“Um, ex-fuckin’-cuse me,” Ruda retorted, “but I distinctly recall putting you ingrates up at my house on one of those trips.”

Gabriel smiled sweetly at her. “I know what I said.”

“Arquin, how long’s it been since I fucking stabbed you?”

“Let us remember that we are guests here,” Shaeine interjected smoothly, “and refrain from getting hethelax blood on any of the furnishings. According to Professor Rafe, it is rather acidic.”

“It’s fine, there’s a courtyard,” Gabriel assured her. “Honestly, Ravana, I’m just a kid from the wrong side of Tiraas. I think I’m gonna be afraid to touch anything in here.”

“Ah, I take your point,” she mused, nodding. “Hm… How about this?”

Ravana stepped over to the nearest column, where a frosted glass vase full of out-of-season tulips rested atop a decorative plinth at its base. Picking up the delicate vessel in one hand, she regarded it critically for a moment, then turned and hurled it across the room.

It was a good throw; the crystal unerringly struck another marble column, where of course it shattered, strewing flowers, water, and glass fragments across a wide area. Everyone stared at it in disbelief, then turned those looks on Ravana herself, who had immediately folded her hands demurely at her waist, looking self-satisfied.

“I know that to some of you, servants are in and of themselves an unseemly indulgence,” she said lightly, “but do keep in mind that everyone working in this manor is paid from the House treasury, as I have reduced taxes to ease the burden on local business my father created. Any materials used in cleaning or repair are purchased nearby. I do ask that you please refrain from burning the place down, but short of that? The worst thing you can possibly do is contribute to the local economy. Keep that in mind, Gabriel, and please don’t hesitate to make yourself comfortable in whatever way you can.”

“You have a striking way of making a point,” Trissiny observed.

Ravana’s smile increased fractionally, and she inclined her head. “I have learned from the best.”

“Are we…still in the same house?” Juniper asked hesitantly, pulling her head out of the doorway to the solarium she’d circumspectly been investigating while everyone talked, Sniff silently at her heels as always. “It sounds like this ‘suite’ is bigger than most people’s houses.”

“Ah, yes, hence my uncertainty,” said Ravana. “This would ordinarily be used as guest quarters for visiting nobility and their own households. I believe its size is adequate to your group, but it is not in keeping with formal etiquette to house disparate individuals here. All things considered, and given that placing you each in separate rooms of a quality suitable to your stature would have made it logistically difficult for you all to find one another, I took the risk of presuming you would not be overly concerned with the formalities. If I have erred, I humbly apologize, and of course can make any alternate arrangement of your choosing. There are abundant private rooms, of course, or I can set you up as a group in one of the outlying guest houses. Or, if you prefer a familiar touch of whimsy, a suite of tavern rooms on the grounds.”

“Your first instinct was correct, Ravana,” Teal assured her with a faint smile. During the last year, she had either gotten over her antipathy toward the Duchess or learned to conceal it, and now appeared quite at ease in Madouri Manor. “This is more than comfortable enough, and we wouldn’t dream of putting you to any more trouble. Right, everyone?”

“Indubitably!” Fross chimed, swooping back into the room. “Guys, you have got to see that library! There’s a complete edition of the Encyclopedia Viridici!”

“Isn’t that one notoriously unreliable?” Trissiny asked.

“Yes, because it hasn’t been printed in six hundred years! It’s not even in intelligible modern Tanglish!”

“Hold on, back up,” Gabriel requested, still blinking at Ravana. “Did you say you have a tavern…in your house?”

“Three, on the grounds,” she said placidly. “Madouri Manor as it stands today was the original fortified city of Madouris. As the Lower City spread beyond its walls, the larger structures around the citadel became the residences of lower nobility. Then the Outer City rose around the second ring of walls, and gradually my ancestors encouraged the other families to gentrify the Lower City, eventually leaving these grounds for House Madouri and the city and provincial government alone.” She paused, grimacing prettily. “Unfortunately, my more recent ancestors pushed even those out, leaving the Manor as the largest private residence in the world, a testament to excess that even a Sheng Emperor would have thought a bit much. I have been migrating government offices back into the grounds; you would not believe how hobbled the local bureaucracy has been, simply due to being scattered across the city. Of course, you have the run of the Manor; you will be able to tell what structures serve official purpose. It should not be hard to avoid getting in anyone’s way. Feel free to patronize the taverns, if you like. I am quite serious about encouraging you to take advantage of any available amenities, everyone. It is the least I can do, as I fear I shall perforce be a somewhat negligent hostess.”

“This is your idea of negligent?” Ruda snorted, flopping down on a gilt-armed sofa. “Damn, girl. I’m scared to see what it looks like when you get generous. Be honest, you ever drowned somebody in champagne?”

“Oh, it’s not the accommodations,” Ravana said, smiling. “Those I can provide. It’s just that this is necessarily a working vacation for me. While attending school, my ability to manage the province is hampered by distance, even in this modern age of telescrolls and Rails. I must make full use of the time I have at home to attend to as many affairs as can be squeezed in. Rest assured, I shall make every effort to attend to you, but it won’t be as much as I’d like, so the least I can do is provide ample comfort and entertainment during your stay.”

“I see,” Trissiny said, nodding. “Well, we don’t want to get in your way, then…”

“You are anything but in my way,” Ravana said firmly. “I have been quite looking forward to showing you all around my city. Scorn and the other girls from the Wells will be arriving by tonight, and I mean to have a proper welcome banquet with everyone. Indeed, I find myself eager to consult the political minds among you on the newest issue with the elves.”

“Do understand that neither Teal nor I can render comment in any official capacity,” Shaeine began.

“Please.” Ravana held up one hand, still smiling. “You are my guest, Shaeine, I will not have you put on the spot or otherwise discomfited. If you’d like to chat about it, I would obviously love to hear your take. If not, that is the end of it. It’s very important to me to maintain personal connections beyond the political. Bad enough I can’t publicly associate with Sekandar anymore, I’ll not have any tension raised between Houses Madouri and Awarrion.”

“Wait, what happened with Sekandar?” Gabriel asked. “I thought you two got along well.”

“Oh, we do, but unfortunately his mother is…out of sorts with me. Being a well-bred Calderaan boy, Prince Sekandar obviously cannot gainsay her in public, so our conversations at school have been somewhat abridged in the last few months. It’s dreadfully tedious, but such are politics.”

“Ravana,” Teal asked in the chiding tone of a teacher interrogating a child over a broken vase—while, herself, standing practically in the shards of a broken vase— “what did you do to the Sultana?”

Ravana shrugged daintily. “I have simply been a good neighbor to the people of Last Rock while enjoying their hospitality. I furnished several small business loans to residents, after the fashion I have found so productive here in Madouris. Sadly, her Excellency has chosen to take this as a territorial infraction. I do say she is overreacting somewhat.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Trissiny said, folding her arms. “You, the sitting governor of another province and rival Great House, began an economic program obviously modeled on the means you used to secure your influence in Madouris, in a fringe territory over which the Sultana has nominal but little real control, probably causing her to lose face in front of the other Houses of Calderaas, who at their most congenial are a pit of underfed alligators. And you’re surprised she was miffed?”

“I said that her Excellency overreacted,” Ravana replied, lifting her nose, “not that she was entirely without a point.”

“Yeah, I’d get on top of fixing that if I were you,” Gabriel suggested. “Sekandar’s a swell guy and all, but if Princess Yasmeen is anything to go by you do not want the Aldarasi women on your case. I think even you may not be rich enough to shrug that off, Ravana.”

“Mildly sexist,” Trissiny stated, giving him a pointed look, “but regrettably apt.”

He bowed grandly to her.

Ravana herself drew in a breath, causing her thin shoulders to rise, then let it out slowly, sweeping a languid and incongruously warm smile around the group. “Now, this is exactly why I was so grateful you all agreed to visit me over the holidays. I am surrounded by legions of yes-men at home; nobody outside of school dares talk back to me. It’s no wonder my father entirely lost his sense of proportion.”

The front door of the Sanhevid Suite clicked discreetly shut, and the group shifted to look that way as Ravana’s Butler came gliding swiftly across the floor toward them.

“Your pardon, my Lady,” Yancey said, bowing to her. “The contacts in N’Jendo with whom you were corresponding concerning the Harpy affair have arrived.”

Poised as always, Ravana betrayed her incredulity only by a momentary pause, and the most infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow, before replying. “How?”

“It appears a telescroll signaling their acquiescence to your last suggestion arrived while you were welcoming our guests, my Lady. Veilwin intercepted and read it, and took it upon herself to teleport to Jennidira to retrieve them. I have made them comfortable in the Azure Parlor.”

Butler training was truly a rival for a noble upbringing in terms of facial control; Yancey managed to convey his withering disapproval of this Veilwin’s presumption without altering his expression a hair beyond the strictly polite.

“I see,” Ravana said, pausing to press her lips into a thin line. “Well. Speak of the Dark Lady. Or…can we even say that anymore?”

“I think I’d rather we did,” said Trissiny. “Elilial is neither dead nor neutered, and undoubtedly is already at work encouraging the world to forget what a monster she has always been. Let’s not oblige her.”

“Duly noted,” Ravana agreed, nodding to her. “Well! It seems it has begun. I am terribly sorry to abandon you all so abruptly, but this matter won’t wait. I shall do my utmost to join you and the others for dinner; this should not occupy me beyond the afternoon. In the meantime, Yancey will see to all your needs.”

“Hey, don’t you worry about us,” Ruda said lazily from the sofa, on which she was sprawled lopsidedly with one leg thrown over its arm. “Go on, be the boss lady. See ya at dinner.”

“And thank you again for having us,” Toby added.

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Ravana assured them, inclining her head deeply. “Do excuse me, then.”

She turned and glided out, Yancey on her heels. The Butler held the suite’s door for her with a bow, then slipped out behind the Duchess and pulled it shut after them.

“So, uh…” Fross darted over to swoop across the mess of the shattered vase. “Should we…call somebody about this? Cos I could probably clean it up pretty easily but I’m not sure if that’s, like, rude to the servants or what.”

“Hmm.” On the other side of the chamber, Gabriel ambled toward a matching vase and reached for it.

“No, Gabriel!” Trissiny shouted, charging to intercept him.

Teal slipped an arm around Shaeine’s waist; F’thaan, already tired from the day’s journey, was draped asleep across the drow’s feet. “And to think I was afraid we’d have a dull holiday.”


In any other house, the Azure Parlor would have been considered a ballroom. A relatively small and intimate one, suitable for parties of no more than two dozen, but still. The majority of its floorspace was taken up by a sunken area reached by steps down from the carpeted main floor, where the dancing surface itself was a mosaic depicting a cloudy sky. Its matching domed ceiling was a far more intricate fresco of a blue dragon, painted nearly to scale and coiling in on himself as though twisting about in midair in a pose that just barely crammed his entire sinuous length into the available space.

Ravana’s new guests had remained on the upper portion, where seats and refreshment tables were distributed. They had been generously served; on one of the tables were laid out trays of tea, hot mulled cider, and warm pies of both meat and fruit in portions that would have provided a full meal for more than the three of them. The woman in the group was sipping a mug of cider, but other than that the refreshments appeared untouched. Still wearing their fur-lined winter cloaks, all three were standing, and staring upward at the ceiling fresco.

Veilwin was slouched in an armchair off to one side in a posture that clashed with her elegant brocaded dress, munching on a slice of cherry pie.

“Zyndirax the Blue was an off-again, on-again paramour of Duchess Tamira Madouri,” Ravana said, gliding into the room. “I suspect the scandal was the sole cause of her interest in him; she did love to ruffle people’s feathers. Welcome to Madouri Manor, Brother Ingvar and guests! I most humbly apologize for keeping you waiting. The truth is that I was not expecting you to visit me so soon.”

She shot a sidelong look at her Court Wizard, who snorted (spraying crumbs in the process) and pointed a forkful of pie at her.

“You said you were on a tight schedule for the next two weeks,” the elf said accusingly. “Made a whole production of it, big speech and everything. Remember? We’re all to chip in an’ try to smooth things along. Well, I cut off some corners and saved you some time. You’re welcome.”

Veilwin was the only elf Ravana had ever seen with dark circles around her eyes, and they had never diminished in the time she’d known her. As usual, her gown was of expensive silk brocade, and free of any tear, stain, or wrinkle due to the considerable enchantments laid upon it, which contrasted starkly with the mussed state of her blonde hair. Now, she also had crumbs all over half her face, which somehow suited her.

“I assure you, we are not put out,” Ingvar interjected, striding forward with a warm smile. “It’s a great pleasure to see you again, your Grace. Especially conscious.”

“Ah, ah,” Veilwin chided with her mouth full, wagging the now-empty fork. “It’s ‘my Lady.’ The Duchess is trying to retire the ol’ Grace thing, says it’s old-fashioned. She’s a modern girl, is Ravana.”

“Veilwin,” the Duchess said with a too-wide smile, “do you recall our discussion about you speaking in front of guests?”

Veilwin grunted and tucked silently back into her pie.

“Yes, I understand this is not the first time we have met,” Ravana said, accepting Ingvar’s outstretched hand and inclining her head in response to his bow. “As those events were relayed to me, I owe you my life.”

“I did little…my Lady,” he demurred. “Anyone would have carried an unconscious woman out of a battlefield.”

“I assure you, it was not a small thing to me. A Madouri pays her debts.”

“I would consider it a grave dishonor to claim a debt over something so morally obligatory, my Lady,” Ingvar said gravely, then smiled again. “But perhaps it can be a starting point for a positive relationship.”

“Well said,” she agreed, smiling back. “Now, I see you have met my Court Wizard. I also apologize for whatever Veilwin said and/or did before I was able to intervene.”

Behind her, Veilwin snorted again.

“I have no complaints, my Lady,” Ingvar said tactfully. “We hunters have straightforward manners ourselves. Allow me to introduce my friends, Dantu and Dimbi.”

They nodded in turn, clearly uncertain of the formalities involved in meeting a Duchess; Ravana inclined her head politely to each of them in response, allowing her amusement to tinge her smile. Dimbi was a young woman, Dantu a surprisingly old man, and both were Westerners, probably locals from the area around Ninkabi where Ingvar and his followers had been roaming in the months since the battle. Though Dimbi was visibly uncomfortable in these opulent surroundings, the white-haired Dantu seemed quite at ease, and even intrigued by everything he saw.

“A pleasure,” she said. “And on the subject of beginning a positive relationship, there is the matter concerning which I reached out to you.”

“Yes, indeed,” Ingvar said, his expression sobering. “I confess, Lady Madouri, I was surprised to learn you had involved yourself in this at all. I mean no offense by that, of course. You have been extremely generous, and I thank you for what you’ve done.”

“But you are uncertain about my motives?” she prompted, then smiled gently. “Please, Brother Ingvar, don’t worry, no offense is taken. We are what we are: myself a scheming noble, and you too intelligent not to know a scheming noble when you meet one. I would never be so churlish as to be affronted by a person possessing basic common sense. We have time to delve into my reasons for stepping in; for now, I suspect you must be very eager to meet the Harpies. I know they will be very glad indeed to finally meet you.”

“That is certainly true,” he agreed. “Are they here, then?”

“Not in the city, no; it didn’t seem the wisest place to house them. Rest assured, I have made sure to provide for their safety and comfort. I’ll take you to them now, if you’re amenable.”

“Very much so,” he said, allowing the eagerness to touch his voice.

Ravana smiled again, then half-turned. “Veilwin, take us to the lodge, if you please.”

The sorceress sighed through her nose and swallowed a bite of pastry. “I am almost finished with my pie.”

“You are finished with it,” Ravana corrected. “You may order anything you want from the kitchens later. It’s not as if I don’t feed you. It’s time to work.”

“Ugh.” With ill grace, Veilwin tossed her plate down onto the table and the fork after it, then stood, absently brushing crumbs off her face. “Fine, if you’re in such a damned hurry.”

She strode toward the group, raising one hand as she went, and blue light began to flicker within her eyes. Matching sparks snapped in the air around them, accompanied by a faint whine of gathering arcane energy.

“Uh, hang on now,” Dimbi said nervously, “is she really—”

Veilwin snapped her fingers, the arcane light flashed, and the five of them vanished.


The distant sounds of birds calling from the nearby rainforest were barely audible over the murmur of breeze and the waves. It was a gorgeous day, cloudless and just cool enough that the unimpeded sun did not feel too hot. Such weather was rare, as this was usually the rainy season; it likely wouldn’t last more than an hour or two. From her chosen lounge chair on the beach, she had a view of the wide central bay of the Tidestrider archipelago, with the forest-clad peaks of mountainous islands rising all around the horizon. During the summer months, the lodge she was renting would have housed several groups of the vacationing wealthy, but now the winter chill assured her solitude. The first peace and quiet she’d had in months.

The lounge chairs were arranged in pairs, with low wooden tables between them; she had piled hers with books. Mostly novels, though the volume currently open in her hands was a treatise on bardic archetypes printed in Glassian. Tellwyrn’s eyes had stopped tracking back and forth across the page for the last few minutes; she just held the book up almost like a shield, scowling at it and listening to the crunch of footsteps in the sand steadily encroaching upon her privacy.

“I just can’t get over how warm it is,” Eleanora Sultana Tirasian marveled aloud, setting a tray bearing a pitcher and two glasses on the table next to the book pile and folding herself gracefully into the second lounge chair. “Isn’t this place at more or less the same latitude as Ninkabi?”

“Ocean currents,” Tellwyrn said tersely. “Tropical water comes straight down the west coast from the equator. You’re from Onkawa, there’s no way you don’t know that. You also had to be aware I noted your battlemages porting in all around. This had better be pretty damn good, Eleanora. I am on vacation.”

She finally looked over at her, then raised her eyes in surprise. Tellwyrn was wearing a loosely-fitted kimono, but the Empress of Tiraas, she now observed, had clad herself in a skimpy traditional Tidestrider garment—traditional, at least, in the warmer latitudes to the north—which showed off far more of her dark skin than she ever did in public.

“Yes, Arachne, I know,” Eleanora said with a smug smile. “Terrible vengeance if I disturb it, and so on, and so forth.”

“Do you know how much time off I get a year?”

“Of course I do, the academic year is common knowledge. Do you know how much time off I get a year? None, Arachne. The answer is zero.”

“Oh, yes, your life is so very dreary,” Tellwyrn sneered. “In your extravagant palace, where you spend each night in the arms of a different beauty gathered from across the Empire. My heart bleeds.”

“I only have three regular mistresses at the moment,” the Empress said lightly, pouring tropical punch into both glasses. “Sharidan keeps only four. You know, it’s surprisingly difficult to collect them, even with the resources at our disposal. Women beautiful enough to catch my eye, but also with enough intellect and character to be worth talking to…well, they tend to get jealous and competitive with one another, which we obviously can’t have. There just aren’t that many candidates who meet all the right criteria. A life of power is such a lonely one…”

“You do realize that you being Empress is the only reason you don’t get punched more often, right?”

“Obviously. So, have you heard about the elves?”

“No, and fuck ‘em. Nobody likes elves. Stuck-up pricks.”

Eleanora chuckled. “They’ve announced a unified government. A permanent alliance of Tar’naris, every forest tribe on the continent, twenty-nine participating plains tribes, and Qestraceel.”

“Bullshit,” Tellwyrn snorted. “The drow have been sending out feelers for, what, a year? Two? It’ll take ‘em a century to get even a quarter of that roster off their asses.”

“Yes, that is more or less everyone’s analysis. And yet, they’ve gone and done it. You can imagine the shockwaves this has created.”

“Is this you trying to make small talk due to being unable to discuss anything except politics, or are you actually going to try to convince me to cut short my vacation? Answer carefully, Eleanora.”

“Yes.” The Empress held out one of the glasses to her, smiling slyly. “You know, Quentin suspects you are a high elf.”

Tellwyrn heaved a sigh, and finally slapped her book down on the table, but made no move to accept the drink. She just glared mulishly at the Empress.

“I don’t get to take vacations,” Eleanora repeated, the levity fading from her expression. “And I most especially can’t now, Arachne, not with this crisis unfolding. So consider my position. I do need your help, which means disturbing your cherished peace and quiet. I don’t have the power to compel you, and persuading you means not disturbing your cherished peace and quiet. You see my dilemma?”

“So,” Tellwyrn drawled, “you are going to crash my vacation, because buttering me up is your only viable option, and thus you get to finagle a beach vacation for yourself out of a political disaster. I am, grudgingly, quite impressed.”

“How often do you think doing my duty to the Empire will require me to loaf about in a resort with the single most interesting woman I’ve ever taken to bed?” Eleanora rejoined, the self-satisfied smirk returning to her face. “I can hardly afford to pass up this chance, you see.”

“And what if I just decide to tell you everything I know about the high elves right away? That’s what you’re fishing for, right? I know you don’t think I’m in good with any of the other kinds.”

“Well,” the Empress mused, “I suppose that would be the absolutely ideal outcome for me. And I confess, if you pick this of all moments to be agreeable and compliant for once in your life I will be rather pissed off.”

The elf finally accepted the outstretched glass. “I’m not a high elf, Eleanora. At least, not that I know of. I went to Qestraceel to find out. It didn’t go well.”

“I see. Then…?”

“Yes, I do know quite a bit about them. And in keeping with my general ‘fuck the elves’ policy, I find I’m quite amenable to dishing on them to the Empire. Provided, of course, that I am sufficiently buttered up.” She lay back in the reclining seat, smirking herself and lifting the glass to her lips. A second later, she grimaced. “Eugh. I hate coconut.”

Eleanora shook her head, lounging back in her own chair. “You have got to be the most disagreeable person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not even close to true, and you know it.”

The Professor reached out with her glass, the Empress clinked her own against it, and they both gazed placidly out across the waves.

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15 – 78

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She wasn’t laboring on the omnipresent, never-ending paperwork for once. The office was quiet and dim as usual by that hour of the evening, the moonlight pouring through its large windows not competing with the warmer glow of the fairy lamp sitting on her desk. Tonight, Tellwyrn had elected to take some personal time, brushing all the papers to be graded into a filing cabinet and indulging in one of the hobbies she was least inclined to admit to in public.

Not that she’d ever have contended that it was good poetry, but the satisfaction was in the creating, not the having. Most of them she shredded, anyway. Tellwyrn paused with her pen hovering above the parchment, considering syllables and studying the kanji already marked down. Haiku didn’t really work properly in anything but Sifanese, in her opinion, having tried it in several languages. It was an aesthetic matter of the syllabic structure of the language, not blind adherence to custom; had she been a stickler for tradition she would be using a brush, not a pen.

She sighed heavily at the soft flutter of wings on the windowsill outside. Setting down the pen, she blew gently on the ink to dry it, then carefully picked up and tapped the stack of papers into neat order, ignoring the tapping from the glass behind her. The professor continued not to acknowledge it while it grew steadily more insistent until she had meticulously filed away the pages in a desk drawer, locked it, stowed the key in her vest pocket, and capped her inkwell, all with careful and precise little motions.

Then she whirled, grabbed the window, and roughly threw it open.

“Fucking what?” Tellwyrn demanded.

Mary the Crow swung her legs into the room. “Arachne, we must speak.”

“Well, it’s not like I expected a social call,” Tellwyrn retorted. “What’ve you done this time, lost another dryad?”

“It was you who—no, never mind, I’m not going to play that game with you tonight. It’s about the Arquin boy, and that sword of his.”

“Yes, Ariel.” Tellwyrn leaned back in her chair, scooting it back from the window and smirking faintly. “Who has never spoken in my presence. Arquin showed her to Alaric but has never asked my opinion about it. I think he’s afraid I’ll confiscate the thing.”

“He seemed to fear I would do the same,” Mary replied, her expression intent and grim. “It is an original Qestrali magister’s blade, Arachne. According to the boy himself, Salyrene confirmed this. Do you know anything of the significance of such weapons?”

“I figured it might be,” Tellwyrn mused. “Not many other mages have worked out the method. Yes, that’s what they do to the really naughty criminals, right? Not murderers or anything so pedestrian, but the ones with opinions the Magistry doesn’t care to hear.”

“You are barking up the wrong tree if you think I’m going to defend the Magistry,” Mary replied, eyes still intent on hers. “I went to Qestraceel before coming here to check on something. Arachne… They are not missing one.”

“Huh,” Tellwyrn grunted. “And?”

The Crow’s jaw tightened momentarily in annoyance, but she pressed on. “He found that thing in the Crawl, did he not?”

“Yes, during an excursion while the place was somewhat dimensionally unmoored, due to my incubus messing with some old Elder God tech he found. It’s probably from an alternate universe, Kuriwa, nothing to get your knickers in a knot over.”

“Arachne,” she said quietly, “I was… I visited the Crawl once, before you arrived. Before the Third Hellwar. It was my escape route from the deep underworld.”

Tellwyrn’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she remained silent.

“I understand,” Mary continued, carefully choosing her words, “you spent many years seeking out the gods to ask something none of them were able or willing to tell you. Was it about your own origin?”

“That’s ancient history,” Tellwyrn said curtly. “You had better have a damn good reason to be digging it up again, Kuriwa.”

“I am not proud of this,” she replied, “but I did the least wrong thing I could at the time. I thought it was necessary, even despite the price. To undo a curse Elilial laid on my entire bloodline, I had to deal with Scyllith.”

Tellwyrn worked her jaw once as if biting back a retort, then said in a deceptively mild tone, “So is that where the hair comes from? Always wondered.”

The Crow drew in a deep breath. “The price Scyllith demanded for her aid was one of my kin. She said they would be removed from all memory, excised from the timeline. Only I would know that someone had been lost, but…not who.”

The silence was absolute.

“You what,” Tellwyrn finally whispered tonelessly.

“Arachne, you have to understand—”

“You knew,” the mage hissed, leaning forward. “From the very beginning. You recognized my name. If you’d been in the deep Underworld before then, you would have recognized my accent. And you are telling me this now?”

“Listen, Arachne,” she said desperately. “It was suggestive, but not proof! You do not trigger my familial sense, your hair is the wrong color, you are an arcanist when none of my descendants are—”

“Are you trying to pitch to me,” Tellwyrn snarled, standing up so abruptly that the chair smacked against the desk behind her, “that it never crossed your mind that any of that could be explained by alternate-dimension fuckery caused by the sadistic Elder God you were playing around with? You’re going to stand here at the apex of all the history between us and claim you are that blitheringly stupid?”

“I had to be sure,” Kuriwa protested.

“YOU HAD TO BE IN CONTROL,” Tellwyrn roared, and a sudden shockwave of pure kinetic force blasted the office apart, smashing its furnishings and sending the door shooting across the hall outside, but also pulverizing the window and flinging Kuriwa out into the sky.

She caught her balance in the form of a crow, squawking frantically, and Tellwyrn shot out of the ragged hole where the outer wall of her office had been, landing nimbly on a square pane of blue light that appeared conveniently under her.

Kuriwa lit on the opposite end, in elven form again, and held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Arachne, listen, consider what—”

“Thee thousand years,” Tellwyrn raged, stalking toward her, each step sending ripples across the panel beneath them. “While entire civilizations rose and fell around us, I drove myself mad scrabbling desperately for answers in every dark corner of the world, and you had them the whole time?”

“It wasn’t that simple! Given what was at stake—”

“YOUR EGO WAS AT STAKE!”

The wind rose as Kuriwa gathered the attention of familiar spirits, but not fast enough; the blessing shielded her from serious bodily harm but the bolt of pure arcane power that hit her from point-blank range was comparable in strength to a mag cannon burst. She went tumbling moccasins-over-ears again, barely catching her balance on a leaf-shaped construct of green light which coalesced out of the air and hovered atop a constant updraft conjured from nothing.

“If you want to blame me—”

“Oh, you’re damn right I blame you!” Tellwyrn hurled a pumpkin-sized orb of lightning, forcing the shaman to glide swiftly out of the way. “Spare me your dissembling, you self-obsessed old carrion feeder! From the very beginning, you had everything you needed to answer both our greatest questions and you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it because I am something you couldn’t control!”

“The risk—”

“The risk was that you might have to acknowledge someone as an equal and then deal with them!”

“Would you let me finish a sentence?” Kuriwa snapped.

“Fucking NO!”

A spray of lightning bolts burst out of nowhere around them, forming a deadly obstacle course in midair. Kuriwa dodged nimbly, directing her leaf through the crackling haze with the deftness of an acrobat while Tellwyrn stood impassive atop her glowing panel, electrical discharges snapping harmlessly against the arcane shield around her.

“You may have swallowed your own bullshit, Kuriwa, but I never have, and in the end that’s what all this is about.” Tellwyrn folded her arms, her voice suddenly dead calm again. “You are so incapable of entertaining the possibility of not being in total control of something that you’ve squandered probably the widest window of time anyone has every had in which to do anything. Three thousand years, and you could have come to me at any point. Were you not such a walking bladder full of ego and spite, you’d have taken me aside the very day we met, but no. You had to wait.”

“Arachne, please.” Kuriwa brought the leaf to a hover again.

“You waited,” Tellwyrn continued, baring her teeth in a snarl, “until I tried everything I could try, and failed. You waited while I gave up on my whole existence and spent thirty years trying to die, in a place where you were quite possibly the only person alive who could have come to find me. You waited until I moved on, you selfish piece of shit. I gave up on the whole thing, found a true purpose in life and devoted myself to it, created an actual place in the world for myself that wasn’t just passing through it in every direction while trying to find my way back to somewhere I couldn’t remember. I was finally done, and happy, and this, this is when you chose to come here and tell me all this?!”

“I understand,” Kuriwa said urgently. “I am not saying I handled everything perfectly, but—”

“PERFECTLY?”

This time it was an actual mag cannon burst, or near enough, a barrel-thick beam of pure white light which impacted the prairie below less than half a mile from Last Rock, fortunately at an angle that sprayed the debris away from the town. Kuriwa tried to evade, but the deceptively wide corona of the beam finally caused her conjured leaf to explode, forcing to catch herself in midair on her own tiny wings.

A white sphere of divine light snapped into place around her, dragging the squawking and struggling bird forward until it rested right in Tellwyrn’s hand.

The tiny shield only collapsed when her fingers closed, clamping around the crow’s neck. Arachne held it up, glaring into Kuriwa’s beady little eyes from inches apart.

“I am done with you and your shit, Kuriwa,” she stated. “Stay away from my mountain. I don’t want to see you again.”

A sheer kinetic burst erupted, just like the one which had demolished the office, but stronger; centered on Tellwyrn as it was, she was not affected, but having released her grip on the Crow in the same instant as the explosion, Kuriwa was hurled over two hundred yards into the night sky amid a spray of dislodged feathers.

Tellwyrn stood impassively atop her floating panel of arcane magic, watching the little bird catch herself in the distance, flapping desperately to right her flight.

Kuriwa started to circle back to head toward her again.

Tellwyrn held up one hand, and a whirling vortex of sheer arcane destruction manifested in her grip, causing a steady breeze as the very air was drawn into it like a black hole.

The Crow veered off in defeat and glided away to the south.

The sorceress stood there watching until she had passed beyond the limits of even elven sight, even augmented by her enchanted spectacles. Then the pane of light beneath her turned and carried her back toward the hole in the wall, in which she could see and hear several of her faculty gathering. Explaining all this and then fixing her office promised to keep her occupied for a while.

She welcomed the distraction.


“The questions are growing more and more insistent, your Holiness,” Branwen said, her expression openly worried. On his other side, Colonel Ravoud walked in silence, but wearing a matching frown of concern. “I don’t think Imperial Intelligence has more than rumor out of Ninkabi yet, but the rumors are themselves damning, and there’s just too much evidence left, too many witnesses… They will piece together an account of what happened, at least in the broad strokes. The newspapers are already all but openly attacking the Church, including some I thought were in your pocket.

“And the symbolism,” she continued, her normally controlled voice rising in pitch. “The Guild and the Sisterhood haven’t formally left the Universal Church, but with both choosing to forego representation, it’s a very bad look. That’s two of the three cults that forced out Archpope Sipasian to install Archpope Vyara in the Enchanter Wars. If even one more cult turns away, this could present a major schism. The Veskers would complete that symbolic break and they’re the most unpredictable anyway, especially with Vesk himself having been involved in Ninkabi. Given that he actually forced a public surrender from Elilial, his credibility is at an all-time high. If they do withdraw it will be a political catastrophe, and I can’t get Bishop Tavaar to even respond to my messages.”

“And the Shaathists,” Ravoud added. “They are the most loyal to your cause, your Holiness, and thanks to this Ingvar character and his splinter sect, with all the dreams and visions and portents that heralded them, Grandmaster Veisroi is going to be too occupied trying to control his own cult to lend much in the way of help.”

“Thank you, Branwen, Nassir,” Justinian said calmly. “I greatly appreciate all the work you do.”

“Your Holiness,” Branwen protested, coming to a stop. The Archpope did likewise, turning to regard her with beatific calm, and Ravoud trailed to a halt a few steps further on, glancing up and down the hallway. This corridor was deep within the tunnel system under the Cathedral; they were unlikely to encounter anyone and all but certain not to meet anyone who was not supposed to be there, but Ravoud took his duties as Justinian’s protector with the utmost seriousness.

“I understand your fears, Branwen,” the Archpope said, reaching out to lightly rest a hand on her shoulder. “They are not misplaced. All of this I have planned for with great care.”

“I believe in you, your Holiness,” Ravoud said firmly. “I knew you would be in control.”

“Control is an illusion, my friends,” Justinian warned. “All we can do is have faith, and act as best we can without fear, and with our utmost skill and effort. You are right to be concerned, Branwen. All of this is unfolding too soon, before I am ready.”

“What shall we do, your Holiness?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“I…have planned for that, as well,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I had hoped and prayed that it would not come to this. I have, ready and waiting, the means to keep the circling vultures at bay until the proper time for them to strike, but it will require me to do things which I had desperately hoped I would not need to.”

“We’re with you, whatever comes,” Ravoud assured him. Branwen nodded.

“I am deeply grateful for you both,” he said, smiling. “Come, there is little time to tarry. Preparations must be made to meet the unforeseen, but first, tonight’s business has been long awaited and should not be delayed.”

This wasn’t the first visit by either of them to this secret underground complex, though it was the first time he had brought both together. Grooming each of them to a state of assured loyalty had been a long-term project, more so in Branwen’s case than Nassir’s as she had a far more complex mind and intricate motivations. In the end, though, he felt assured of both their loyalties, now that the moment had come. As much, at least, as anyone could be assured of anything. Certainty was as much an illusion as control; a time inevitably came when one simply had to act.

Justinian led the way in silence to the iron door, tapping the proper code into the runes affixed to its frame. It opened with a soft creak under the power of its own enchantments, and he strode through, both hurrying after as the door immediately began to shut again behind them.

Delilah turned and bowed to him upon his entry, receiving a smile and a deep nod in response.

“Finally,” Rector snapped, barely looking up from his runic console. Ravoud, ever protective of the Archpope’s dignity, shot the enchanter a scowl, but held his peace. It wasn’t his first time encountering the man, and Delilah had done her best to explain Rector’s eccentricities.

The chamber was a chapel-sized apparently natural cave in the bedrock beneath Tiraas, only improved by having a door added and the floor smoothed down; the rest of the walls had been left in their natural contours, originally. Now, it was heavily built up with powerful fairly lamps to illuminate the space and its heavy-duty equipment. Machinery was arranged all around the walls, along with sturdy beams of iron and copper to hold some of it up, and intricate networks of wires, glass rods and brass tubes. Most of the structures were made of modern enchanting equipment, though there were several purely mechanical apparatuses in the dwarven style, and here and there, sticking out from the contemporary machines, ancient fragments of Infinite Order technology distinguishable by mithril surfaces and in two cases, glowing information panels. All of it was confined to the outer walls of the chamber, including the section on which they now stood, leaving a wide open space clear in its center.

“Rector,” Justinian said calmly. “Is everything prepared?”

“I’m ready,” the enchanter said peevishly. “Have been for an hour. You did your part?”

Behind Justinian, Branwen gently placed a calming hand on Ravoud’s back as the Colonel tensed in agitation.

“I have made all possible preparations,” Justinian assured him. “We should be able to proceed without drawing the interference, or even notice, of Vemnesthis.”

“Should?” Branwen asked quietly. “No disrespect meant, your Holiness, but the Scions are one cult I am simply not prepared to contend with.”

“Wouldn’t they have intervened already if they were going to?” Delilah asked.

“Not till the last second,” Rector grunted. “Their standard policy. Wait till the event is ready to occur, freeze time, disassemble machine, deliver warning. Maximum emotional impact.”

“Indeed,” Justinian said gravely. “If I have failed and the Scions do register their displeasure, that will be the end of it. Apart from the probable loss of Rector’s entire construction, I will not engage in a futile contest with such an impossible force. And so, in more ways than one, this is the moment of truth. Proceed, Rector.”

“Thinning dimensional barrier,” he said curtly, rapidly manipulating runes on his console. “May be uncomfortable, but harmless. Stay calm.”

Massive power crystals began to glow and hum, energy lit several of the glass rods and brought several pieces of moving machinery to life, and in the next moment, the very quality of the air changed. It seemed to thicken and shift color, and a feeling almost of vertigo fell over all five of them, as if the floor had tilted. It did not, however, despite Branwen stepping unsteadily over to the wall to lean against it.

“Stable,” Rector reported. “Initiating major breach.”

In the domed ceiling of the cave, light began to swirl, quickly collecting into a visible vortex like the atmospheric effect caused by new hellgates. More lights activated and another bank of machinery hummed to life. Several brass connectors began to emit sparks, and a stray arc of lightning climbed one of the steel beams lining the walls.

“Rector?” Justinian asked calmly while the others ducked.

“All within normal parameters,” Rector grunted. “Triple redundancy in crucial systems, some circuit burnout planned for. Opening it.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Branwen muttered.

The vortex in the ceiling widened, till the swirling effect was not a spiral but a border, rimming a circular space that was pitch black, as if the machinery had opened a portal onto some absolute void. No more equipment came to life, but the energy coursing through the connectors visibly and audibly intensified. A red indicator began flashing on one of the Infinite Order panels.

Rector’s control panel put off a sudden shower of sparks, causing him to dodge momentarily to one side, but he did not otherwise react, even when Delilah rushed forward.

They seemed to form out of the very air, a network of gossamer strands fanning out from the portal in every direction. Most passed through the very walls, trembling as if their other ends were affixed to targets which moved and caused the whole web to shiver, but many of the streams of ephemeral spidersilk were connected to each of them. Ravoud grimaced and tried to brush at them.

“Be calm,” Justinian urged over the noise of the enchanted machines. “They have always been there, you are only now able to see them. The webs are a visual metaphor, delineating connections. They will not harm you.”

He himself was connected directly to the portal by a single, massive cable of gnarled silk. So many streamers of spiderweb radiated away from him it was as if he were a second portal in his own right.

“Portal stable,” the enchanter stated, brusque as ever. “All values locked in. Initiating temporal phasing. Stay on this side of the console, may be disorienting if you’re too close. If the Scions interfere it’ll be now.”

He grabbed a lever and slowly eased it into an upward position.

Around the center of the open space a swirl of golden dust arose, quickly forming a helix shape in the air and then fluctuating wildly about, a tornado extending from the dimensional portal to the floor. Or, looked at another way, the upper half of an hourglass.

The Archpope’s deflections held. No Scions appeared; Vemnesthis’s attention was not drawn to the portal they had made between two points in time.

But someone else’s was.

The entire network of webs shivered, then began to shake violently. And then, suddenly, more things poked out of the portal.

Long, segmented appendages emerged, amid showers of sparks and arcs of lightning from the equipment all around as the portal was strained beyond its intended limits at the entity’s emergence. One of the colossal spider legs drove into the wall, thankfully missing the machinery; unlike the webs, this was clearly a physical projection. Its tip made a crater in the ancient stone.

“Your Holiness!” Ravoud shouted. “We have to get out of here!”

“Peace.” Justinian held up one hand, noting the way the strands of silk binding it went taut at the gesture, quivering with tension as their other ends were collected by whatever now rose on the other side of the spacetime aperture.

Someone screamed, either Deliliah or Branwen, at the sudden pressure that fell over the room, the distinctive psychic force of a consciousness orders of magnitude beyond their own looking upon them.

Amid the blackness in the center of the swirling, eight crimson eyes appeared.

Justinian flexed his forearm in a circle, gathering a physical grip on the spiderwebs, then yanked hard.

The eyes shifted, fixing their gaze upon him directly. The mental thrust of it might have crushed another person. But he was the Archpope, and even while hiding his activities from the gods, he enjoyed certain protections.

Justinian nodded once in acknowledgment, and released his grip on the webs.

With a great tearing of metal, the entire portal collapsed. All the visible magical effects dissipated and the arcane hum of the machines began to power down. The last evidence any of them could see of the metaphysical forces they had summoned was the spectral shape of a spider the size of a dragon emerging into the chamber, fading from view like a shadow from a campfire.

It was only relatively quiet, with furtive fountains of sparks and several residual electrical discharges snapping around the edges of the walls. A significant percentage of the equipment built into them had either exploded or been crushed by falling stone and beams; this great machine wasn’t going to work again any time soon. More than half of the industrial sized fairly lamps had been burned out, leaving the chamber cast in odd patterns of light and darkness.

Ravoud stepped forward, planting himself in front of Justinian with his wand in his hand.

“W-what went wrong?” Branwen asked tremulously. “That wasn’t the Scions. What was that?”

“Nothing went wrong,” Rector said.

“Excuse me?” Ravoud exclaimed. “What do you call that?”

“Unexpected side effect,” the enchanter said noncommittally. “Experiment succeeded, worked exactly as predicted. Look.”

He pointed, and they all turned to stare at the unconscious figure now lying in a heap in the middle of the floor, directly below where the portal had been.


The swirling column of golden light had been bad enough. Prairie folk were very much accustomed to tornadoes; glowing tornadoes that came out of a clear sky and sat in one place for several minutes managed to conjure both their very reasonable caution for nature’s destructive power and the more primal fear of the unknown.

It did not help that the citizens of Hamlet could all tell at a glance exactly where it had centered.

But then it got worse.

Thankfully, the glowing storm didn’t approach the village, but when it abruptly dissipated, it left behind a column of pure fire that would have been visible for miles around, accompanied by the ear-piercing scream of a woman in the extremity of terror and pain.

Exactly as it had been only a few short years ago on the night June Witwill had died.

Now, Marshal Ross, having ordered the rest of the townsfolk to stay back, led his two deputies on a fast march across the prairie to the old basin full of flowers, wands in hand and expressions grim as the grave. Of all the things this town did not need dragged up again…

He slowed as he reached the rim of the little hollow, raising his weapon and peering down into the depression, ready for anything. Or so he thought. Ross was not ready for what he actually saw.

As it had been on that other terrible night, the entire basin was scorched black, every stalk of tallgrass and versithorae blooms scoured away by the unnatural firestorm. But this time, she was there.

She huddled in front of the stone marker, her gingham dress hanging off her in charred rags; even her hair looked to be half-burned away. But apart from that… What could be seen of her skin looked whole, untouched by fire.

And she was alive.

The Marshal stepped down into the basin, Lester and Harriet right on his heels. Their boots crunched on the charred ground, kicking up occasional sparks where the destroyed vegetation still smoldered. She had to have heard their approach, but she just knelt there, huddled around herself, staring at the stone memorial bearing the Omnist sunburst, and her own name and date of death.

He came to a stop a few feet away, glanced at the other two. Lester looked wide-eyed and on the verge of being sick; Harriet’s face was set in grim lines as if she still expected the worst.

“June?” he said softly.

Slowly, she turned. Her eyes were wide and terrified beneath a charred fringe of brown hair, but it was her. He’d known her all her life, mourned her and moved on. And there she was, alive and scared out of her mind.

“M-Marshal?” June Witwill said weakly, tears beginning to cut tracks through the soot smeared on her face.

“Harriet, go fetch Doc an’ the priest,” Ross ordered. Immediately she turned and climbed back up the rim of the basin, heading off for Hamlet at a run.

“Marshal Ross?” June whispered. “What happened? What is going on?”

He dropped his wands on the ground, already shrugging out of his coat, and knelt to sweep it around her shoulders. She grabbed and clung to him as if for dear life, trembling.

“June, honey, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”


“Data matches,” Rector reported, hunched over the repurposed telescroll machine affixed to his console. “Good thing I added the redundant circuit breakers. Didn’t lose any data in the overload. Perfect match for the values in the Vadrieny data, filling in all the blanks. Looks good, your Holiness, we can finish the Angelus Project with this.”

“Well done, Rector,” Justinian said softly. “Very well done indeed.”

“What was that thing?” Delilah demanded. “The spider? Where is it?”

“Didn’t actually emerge here,” Rector said distractedly, still pouring over the stream of markings being produced by the transcriber. “Looked like it cos of temporal effects, but she used the opening we made to…I dunno. She’s not here, or now, though. Probably not far off. Time travel’s confusing and dangerous, good reason there’s a whole god of not letting people do this.”

They all tensed, save Rector and himself, as the sprawled figure in the middle of the floor stirred. Claws rasped against the stone.

Justinian stepped forward at an even pace.

“Your Holiness, no,” Ravoud insisted, planting himself between the Archpope and the thing they had summoned.

“It’s all right, Nassir,” Justinian said kindly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “This is according to plan.”

“But that creature…” The Colonel glanced over his shoulder, gripping his wand. “The risk. Without you, your Holiness, everything will fall apart.”

“Nothing of value can be done without risk, my friend,” the Archpope said softly. “But you know me, Nassir, and have been with me for a long time, now. Have you ever known me to take a risk that was not meticulously calculated?”

Ravoud hesitated, agonizing indecision written clearly on his face.

“Have faith,” Justinian said softly.

Finally, clamping his mouth into an unhappy line, the Colonel stepped out of the way. Branwen sidled up next to him, tucking her hand reassuringly into his arm, and they all watched the Archpope descend to meet the new arrival.

She groaned softly, in pain or confusion, twitching again, and then flapped her wings once with a force that sent a burst of air whirling through the chamber. There came an audible crunch as the claws tipping her fingers sank right into the stone beneath her.

Justinian stopped a yard away, and knelt. “How do you feel?”

With a jerk, she snapped her head up. Her eyes, wide and frightened, were whirling pits of orange flame.

“What—who are… Where am I? Who are you?”

Her wings were tipped with little claws at the joints, otherwise being decorated with a rather pleasing arrangement of red and blue feathers not unlike a Punaji macaw. She had hair of a fiery orange—but orange that human hair could actually be, not literally made of flame like her younger sister’s.

“My name is Justinian,” he said gently. “Take your time. You have just been through something deeply traumatic, but you are safe here. Don’t rush it. What do you remember?”

“I…I…” She sat upright, curling her legs under herself and letting her wings slump to the floor, clutching her head in both clawed hands. If she had been wearing anything, it had been burned away by the transition. “Nothing. Nothing! Who is… Who am I?”

“I feared this,” he said, sighing softly. “We have seen this once before.”

“My memory… It’ll come back. Won’t it?” Her expression was pleading, as desperate as her voice.

“I don’t know,” he said gravely. “It may not; you must be prepared for that possibility. I will do everything I can to help you, but I will not make promises that I don’t know I can keep.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who am I?”

“I am someone,” he said slowly, maintaining calm in the face of the incredibly dangerous creature’s growing panic, seeking to help ground her, “who is supposed to be your enemy.”

“My enemy?” She bared fangs at him.

“Supposed to be,” he replied, voice even but firm. “We have been set against each other by those who would presume to rule us. By liars calling themselves gods; by those who were meant to give me guidance, and one who should have loved you above all else. But they seek to manipulate me into fighting unjust battles on their behalf, and condemned you to die for their own convenience. I tire of dancing to the tune of selfish creatures who presume to be my masters. I believe we should be free to choose our own fates. Me, you, all people, everywhere. And so I saved you.”

He bowed his head once in a deep nod.

“I am sorry I failed to do so more thoroughly. I had hoped to spare you some of this trauma, at least preserve your memory. We are laboring against colossal powers, and my efforts have been…imperfect. But I at least have managed to preserve your life.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Any of this. I don’t know who I am, let alone why I’m here. What’s happened…”

“All will be well.” Justinian extended a hand to her. Behind him there came several indrawn breaths as his companions tensed. “None of us can say what the future holds, but I will do my very best to protect you. And together, perhaps we can free ourselves of our enemies’ control.”

Slowly, she reached out and wrapped her murderous talons around his hand. She had, he knew, the strength to crush him with a single clench, but she just held onto him. Firmly, yet gently.

“I’ll tell you everything I can about your history, and what’s happened,” he said, slowly standing up. Still holding his hand, she did likewise, raising her wings in the process. “But that will take time, and we should get you somewhere more comfortable first. To begin with, though, your name is Azradeh.”

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15 – 77

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“And you know what the really surprising thing is? I’m not even angry.”

Tellwyrn had swiveled her desk chair sideways and leaned it back as far as it would go, practically lounging in it with herself in profile relative to the students crowding her office. The fingers of her left hand drummed a slow and steady beat against the desk; with her right she held up the Mask of the Adventurer, slowly turning the innocuous-looking artifact this way and that and watching how the afternoon sunlight from her broad window gleamed along its understated silver decorations.

“Barely surprised, even stranger,” she mused, studying the mask. “Oh, a little bit, sure. A person doesn’t have something like this dropped on their desk and not spend a few moments pondering what, in general, the fuck. But it’s really striking how quickly that faded into this vague yet all-consuming sense of ‘yeah, that sounds about right.’”

“I can’t decide if we’re being insulted or let off the hook,” Gabriel muttered.

“I’ll take the one if it comes with the other,” Juniper muttered back.

“Hell, there’s a nice compliment in there if ya squint,” Ruda added, grinning.

“It has to be said that I’m not without responsibility in this,” Tellwyrn continued, turning the mask over to examine its inner face. “You certainly went and did exactly what I instructed, didn’t you? I think I can be forgiven for failing to anticipate this outcome, but really. The combination of you lot, that location, and vague instructions to have a spiritually meaningful experience? Yeah, I’ll own it, on a certain level I was sort of asking for this. Not sending a proper University guardian with you, even. I swear I thought that was a good idea but now I’m sort of grasping for the reason why.”

“Locke performed…adequately in that role,” Trissiny reported. She had changed out of her armor, but was standing at parade rest with only her sword buckled over her leather coat to identify her rank. “She’s jumpier than I would have expected under certain kinds of pressure, but I can’t fault her intent, or results. It all worked out.”

“Yes,” Shaeine agreed, “upon balance I believe your experiment can be considered a success, Professor. Though you may, in the future, want to personally escort groups which present a similar set of risk factors as ourselves.”

“Honestly,” Tellwyrn said with a scowl, still not looking at them, “I find I’m less annoyed about this thing than by the lot of you fucking off two provinces away to throw yourselves into a battle. Surprised? No. But by the same token, I know this is a conversation we have had before. More than once.”

“It was necessary,” Toby said in perfect calm. “I am sorry we broke your rules, Professor. In a case like that, however… We always will.”

“Mm.” She lifted her other hand to grasp the Mask by both its edges and brought it down toward her face.

All of them inhaled sharply, going wide-eyed and rigid.

Tellwyrn stopped moving, then half-turned her head to smirk at them.

The whole group let out their suspended breaths in unison, followed by Ruda emitting a slightly strained chuckle.

“You’re a bad lady,” Gabriel accused.

“I’ll tell you what.” Tellwyrn gently laid the Mask down on her desk and swiveled the chair forward to face them directly, straightening up in the process. “This is a one-time offer, don’t expect it to become general policy. But on this one occasion, if you can satisfy me that this was a successful educational experience, I will consider the lesson imparted and we can proceed without any further punishment. So?” Planting her elbows on the desk bracketing the Mask, she interlaced her fingers and stared at the group over them. “What did we learn?”

There came a pause, while several of them turned to peer uncertainly at one another.

“Consider it a group effort,” Tellwyrn prompted dryly. “I don’t care which of you comes up with an answer, so long as I’m satisfied that it’s one you’ve all absorbed.”

“We should be more respectful of the unpredictable things in this world,” Shaeine said softly. “Of magic, in particular, but generally. There can be severe consequences for assuming that the rules will always apply.”

“Yeah…that’s a really good way to put it,” Toby agreed, nodding. “From everything we know about the rules of magic, there was no reason to think this exact thing would happen, but it was reckless to think nothing of this nature could.”

“It’s not so much we didn’t think it could as it wouldn’t have occurred to us, or any sane person,” said Ruda. “But…damn. No more fucking around with mixed magic in sacred sites. It coulda been a shit ton worse.”

“It is sort of ironic,” Tellwyrn said thoughtfully. “For most of my lifetime, it would have been the baseline assumption of everyone, magic user or not, that much about magic was unknowable and not to be trifled with. Then along come I, to drive away the cobwebs of ignorance and instill you all with methodical thinking. Lo and behold, it worked, and here you are lacking fear of the unknown, when that is the exact quality that would have kept you out of this mess. It’s enough to make a person reconsider their whole life.”

“Logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end,” Fross chimed.

Tellwyrn raised an eyebrow. “That’s Nemitite doctrine. Have you been reading the theology textbooks now, Fross?”

“Yes, Professor, they make for really great light reading when I want a change of pace from magical theory. Also super helpful! A lot of stuff people do makes more sense when I understand the underlying philosophies that inform their behavior. But anyway, what I mean is, I don’t think your ultimate project here is wrong, not at all. Knowledge is never not better than ignorance. I guess we just hit a point where we got a little too full of our fancy University education and failed to respect the amount of ignorance we still had.”

“Well said,” Trissiny agreed.

“All right,” Tellwyrn said, finally cracking a faint smile. “That’s a good lesson indeed, and I am satisfied that you’ve absorbed it. All things considered, it worked out well. Whatever else happened, this thing enabled you to do a lot of good. Needless to say, if you ever again demonstrate a failure to consider the ramifications of tampering with unknown powers I will descend upon the lot of you like the personified wrath of Avei with a caffeine habit and a toothache. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.

“Which leaves us with…this.” She leaned back again, picking up the Mask. “The thing itself.”

“Really sorry to dump this on you, Professor,” Teal said earnestly. “But, well, Mr. Weaver said you might be the best person to look after it, and I can really see the sense in that.”

“Oh, yes,” Tellwyrn said, now staring expressionlessly at the Mask. “I can take it, sure. Chuck it in the vault with the rest of the collection, can do. Ever since I started making it my business to get the really dangerous crap permanently out of everyone’s hands, nobody’s come close to even finding where I stored it all, much less cracking my defenses. Course, I never had a god make a stab at it before.”

“You…” Trissiny hesitated, glancing at the others. “Is a god after that, in particular?”

“Well, you tell me, Avelea,” Tellwyrn replied. “Since it seems like Vesk was at least ankle-deep in the creation of this thing and then up to his balls in everything that happened afterward. You three should know what he’s like, after this summer.” She pointed at Trissiny, Toby and Gabriel in turn. “Imagine you’re in a story. In a story, if there’s a big fancy magical sword that gets its own entire chapter of exposition, that thing is getting stuck in somebody before the third act climax. Probably after being the object of its very own epic quest.”

“But it…sort of was stuck in somebody,” said Juniper. “Uh, metaphorically, I mean. The mask was used in the battle; it gave Jacaranda her power back and that pretty much decided the whole thing.”

“Ah, yes,” Tellwyrn said, scowling. “When you put it that way, the fact that there are pixies spread across half of N’Jendo now is indirectly your fault, as well.”

“What, you got a problem with pixies now?” Ruda asked, grinning. “Are you gonna take that, Fross?”

“She’s right,” Fross said quietly. “That is going to cause some real big problems.”

“So, yes, the Mask was used,” Tellwyrn said, “and it was a deciding factor in what can be understood as the big story arc running at the time. Hopefully… Hopefully that will be enough. The problem is the scale of it. What you’ve got here is the kind of thing that alters the destinies of nations for centuries to come, not a single event. At least, that’s how it would be in fiction. I’ll hide it away as best I can, because what else am I going to do? But I can’t help wondering exactly what’s going to happen to bring it back out again.”

“Okay, that’s already giving me a headache,” Ruda complained. “You sound like a fuckin’ bard. The world doesn’t run on fucking story logic!”

“Anything Vesk has his hand on this heavily is going to run at least somewhat on story logic,” Trissiny said, frowning deeply. “It would be a good idea to try to think in those terms, if you find him in your proximity. Which is annoying beyond belief because I am not good at it.”

“I’ll try to give you some pointers,” Teal promised.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Tellwyrn agreed. “In fact, in lieu of proper punishment, I have extra homework for you lot after this. I want you to go to the library, ask Crystal for copies of The Myth Eternal by Ravinelle d’Ormont, and write a three-page essay predicting possible next events resulting from your field trip, which you will justify citing the text’s description of tropes and narrative structure. This is a group project; I want you to compare notes and each turn in an individual essay describing a different outcome. On my desk by Friday.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to punish us if we answered your question!” Gabriel protested.

“Yes, Mr. Arquin, and as I said, this is not a punishment,” Tellwyrn said sweetly. “Would you like one of those instead?”

“Uhhh…”

“Irrelevant, because this is what you’re doing. All right, all of you out. Go rest, be in class as usual tomorrow. And see if you can try not to kick any more colossal metaphysical hornet’s nests for at least a week or so, hmm?”

Several of them sighed, but they turned and began filing out.

“Has anybody else noticed that something terrible happens to every city we go to?” Fross chimed as she drifted through the open door.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Ruda agreed. “You fuckers are never visiting me at home again.”

“Correlation is not causation, Ruda,” Shaeine reminded her.

“I dunno,” said Gabriel as he shut the door behind them. “I feel like ‘Causation’ could be the title of our biography…”

Tellwyrn stared at the closed office door for a few moments with a bemused little frown, then leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and glared down at the Mask.

It stared innocently back.


He was apparently the last to arrive.

“So I see this isn’t to be a private meeting,” Bishop Darling said pleasantly, gliding forward toward the base of the stairs in the Archpope’s personal prayer chapel. For once, Justinian was already standing at the base of the steps instead of waiting dramatically at the altar up a story-tall flight of steps, framed by the towering stained glass windows, one of which concealed the door to his secret chamber of oracles.

Bishops Snowe and Varanus were present, of course; that was almost a given. This was where the Archpope had most often assembled his inner circle of four—now three—Bishops. What was unusual was the presence of guards, two Holy Legionaries standing at attention to either side of the stairs, and Colonel Ravoud himself waiting behind the Archpope at parade rest.

“Antonio,” Justinian said gravely, inclining his head. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure you have much to tell me.”

“Mmm… No, I really can’t think of anything,” Darling answered, standing before him still with that serene Bishoply smile in place. Branwen gave him a wide-eyed look, Andros remaining inscrutable as ever behind his bushy beard.

“I confess that surprises me,” said Justinian, not sounding surprised in the least. “Especially after Branwen brought such an exhaustive report.”

“Why, precisely,” Darling agreed. “I’m sure she handled it just fine. And now, I believe there are some things you want to tell me.”

“You believe so?” Justinian asked in just as mild and pleasant a tone.

Darling smiled beatifically at him. “There had damn well better be.”

All three soldiers shifted their heads to stare right at him, Ravoud stiffening slightly.

Justinian’s eyes shifted past him to the door he had just come through, which now opened again. “Ah, good. The final necessary party to this conversation. Thank you for joining us, Basra.”

Keeping his pleasant smile firmly in place, Darling turned slowly to face her. In neither Church nor Avenist attire, she wore severe black garments which, he realized on a second glance, were a color-reversed version of Ravoud’s white Holy Legion dress uniform. The only insignia was a golden ankh pinned over the left breast. The dark color incidentally served to emphasize the white bandages peeking out from her left sleeve. An ornate gold-hilted short sword hung at her belt; well, that style of weapon only required one hand, after all.

Branwen drew in a sharp breath through her nose; Andros folded his arms, grunting once. Basra pulled the door shut behind her, then paced carefully toward them across the ornate carpet, her dark eyes fixed on Darling.

“Bas!” he exclaimed in a tone of jovial delight, spreading his arms wide. “How perfectly lovely to see you again! We have so much to catch up on!”

A practiced flick of his wrist brought the wand up his sleeve shooting out into his palm. She was still most of the way across the room; even with her trained swordswoman’s instincts Basra had time only to widen her eyes and stop moving before he’d brought it up and fired.

The crack of lightning was deafening in the acoustically designed chapel. A blue sphere of light ignited around her, the shielding charm of a sufficient grade to absorb the close ranged wandshot without flickering.

Basra bared her teeth in a snarl and dashed right for him, clawing her sword loose as she came. Darling shot her twice more before the pound of heavy boots on the carpet made him shift position to face the nearer of the Legionaries, who was bringing his ornate halberd down with the clear intent of barring them from reaching each other.

Darling grabbed the haft of the weapon with his free hand and spun, using his weight and the man’s own momentum to send him staggering right into Basra’s shield. It was disgustingly easy. Honestly, why had Justinian campaigned so hard to have his own private military if this was all he did with them? Not only was a halberd a hilariously dated weapon, the clod was using it indoors and obviously had no idea how, to judge by how easily it was taken from him.

It was heavy and unwieldy, and he had no chance of doing anything effective with it one-handed, but fortunately the quality of the Holy Legion remained constant; Darling was easily able to sweep it into the second soldier’s feet, sending the man stumbling to the ground. He hadn’t even tried to jump. It was an open question whether he physically could have in that ridiculous lacquered armor, but he’d done nothing except try ineptly to change course as the slow and heavy polearm came arcing at him. Never mind halberd technique, these guys hadn’t been trained in the very basics of hand-to-hand combat. What the hell was the point of them?

“Antonio,” Justinian protested in a tone of patrician disappointment.

“Be with you in a moment, your Holiness,” he said cheerfully, dropping the halberd.

Basra had just shoved the stumbling Legionary off her, and now received three more swift shots. Still the shield held; that thing was military grade. She was closer now, though, and lunged at him again with a feral snarl.

The shield was even phased to allow her to attack through it, which was cutting edge and really sophisticated charm work. Unfortunately for Basra, his more old-fashioned tricks were just as good. Her sword didn’t even draw sparks as it raked across the divine shield that flashed into being around him.

“Should’ve stayed down,” he informed her, winking. “It suited you.”

She made a noise like a feral cat and stabbed at him again, ineffectually. He fired back, the impact of the wand creating a burst of static and the sharp stink of ozone at that range. Basra stumbled backward, blinking the effects of the flash away from her eyes.

A thump and clatter sounded from behind him, and he re-angled himself to check the scene without letting Basra out of his field of view. The tableau told a story at a glance; Justinian looking exasperated, Branwen openly amused, Ravoud flat on his back on the stairs and Andros just lowering the arm with which he’d clotheslined the Colonel when he had tried to join the fray.

“Really?” Justinian said disapprovingly. “I would have hoped you two would try to reason with him, at least.”

“We are completely behind you, your Holiness,” Branwen assured him. “Rest assured, the moment Antonio begins doing something inappropriate, we will restrain him.”

“Eventually,” Andros rumbled.

Darling grinned and shot Basra again.

A wall of pure golden light slammed into place across the entire width of the chapel. It was a solid construction at least a foot thick, easily the most impressive Lightworking Darling had ever seen.

As rarely as they were called upon to exercise it, one could easily forget that a sitting Archpope was at least one of the most powerful divine casters in the world. Once in a while, one had found cause to demonstrate it, such as Archpope Sairelle’s famous binding of Philamorn the Gold.

Darling shot it, just to be sure. No effect.

“Enough,” Justinian stated, hand outstretched and glowing. “Antonio, I understand your frustration—”

“I am well aware that you do,” Darling stated, turning to stare at him with the pretense of conviviality gone from his features. “And I’m aware that you are aware that ‘frustration’ is in no way the word.”

“This of all moments is no time for you to succumb to impatience,” the Archpope said soothingly. “It is no secret that we have all acted upon complex agendas, Antonio. For this long, at least, we have all been able to relate to one another like—”

“Ah, yes, that’s really the thing, isn’t it?” Darling said with a bitter grin. “Because as we all know, I’m Sweet of the thousand agendas. Whose side is he on? The Guild, the Church, the Empire? I’m the guy who can smile nicely at everybody and play every side against the middle, committing to none. And I, I, am now officially done with this. That fact alone should warn you just what kind of line you’ve crossed, Justinian.”

Ravoud had bounded back to his feet, stepping away from Andros, and now strode forward, pointing accusingly at him. “You will address his Holiness as—”

“Pipe down, Nassir,” Darling ordered. “When I need someone to get humiliated by the Last Rock Glee Club I’ll tag you into this.”

“Please, Colonel,” Justinian said gently, making a peaceful gesture with his free hand. Ravoud clamped his mouth shut, looking anything but happy, but stepped back and folded his arms, glaring at Darling. “We have been through a great deal together, Antonio. I will not downplay the severity of recent events, but surely you do not think that now of all times it behooves you to throw everything away.”

“Do you know how many people died in Ninkabi?” Darling demanded. “Don’t answer that, it was a rhetorical question. Nobody knows, because they are still finding bodies. And oh, what a perfect storm of factors had to align to make that catastrophe happen! Basra here, Khadizroth and his crew, the Tide. Every one of them your pawns, Justinian.”

“And yet,” the Archpope said softly, “not even the first time I have been complicit in the mass summoning of demons into a major city under siege. Though as I recall, it was someone else’s plan, the last time.”

So he was willing to admit to that in front of Ravoud and these incompetent non-soldiers of his? Interesting.

“Oh, don’t even try it,” Darling retorted with open scorn. “Tiraas was a series of small controlled summonings by professionals, with the full oversight of the Imperial government. In Ninkabi twenty hellgates were indiscriminately opened after your pet assassin went on a murderous rampage to cull the local police. The fact you’d even bother making that comparison shows you have no argument to make, here.”

Justinian lowered his hand, and the wall of light vanished. On its other side, Basra still clutched her sword and glared at him, but didn’t move forward again.

“So this, finally, is the price of your conscience?” the Archpope asked in utter calm. “It is steep indeed, Antonio.”

“Oh, is that what you think is happening here? My moral outrage compelling me to make a brave stand? I would have thought you knew me better by now, Justinian. I’m more than sleazy enough to stick right to all manner of perfidy just to keep a close eye on it. I’d have walked out on you long ago if I was going to do it out of anger or disgust. But you have burned way too many bridges with a single torch this time. You cannot keep a lid on the details of what happened in Ninkabi, not now that most of your own enforcers have run off to who knows where with all their knowledge. This rat is leaving this ship, Justinian, unless you can give me a compelling and immediate reason to think you can survive the backlash coming your way and guarantee that nothing like this ever happens again.”

“And what would satisfy you?” Justinian inquired.

“For starters?” Darling pointed at Basra without looking in her direction, keeping his gaze locked on the Archpope’s. “Kill her.”

“That is a trap,” Justinian replied before Basra could react. “A rhetorical snare, Antonio. You seek to manufacture an excuse to do what you wish and blame my unreasonable refusal, knowing very well that I cannot give any such cruel order.”

“There is absolutely no reason not to,” Branwen stated.

The Archpope shifted to look at her, his eyebrows lifting incrementally. “Branwen…”

“I know you believe you can control that creature, your Holiness,” she said, giving Basra an openly contemptuous glance. “Or at least, want to believe you can. I cannot imagine how you could still think so after the last week.”

“I have been saying it for years,” Andros grunted. “A rabid animal should be put down, not put on a leash. Events continue to prove me ever more correct.”

“The events in motion are greater than any of you can yet realize,” Justinian said softly. “Basra still has a role to play. As do you all.”

“One thing hasn’t changed, Antonio,” Basra herself sneered, stalking forward. “Anything you believe you can do, I can still do better.”

He turned slowly to face her. Then, suddenly grinning, Darling held up both his hands and began to applaud.

Andros let out a hearty boom of laughter, and Basra lunged at him with her sword again.

“Basra.”

The Archpope’s voice brought her to an immediate halt. She glared at Darling with her face a mask of truly psychotic hatred, literally quivering with the desire to attack, but she did not move.

“Of this I assure you,” Justinian stated. “Every bitter price I have levied, every sin with which I have stained my soul, is in service to a greater good which will be worth the cost when it has done. Too much has been paid, now more than ever, for us to stop. This must be seen through to its end, or all of this suffering has been for nothing.”

Darling turned back to him. “Boss Tricks demands all the assurances I just asked of you, Archpope Justinian. Until they are produced, the cult of Eserion will choose to manage its relationships with the rest of the Pantheon directly, forgoing the mediation of the Universal Church. So, bye.”

He turned and walked right past Basra toward the door.

“You know, it wasn’t Eserion who saved you.”

Darling slowed to a stop, but did not turn around, and Justinian continued.

“I had a similar experience, Antonio. I witnessed something the Pantheon prefers to keep far from mortal knowledge. I survived only by the intervention of another god, one who questioned the injustice of keeping their secrets at the expense of so many lives. That is what happened to you, is it not? And so much of the course of your life has proceeded to its current point because you believed it was Eserion the defiant who shielded you. Eserion allowed you to think so, but it was not he.”

Still, Darling didn’t turn, subtly rolling the wand between his fingers.

“Will you really throw away all those years of searching,” Justinian asked softly, “when you are so near to the end? The time is fast approaching for all questions to be answered. You have labored with such industry and cleverness to obtain these secrets, Antonio. I would hate for you to come so close only to miss them.”

“Okay.” Darling turned halfway, just enough for the Archpope to see his face. “Let’s hear it, then. Spill the big secret, tell me what the gods are hiding and what really happened at the end of the Elder War. I’m on tenterhooks, here.”

“You of all people,” Justinian said, spreading his hands slightly at waist height to indicate those gathered near him, “understand that this is no place or time for such revelations. But soon, Antonio.”

“Yeah, well, see, that’s the thing,” Darling said, smiling again. “I don’t need you for that, either. Not anymore. Oh, and Baaaasra,” he added in a saccharine singsong, widening his smile to a wolfish grin as he turned it on her. “You can’t hide in here forever. You know it as well as I; you’ll go gibbering mad if you even try to keep yourself so confined. I will be seeing you again. Real soon.”

He turned his back on the silent assemblage and strode out, kicking the chapel door open, then kicking it again to close.

It shut behind him with a boom of echoing finality.

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15 – 59

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“Schneider says the spirits are still severely agitated,” said Captain Antevid.

“My witch reports the same,” Major Luger said more stiffly, shifting her focus to the two serene-faced Elders. “Considering that, as well as all the developments we’ve seen here, you’ll excuse me if I’m not ready to consider this entire matter settled.”

“For each matter settled this day,” Shiraki replied solemnly, “seven more shall arise in the days to come. Thy wariness serves thee well, soldier-priestess. But there are matters, and then there are matters.”

“What he means,” Sheyann interjected as the Major’s eyebrows lowered precipitously, “is that it’s likely to be a long time before there is an overall settling. The fae spirits through which power and information are channeled are living, feeling things. But not, in all circumstances, thinking things. Given the stress to which they’ve been subjected, they will be agitated for some time to come. The situation is less like ripples from a stone dropped in water than… A large flock of birds whose nesting tree had been struck by lightning.”

“Evocative,” Antevid said approvingly.

Sheyann glanced at him before returning her attention to Luger. “With all due respect to your respective witches, whose competence I have no reason to doubt, Shiraki and I have practiced our craft longer than the traditions in which you trained have existed. We can assure you that the source of this disruption has been pacified. In time, the spirits will reach a new equilibrium.”

“Didn’t sound a hundred percent pacified to me,” Luger grunted. “Now we have no less than the assurance of a god that he means to keep doing this specific thing.”

“A more specific thing, in fact,” Sheyann clarified. “He means to subject devoted Shaathists to visions of wolf pack behavior, like the Ranger ritual to do the same. Every night in their dreams. While I’m sure there will be vast repercussions from that, it is an entirely different class of event from insistent howling from everywhere in the world every night, accompanied by agonizing spiritual urges in everyone connected to the fae. This is now explicitly a Shaathist problem; everyone else may breathe easily again.”

Luger pursed her lips, glancing to the side. The group of elves and Imperials had remained under the shade of the trees, with the exception of Rainwood, who had joined the group of Ingvar’s new pack. In addition to the recently-transformed group of people he had brought with him, there were the remaining spirit wolves, who showed remarkable equanimity in the presence of so many humanoids. The Shaathists and Rangers were sitting around Ingvar on the grass, their numbers now mixing together instead of remaining separated by faction as they had been before, while he spoke and answered questions in a quiet voice which forced them to listen closely.

“It is, of course, your privilege to proceed in whatever manner you think best,” Sheyann added in a tone of gentle reproof, “but I cannot imagine what reason you think I might have to deceive you, Major.”

“Don’t henpeck, Sheyann,” said Tellwyrn. “Not that I don’t have my issues with stuffy military types, but not blithely accepting the dictates of foreign nationals on a mission’s status is just a case of being good at her job.”

“Appreciate the validation, Professor,” Luger said sardonically.

“For my part,” Tellwyrn continued, “I do accept your recommendation. Gods know I have plenty of personal observation that you’re both the best out there at what you do. If what’s been injuring my students and staff is done, I need to get back to them.”

“Yes, of course,” Sheyann agreed, nodding deeply to her. “By the same token, we should return to our grove. Even with the source pacified, these events placed great stress upon our shaman, especially the young learners. Our guidance will be needed.”

Tellwyrn smiled lopsidedly, raising an eyebrow. “Well, then! Can I offer you a lift home?”

“The offer is, as always, appreciated, Arachne,” Sheyann said with wry fondness. “But as this is no longer an actual crisis, I believe we can do without having our molecules dismantled again. With our own blessings we can be home by tomorrow. I judge that, now, to be sufficient haste.”

“Don’t be absurd, you don’t disconnect the molecules,” Tellwyrn said seriously. “That’d never work, you’d rematerialize as so much mud. The entire package is converted to data and moved via fundamental entanglement.”

“Thank you,” Sheyann said, affecting deep and solemn gravity, “for correcting me.”

Tellwyrn grinned, glanced one last time over at Ingvar and his various wolves, and just like that was gone, leaving behind only a faint puff of air filling the space she had been.

“Well, there she goes,” Antevid said lightly. “Before you also vanish, Elders, the Empire appreciates all your help. I’ll make sure ImCom knows the elves from Sarasio are good neighbors when the need arises.”

She inclined her head politely to him before turning to Shiraki, who was facing the clearing now. “Well, then, shall we?”

He answered softly in elvish, still watching Ingvar’s impromptu teaching session. “The restorative work should be minor; mostly, everyone will just need rest. Would you forgive me if I left it for you to handle, Sheyann?”

Sheyann turned fully to face him, replying in the same language. “You are right, and I would. What are you thinking, Shiraki?”

“I think,” he said, slowly and pensively, “I would like to stay, for a while, with this Ingvar and his…pack.”

“We are in the midst of a great general upheaval,” she reminded him. “As much as we butt heads, times of transition are when traditions and the conservative voices who speak for them are most important. This is an awkward moment for you to go tauhanwe.”

He gave her a sidelong smile. “A wise shaman bends with the wind; a fool demands that it part around him. I have made my case against involving ourselves with the world and others with our business, but that time has passed. And in truth, events have shown me that I was misguided.” Shiraki returned his focus to the group in the glade; Ingvar had beckoned one of the luminous spirit wolves to his side, and now had an arm around the creature’s neck in a light embrace, continuing to talk to his followers both established and new. “It is fatal to ignore what is happening in the wider world. And this, Sheyann, is happening. Someone should be watching where it goes. Not to mention that these puppies could perhaps benefit from the perspective of an Elder. Or do you really want Brother Ingvar to forge a new Shaathism with Rainwood as his only source of shamanic wisdom?”

That brought a soft laugh from her.

“I don’t suppose you speak elvish?” Lugar asked Antevid.

“It’s on my to-do list,” he said.

“Spirits gather,” Shiraki said abruptly in Tanglish. “Attend, something is—”

Ingvar had stepped away from the wolf next to him, and a pale glow coalesced upon him of light drawn seemingly from nowhere; it resembled the visible effect of shadow-jumping, but with moonlight instead of darkness. Like a shadow-jump, it dissipated immediately, leaving behind the great form of a white spirit wolf bearing an arrow mark on his face where the hunter had stood.

“What?” Antevid exclaimed, though softly. The rest of his team stepped forward to stare. “We just fixed that!”

Shiraki glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “We?”

There was a similar reaction from the onlookers closer to the action, with many of the assembled humans scrambling backward. The other spirit wolves were unperturbed, however, and the rest of those who had previously been transformed all straightened up in unison, frowning as if suddenly considering a surprising new thought. Rainwood had bounded to his feet, and was now peering rapidly between Ingvar and the others in confusion.

The white wolf himself raised his head, turning to face the west with his ears alert. While the humans muttered among themselves, the wolves watched him closely.

Shiraki lightly touched Sheyann’s upper arm once, then walked forward into the glade at a serene pace.

Before he reached the group, the light coalesced again and left Ingvar once more restored to human form. He stood upright, still facing west with his eyes narrowed in concentration, but after a second jerked backward in surprise, blinking. The Huntsman turned to look at Aspen.

“Did I just…?”

“Yeah,” the dryad replied. “What I wanna know is how you did that?”

“Yeah, me too,” Rainwood added.

“Do you think we can all…?” November trailed off, turning to Rainwood, who shrugged.

“Sure am glad we’ve got this shaman here to share his understanding of the currents of magic,” Taka said solemnly.

“A transformation which cometh without will or warning is one triggered by outside effect,” said Shiraki as he paced into the group. Everyone turned to regard him, the gathered Rangers and Huntsmen shuffling aside to clear a path for the elf to Ingvar, who had fixed his full attention on him immediately. “The magic, it is clear, lies within thee, only the reaction was to another source. It may be that thou canst gain conscious control, but then, it may not. Thy circumstance is mingled of the powers of gods and fae, young hunter. Thou shalt learn more as must we all: through time and experience.”

“That’s very helpful, Elder, thank you,” Rainwood drawled.

Shiraki paused, turned to him, and spoke calmly in elvish. “I am neither Kuriwa nor the Elders of your home grove who tried to douse your spirit, young man. If you cannot direct your petulance elsewhere, please keep it leashed while we are trying to sort out matters of life and death.”

He returned his gaze to the now-bemused Ingvar, switching back to his archaic Tanglish. “Recall thy mind in the moments before it came over thee, Brother Ingvar. I saw no craft at work in this place, felt only the spirits around thee responding to a call from within.”

“You think if we can identify what caused it, we can learn whether it can be controlled?” Ingvar nodded slowly, his expression pensive.

“Perhaps,” said Shiraki. “Tis the first step, regardless. Though the Huntsmen are no ascetic creed, thou art trained at least somewhat in the arts of the mind. Still thy thoughts, feel thy breath, and seek back within to that moment, ere the memory fades.”

Ingvar nodded again and his expression turned inward, though he did not close his eyes. Everyone around grew still as well, watching him closely; Rainwood followed suit after a last, lingering scowl at Shiraki. The Elder, for his part, kept his gaze fixed on the contemplative Huntsman, though he did not fail to take note of the demeanor of this group of mixed Huntsmen and Rangers, the way they hung on his every word and now even on his silence, waiting for him to unravel another mystery for him. Though Shiraki had not spent overmuch time among humans in a handful of centuries, he had seen no shortage of heralds, prophets, teachers and charismatic troublemakers during his long life. They were a significant part of why he had not encouraged human visitors to his home grove.

What followed this, if it did not fizzle out abruptly, would affect the course of the world for great good or ill. Another reason it needed a guiding hand. If his people could no longer afford to ignore human progress, perhaps they should take part in shaping it.

“There was…a scent,” Ingvar said slowly, his eyebrows drawing together in concentration. “Except…not a scent. I feel,” he added, focusing on Shiraki’s face, “like the sensation was partly an effect of my mind trying to parse something for which it did not have terms or context.”

Shiraki nodded. “Thus is ever the way of those who reach beyond their ken; when not done in recklessness, tis a valued tool by which the shaman man perceive more of the world. Didst thy mind sense an ineffable touch whilst in the form of the wolf, tis likely ‘twould reach thee as a smell.”

“Then…you think it was a remembered scent, Elder?” he asked. “Something that would bring back the form of the wolf?”

“Scent is a powerful key to memory,” Shiraki agreed, nodding, “and memory a powerful key to an altered state, if it be one thou hast attained ere now. Mind, also, that thy powers are now granted at the behest of they god. If more gifts art thou granted, ’twill be for use in his service. Canst thou give a name to this smell?”

“Evil,” said Aspen before Ingvar could answer. “I remember it. While we were first in the wolf dream, that was the part where it started to go wrong.”

“I remember, too,” said Rainwood, frowning. “That was the tipping point. I was guiding their vision, but something reared up and sent them into a fury.”

“Well, that’s a little reassuring, I guess,” Tholi noted. “Here I was thinking you’d just done the ritual wrong.” Rainwood turned a scowl on him, but Dimbi barked a laugh.

“Peace,” Ingvar said, his voice firmly cutting off the burgeoning byplay. “I thank you, Elder, for your insight. This all makes perfect sense. While we must contend with the corruption existing within the cult of Shaath, that is simply a thing to be dealt with, not the reason we are called together. These events, this quest, cannot all have been for the sake of making politicians of us. Servants of the wild god are called to protect his realm. And something threatens it. As if…”

He raised his head again, narrowing his eyes in concentration, and the light gathered again. This time, Ingvar’s transformation into the white wolf brought murmurs from his audience, but no further panic.

The outcries began again, though, when there ensued another flash and where November had been sitting there was suddenly a golden spirit wolf with wing marks on her shoulders. The other members of the pack, those who had been normal gray wolves before the transformation and not changed back, stood and paced forward to join her and Ingvar; all of them were staring away to the southwest.

Ingvar growled once, and took a single step in that direction.

Swiftly but smoothly, Shiraki glided forward to block his path. “Patience, young wolf,” the Elder remonstrated. Ingvar straightened up, his ears perking forward in attention. “If evil rises, it must be answered, and shall be. Yet thou must not yield thy mind to instinct. Only with time will mastery come, but thou must gain a basic understanding of this gift before thou canst use it in the hunt. Rainwood and I shall lend our craft to thy aid. Attend, now.”

Some yards distant, under the trees, Major Luger turned to her fellow team leader while Shiraki continued calmly instructing the mingled wolves and humans. “Did you notice he was pointed in the same direction they were going when they got here?”

“Mm hm,” Antevid murmured, nodding. “Right at Ninkabi. Maehe’s from there.” Lieutenant Agasti pressed her lips into a thin line but offered no comment.

Luger nodded once in return. “I’m going to report all of this to field command while there’s a lull. I’d like you to stay on this group, Captain. This all looks calmer, but…not settled.”

“Do you actually think they can smell evil from halfway across the province?”

“These things are brand new, Antevid; we have no frame of reference for what they can do. All we know is they were set this way by a god of the Pantheon. And on that subject, ‘evil’ in the context of paladins and such usually refers to either demons or undead.”

“Ah, I think I follow you, Major. If they are going after a real target, not only is it important to verify their capabilities, but it’ll be a good idea to have some troops present in event of…evil.”

“I was more thinking I’ll feel better about this pack of madness charging into an Imperial city if they have a military escort.”

“That, too,” he said sagely.

“Thank you again, Elder, for your help,” Luger said politely to Sheyann. “Fall in, and take us out.”

Shadows coalesced around them, and they were gone.

While Antevid gathered his own team together, Sheyann continued to watch and listen as Shiraki walked Shaath’s new pack through the basics of a blessing that might unlock whatever potential their god had granted them.


“Natchua, un moment, s’il vous plait?”

“Sure,” Natchua said agreeably, then her eyebrows drew together. “Oh. Did you mean in private?”

Xyraadi hesitated, glancing rapidly around at the others. Though Sherwin and Melaxyna were absent, most of the household was in the manor’s broken great hall, where Jonathan and the hobgoblins were installing new floorboards. Natchua was perched on what remained of the stairs, watching, while Hesthri sat above and behind, gently kneading her shoulders with the fortified gloves covering her claws. Even Kheshiri was there, perched atop a ruined column with her wings spread to ruffle in the breeze, watching everyone as superciliously as a cat.

“No, I don’t think it will be a problem,” Xyraadi finally answered. “I am sorry to distract you, that’s all.”

Natchua smiled and leaned back against Hesthri, who in response shifted forward, pausing her massage to drape one arm around the drow’s neck and shoulders from behind. “No worries. What’s on your mind?”

“I would like to make a quick jump back to Ninkabi,” Xyraadi said seriously. “There’s something important I want to discuss with Mortimer.”

“I see,” Natchua murmured. “Well. Thank you for letting me know, but you don’t require my permission, Xyraadi. Just be careful. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if somebody spots a khelminash wandering about.”

“I hardly plan to wander,” she retorted with a wry smile. “Actually, I wished to inform you before going because I think this may be important. One of my wards near Second Chances was triggered, and I sent a pulse through it to see what happened. Natchua, I clearly detected the dimensional warping caused by a one-sided casting of an incipient hellgate in four places near the club.”

Natchua straightened up, as did Hesthri. Jonathan turned from the horogki to watch them, frowning and letting the hammer dangle from his hand.

“How certain are you?” Natchua asked.

“I am very confident of my spellwork, but this result is so…so very strange, I will not assume anything until I have looked more closely. You know as well as I that our infernal methods of divination are deeply imperfect. But Natchua, it is worse than that. To verify, I pulsed every ward of mine still intact around the neighborhood. I found no less than twelve such sites in Ninkabi, just in the relatively small area I was watching over. If these are hellgates, and if they are in the same concentration everywhere, there is nearly one per city block. Just waiting for someone on the other side to activate them.”

Natchua stood, gently caressing Hesthri’s arm while removing it. “Kheshiri, get down here.”

The succubus immediately launched herself into space, swooping down to land gracefully on the floor nearby. Jonathan also wandered over, and even the horogki paused in their work, watching the conversation unfold.

“Your team in Ninkabi was pursuing some kind of necromantic cult, right?” Natchua asked.

“Every word of that carries an implied ‘allegedly,’ but yes,” Kheshiri replied with a little smirk. “I know nothing of any hellgates, but the Tide did use shadow-jumping when we encountered them in Tiraas. They also summoned a few highly sophisticated undead constructs, and most of them were hopped up out of their gourds on some kind of alchemy. It seemed like mostly a horde of disposables under the command of a few people with magical skill.”

“Some of which, at least, was infernal,” said Natchua.

The succubus shrugged. “Shadow-jumping and dimensional mechanics are wildly different fields of study. Although…”

“Yes?” Natchua prompted impatiently when she trailed off.

“Well, this is conjecture, but both are only infernal-adjacent.”

“She is correct about that,” Xyraadi agreed. “Shadow-jumping uses only minor infernal craft in conjunction with shadow magic, and a dimensional portal of any kind is made through universal principles that are far easier to make with arcane than infernal methods.”

Natchua narrowed her eyes. “So…a mystery cult whose magical approach consists of dabbling in multiple fields could well be capable of both.”

“Conjecture,” Kheshiri repeated, “but yes, sure. Honestly, not to question Xyraadi’s skill, which I’m sure is impressive, I highly doubt whatever she detected were actually hellgates.”

“Ah, oui?” Xyraadi folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You have some deeper insight than I, after all?”

“Down, girl,” Kheshiri said, raising her hands in surrender even as she grinned. “My specialty is people, not magic, and the Tide are Justinian’s.”

“You’re sure of that?” Jonathan demanded.

“Well, the evidence is circumstantial, but pretty overwhelming. There is no record or trace of these assholes anywhere, which means they were trained in total isolation. Doing that with a drugged-up, highly equipped, well-disciplined secret cult capable of the kinds of maneuvers they’ve pulled would require a lot of resources. In the Empire, basically the only bodies capable of pulling that off are the Church, or the Empire itself, and last time I actually saw these guys, they were trying to assassinate the Emperor. So yeah, that’s Justinian. He’s not gonna open a bunch of hellgates in a major city.”

“If something like that happened,” Melaxyna said, emerging from the shadowed doorway to the hall, “not only would the Silver Throne lose an enormous amount of credibility for its failure to prevent it, but the cults and the Church would gain a great deal of position as they would definitely be called on to counter a demon invasion. Historically, Archpopes are a mixed bag, and I’m pretty recently free of Arachne’s charming little oubliette. Is this Justinian ruthless enough to do such a thing?”

A chilled silence fell.

“He’s… Well, yeah,” Kheshiri finally answered, speaking slowly as if contemplating while she talked. “Justinian is admirably unencumbered by scruples. But it’s not his style. Trust me, I’ve been working for this guy for the last two years, and he’s all about control. Every detail just so, with himself pulling every string from out of sight. A bunch of hellgates is the opposite of a controlled situation.”

“So you see,” said Xyraadi, turning back to Natchua, “I must go to Ninkabi. To do my own investigation, to ask Mortimer if he knows anything of this, and warn him if he does not.”

“Yes, quite right,” Natchua said briskly. “I’d like to come along, if you don’t mind.”

Bien sûr.”

“Actually,” Natchua added, “and I can already feel myself regretting this… Kheshiri, you know the situation on the ground. You come, too.”

The succubus grinned, and the explosion of delight in her aura was convincing. Not so much that Natchua didn’t feel the need to add a warning.

“My patience for antics from you is zero,” she stated, leveling a finger at Kheshiri’s face. “One wrong move…”

“Mistress, it’s me,” she purred. “I don’t make wrong moves. I guarantee you will be nothing but pleased with my performance in action.”

Again, the currents of emotion Natchua could read in the spells that made up her body and aura seemed to agree; there was eagerness, fondness, and a thin spike of ambition. It altogether felt more like happiness at the prospect of climbing in Natchua’s estimation than anticipation of some trickery. That did not mean she could relax her guard around the demon, though.

She glanced sidelong at Melaxyna, who she could likewise read, though not so clearly. She hadn’t spent nearly as much time examining those currents of magic, and besides, her pact with Mel was less formal and less coercive, which seemed to have an effect. At the moment, Melaxyna’s aura appeared wary, as it always did around the other succubus, though her expression was calm.

“All right. Xyraadi, if you would handle the jump, please? You are more familiar with the city than I.”

“Not by much—it is not as if I went sight-seeing. But I shall be glad to.” Xyraadi smiled and raised both hands in one of the grand but unnecessary gestures she liked to make when spellcasting. “Brace yourselves, ladies.”

“Be careful,” Jonathan said quickly as they clustered together.

“We’ll look after everything here,” Hesthri added.

Natchua gave them both a warm smile, then shadows swelled and they were gone.


It was hidden away in a culvert, where the constant damp had done the arrangement of bones and already-rotting meat no favors. The whole construction looked on the verge of collapse, or would have had there been anyone to see it. This supremely out of the way location served its purpose, however; the altar had not been found by anyone since being placed there. This close to the waterline, with Ninkabi itself rearing up from the top of the canyon high above, no one would even come here except city maintenance crews, and not only were none scheduled, their activities had been significantly scaled back due to a serial killer being loose in the city.

As such, there was also no one to see the faint trembling in the prominent rib bones poking upward from the construct, or the subtle flexing of nothing in the air above it, as though something were making an indentation upon reality itself.

The altar shivered.

A pale blue glow gathered in reflections upon the inside of the culvert, accompanied by the rapidly approaching sound of slapping feet upon the walkway outside. She skidded around the corner, the arcane bolt already formed around her hand; one abrupt gesture hurled it forward.

The bolt was overkill for this particular task; the altar was reduced to fragments and droplets by the impact, and a jagged hole blasted through the culvert itself.

She almost doubled over, panting, and then sank to the damp ground, letting her ax handle clatter on the stone as she leaned back against the wall to catch her breath. Running had not done her already disheveled appearance any favors; the homeless girl’s hair was plastered down with sweat.

Soon enough, in fact before she fully recovered her breath, she straightened, picked up the shaft of wood, and made a swirling gesture with her free hand. A wisp of green light sparked to life above it, bobbing in space for a moment before zipping off around the corner.

The girl sighed, but immediately set off after the wisp as it led the way to the next one.

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15 – 57

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As one, the gathered spirit wolves stood, raised their heads and howled in response. The mingled music of the pack and the wolf god filled the sky, both eerie and beautiful, and evocative of a moonlit night even under the sunlight.

“Back away,” Tellwyrn said, her voice just barely audible beneath the wolves’ song. She stepped out of the small activation circle and paced toward the edge of the clearing in deliberate, even strides. “All of you, give them as much space as you can.”

The other elves had already drifted into the trees, and at Tellwyrn’s order the rest of those gathered began to follow suit, retreating till they were all shaded under the foliage, just in front of the outer row of trunks where they could still see what was happening in the glade.

Even to those present not attuned to the fae, there was clear power in the cries of the wolves, especially those of Shaath himself. The sound shivered deep in the mind as it did in the air, resonating with emotions which defied naming and struck the watchers to their core. They gaped in pure awe, some with tears in their eyes, others wearing expressions of consternation, many seeming unsure how they felt as the call of Shaath heard from so close pulled them toward something they did not understand.

The god of the wild howled again and the spirit wolves edged closer, answering. For an instant his very presence burst across the glade like an explosion, causing both two- and four-legged watchers to flinch and one of the Rangers’ hound companions to yelp as if hurt, and then it receded, leaving the god with nothing more than the appearance of a great gray wolf.

“Wolves howl to find one another,” Brother Djinti whispered.

“They howl to answer any who howls first,” Sheyann replied just as quietly. “The instinct is primal.”

The Huntsman lodgemaster shook his head slowly, still staring into the glade at his god. “He howled first… As if he was looking for them. But they are right there. Why does he not growl? He should be asserting his dominance.”

“Because that’s not how it works,” Rainwood stated gently. “That is the point of all this.”

Shaath lowered his head, gazing across the clearing at the woods beyond. He did not focus upon any of the spirit wolves watching him; it was as if he didn’t see them. They fell quiet as well, gazing at the great one with their heads lowered and ears forward.

He flickered again; he was a giant presence of burning gold looming against the sky, and then a simple shaggy beast. The very air faltered around him, refracting light as if reality were unsure what its shape was. In the confusing haze, for just an instant, it seemed there was a man standing in the place where the wild good waited, but that was gone immediately.

His coat was now white and glowing like the spirit wolves around him, but free of markings. He raised his head, sniffing at the air, and it was a nondescript brown again. The spirit wolves edged closer, their body language inquisitive. Still, Shaath appeared not to see them, turning to stare in another direction at the horizon where a gap in the trees revealed it.

Light fluttered, dreamlike, blurring the sight of Shaath as though he were seen underwater, and he was suddenly standing several feet to one side, his coat a different plain pattern of gray and his size now rivaling that of a draft horse. Still the wild god appeared to notice nothing going on around him, not the cautiously approaching spirit beasts or the oddities attached to his own appearance. He sniffed the air again, then turned around to snuffle at the ground.

“What is wrong with him?” Djinti asked in a soft but anguished tone. “Is this your doing, Tellwyrn?”

“It is yours, Brother,” Arjuni said quietly.

Djinti finally tore his gaze from his god to glare at the Ranger leader, grasping the handle of the fae-blessed knife hanging at his belt.

“Not yours only, or specifically,” Arjuni added with a soft sigh. “Or that of your lodge alone. This is what the Huntsmen have done to their own god; this is Angthinor’s legacy. He is trying to be a man, a beast, and a lie, because that is what his people demand. Even a god will tear if pulled in so many directions.”

A muffled noise like a choked sob came from one of the assembled Huntsmen. All of them were tense as bowstrings, staring helplessly at their insensate and apparently disintegrating god.

As they watched, Shaath turned fully around and began meandering toward another side of the clearing, his form flickering back to a smaller size and then glitching to another spot again. A sun-like burst of his immense aura flashed across the forest, then vanished again. The spirit wolves milled about in confusion and apparent worry, while Shaath himself wandered blind and puzzled, resembling nothing so much as an old man lost to the grip of senility.

“He is leaving,” Djinti choked as the god meandered near the treeline. “You can call him, Tellwyrn! Please, call him back.”

“I earned the right to do that once,” she said softly, “and this was it. Gods and wolves don’t always come when summoned. He wasn’t like this before,” she added, her eyebrows drawing together in consternation. “Always the recluse, but he could at least talk… Of course, that was way back when. Before Angthinor.”

Djinti clenched his fists so hard they quivered, and took one step forward into the clearing.

“I wouldn’t,” Tellwyrn warned.

“I must,” he choked. “He has not done anything. He was meant to deal with this. If I can aid him…”

“How?” Arjuni asked.

He was spared having to answer by sudden moment from the glade. The arrow-marked white wolf who led the pack suddenly bounded forward, placing himself in front of the confused wild god. Shaath paused, sniffed in his general direction, then turned aside, taking a step to wander off again.

Ingvar hopped to the side, again blocking his way, and this time darted forward to clamp his jaws around one of Shaath’s forelegs.

Four of the assembled Huntsmen nocked and drew arrows.

“Do not!” Sheyann ordered, and for a wonder, they obeyed.

Shaath, meanwhile, had jerked back, the sensation of teeth on his leg finally getting through to him. He also flickered again, going pure white and then dappled gray, transitioning rapidly between a wolf and a discorporeal presence whose very proximity was an assault on all the senses before settling again, now again as a horse-sized wolf with a coat of golden bronze like rippling autumn sunlight. Finally, as if the touch of the spirit wolf had changed something in him, he truly looked like a wolf god.

Ingvar had released him immediately and bounded back, but rather than further aggressive action, he splayed his front leg across the ground and lowered his head to rest his chin on the earth between them, looking up at Shaath with his ears pricked forward.

The god finally appeared to see him directly, staring down at Invar with his head tilted quizzically.

“Is… Is he trying to play with Shaath?” one of the Rangers asked aloud in disbelief.

As if to answer, another of the spirit wolves ventured forward and suddenly nipped Shaath’s hindquarters.

The god of the wild emitted an undignified yelp and leaped, whirling in midair to face her.

The offending wolf, a smaller specimen whose coat ran in dappled shades of violent and blue, retreated and circled widely around him in a cantering gait clearly not meant to get anywhere quickly, her tongue lolling in a goofy expression.

“And that’ll be Taka,” Rainwood said, grinning.

Ingvar dashed around in front of Shaath again, distracting him from following Taka and placing himself almost under the much larger wolf, bouncing upward to nip at his vulnerable neck.

“He’s going to be obliterated,” Captain Antevid said in a fascinated tone.

“No,” Sheyann replied, smiling now.

Shaath’s great head descended, jaws wide and teeth exposed, ready to clamp around Ingvar in a grip that could have crushed his skull like a melon. But instead, Shaath let the smaller wolf rear up to meet him, their open maws fencing with neither quite clamping down. After a few moments of this, Ingvar dropped back to all fours, running a quick circuit of Shaath’s front paws that took him under the god’s body. Shaath reared up himself, pivoting on his hind legs, and to the amazement of those watching, took off at a run around the perimeter of the clearing.

Ingvar and Taka—and now, Aspen—all flew into pursuit, though they had no hope of outrunning a beast whose legs were taller than they. Shaath, though, slowed, his gait altering to a series of nearly vertical bounds of sheer exuberance that gave them plenty of room to catch up. He turned on them, knocking Aspen over with his head. She rolled onto her back, paws waving in the air, and Shaath bumped at her with his nose until Taka commanded his attention by nipping his tail. The god spun to chase her in a circle, clearly letting her get away.

One of the Huntsmen abruptly sat down in the grass. Rainwood began chuckling quietly to himself.

The onlookers remained where the were, not daring to break the spell by speaking up, while the rest of the pack took Ingvar and Shaath’s cue and swarmed over their god. Shaath bounded among them in clear delight, and an enormous game of tag ensued, the god of the wild leading the huge spirit wolves about as if they were puppies. They darted from one end of the glade to another, occasionally passing quite close to the onlookers but ignoring them, and incidentally wiping away most of the laboriously-drawn spell circles on the ground by rolling over them.

There were no rules to the game, just fun. Wolves would frequently break off from pursuing their big target to tussle lightly with one another in the grass. When Shaath himself finally flopped over on his side, and then rolled onto his back, Ingvar and several others clambered all over him. The wolf god’s head lay upside-down against the earth, panting with his exertion and his tongue lolling out half over his face in a truly ridiculous expression.

By that point, at least two Huntsmen were laughing, quietly but with a thin edge of hysteria. For a wonder, several Rangers had crossed the invisible boundary between them, kneeling beside the Shaathists and murmuring soothingly. The huge pet cat, apparently not much concerned with the giant spirit wolves nearby, was leaning comfortingly against a Huntsman who had huddled into a ball with his arms around his knees, purring.

Brother Djinti just stood, watching the wolves with his mouth slightly open. Arjuni stepped over to stand next to him in silence.

“The pack is a family,” Shiraki said softly. “Tis love that binds them, not force. Love is a greater command than any of fang or claw.”

Finally, after close to an hour, the wolves seemed to wear out their energy. Their scuffling became lazier, tending to consist of lying on their sides and idly trying to bite at one another without actually getting up. Shaath himself sat down while the others gamboled around him, and soon Ingvar followed suit, sitting beside him and leaning against one of the god’s legs. Aspen, Taka, November, and a few other wolves who were not so easily identified lolled at Shaath’s feet.

He raised his head again, not sniffing the air this time, but closing his eyes and seeming just to pause and feel the wind, the sunlight. Eventually, the rest of the pack grew still as well, turning to regard the wolf god in silence.

Shaath opened his eyes, lowered his nose, and looked directly into the shadows beneath the trees where the humans and elves waited, watching.

“Let any who are friends of the wild come forth.”

He did not move his jaws to speak, but there could be no doubt who was talking. His voice, though a light tenor, resonated through every breath of air and blade of grass. It could be felt in the bones as much as heard with the ears, though it was gentle.

Antevid and Luger exchanged a long look, and by unspoken agreement stayed right where they were, their respective squads also holding formation. The Huntsmen, Rangers, and elves all stepped forward into the sunlight at the god’s command, however.

“Arachne,” Shaath’s voice echoed through them again. “Always the meddler.”

“You are welcome,” she said pointedly, planting her fists on her hips.

Shaath dipped his head once in acknowledgment. “Debt between us is not settled. Though you invoked it in payment of my promise, this summons has been the greatest kindness I have been paid in uncounted turns of the seasons. I am still in your debt for this, Arachne. You are a good friend, prickly though you may be.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said with a wry smile. “Anyway. I actually did call you here for a reason.”

“Yes.” Shaath lowered his head again, regarding Ingvar from close at hand. The white wolf gazed seriously up at him, a picture of calm. “This was awkwardly done, and went wrong. I empathize greatly with that, with the best intentions trapping a friend of the wild in a savage form, unable to think or remember the truth of who he is.”

Several of the Huntsmen had tears running down their faces now. Shaath turned his head to study them directly, and more than one flinched.

“Malice threatens the wild less than simple, selfish thoughtlessness,” said the god, his tone purely weary. “Recrimination is pointless. The harm you have done—all of you, those who claim to be my Huntsmen—was with the best intentions. And still there are so many. All believing lies, defending lies, imposing their madness upon the world. Upon the wild. Upon me.”

Slowly, he stretched is forelegs forward, lowering himself to a sphinxlike pose, and languidly blinked his eyes.

“I am tired,” the god announced. “Already I feel the fog pressing in upon me again. This was a pleasing reprieve, but it will not last.”

“Lord!” Djinti burst out, stepping forward. “How can we help you? What must we do? If we have wronged you, there is nothing we will not do to make amends!”

“But can you?” Shaath asked. He lifted his head again, nose to the wind. “We will see. I taste the madness of this magic on the air, nightmares cast through the realm of the spirits to plague the world. The howl of the wolf will rise every night until this is put to rest. But if it is simply wiped away, what shall become of me? If all returns to what it was, why should my followers stir themselves from their complacency?”

“We will not forget again!” Djinti swore. “Tell us your truth, lord, and by my blood and my soul, I will see it spread to the world.”

“You…will…see,” Shaath stated slowly. “Yes. You will see what happens when people are shown truth. You will see what marks people apart from the wild: what they do when faced with a truth they do not like. You will see what you have shown me all these years, the stubborn madness of those who seek to substitute their will for that of the world. I will not silence the howling.”

“Now, see here,” Tellwyrn began.

“Not completely,” Shaath clarified, turning to look at her. “This madness helps no one. I see how it has infected the flows of magic; that I can fix, and will. But while I am here, and lucid, and before it takes me again, I curse my people with the harshest fate I can: truth. All who presume to call upon my name will know the truth of the wolf every time they dream. All my Huntsmen will face what they have done, every night, until I can finally rest in truth. And you will see how many of them can bear it.”

He lowered his head completely to rest upon the ground, blinking again.

“If you would walk the way of the wild in truth, follow the one who is my true Huntsman. The brother who has sought to free me.”

There was no flash or fanfare, no display of magic that could be seen; suddenly, they were simply restored. Ingvar, Aspen, Taka, Tholi and November stood or sat closest to Shaath, with the smaller groups of younger Rangers and Huntsmen who had gone with them nearby, all human again and blinking in bemusement. The rest remained as they were, the wolf family who had joined them still pale as moonlight and marked with the colorful favor of the spirits they had invoked.

Ingvar knelt, wrapping his arms around Shaath’s great neck, and pressed his face into his bronze fur. As if at his signal, the others did likewise, coming forward to lean against or on top of the god until even his huge form was almost covered by their bodies.

“Thank you,” Shaath said, his voice already fading. “Thank you.”

Then they all stumbled to the ground, as he was gone.

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15 – 56

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The entire group materialized in a clear area nestled between three hills; the largest gap was on the southern edge, directly to their right, through which a road was visible in the near distance. Fortunately, there was no traffic along it at present, though this was significantly closer to N’Jendo’s population centers.

They were still arranged in a line, approximately, though adjusted for the terrain; the group was positioned carefully along the slopes of the roughly bowl-shaped little vale, with new gaps in the formation so that nobody was standing in the small creek or the old firepit which marked this as a popular campsite. Other than that, they were in the same basic order: the elves (including Rainwood) in the center, flanked by the two Imperial strike teams in their own diamond formations, and past them the ranks of the Huntsmen of Shaath on one side and the Rangers on the other.

It had been a hectic and yet tedious morning, spent getting all of these individuals together and brought up to speed, but despite the inherently chaotic nature of such an effort, it had to be said that the Shaathists and Rangers had bowed to necessity and agreed to cooperate with a minimum of grumbling and (so far) no actual infighting. If they did so by keeping themselves as physically separate as possible, well, whatever worked.

“Even adjusted in transit for the terrain,” said Lieutenant Tehradjid, the bespectacled mage of the second strike team which had been busy trying to interrogate the Rangers when Antevid’s team had linked back up with them. He leaned forward to look past Rainwood and Shiraki at Tellwyrn. “Are you all right? Can I do anything to help?”

“That’s sweet,” she said flatly. “Also absurd, and a little patronizing.”

A hint of color rose in his cheeks. “I just mean, to teleport this many people to a previously unknown location, even without actively compensating for terrain—”

“Leave the archmage alone, Lieutenant,” Major Luger ordered. “A person doesn’t live three thousand years without knowing her limits. We appreciate your work, Professor. Khadaan, report. Any sign of our targets?”

“I’m still trying to orient myself, ma’am,” her team’s witch replied, the diminutive woman’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she turned slowly to scan their surroundings. “The spirits are slightly less disturbed here, probably due to distance from the event site, but it’s still not easy to listen.”

“Rolf?” Captain Antevid asked quietly.

“Same, sir,” Lieutenant Schneider reported. “I’m trying to center myself, but I expect we’ll get answers from the elves before either of us can discern anything.”

The three shamans had fallen still as trees immediately upon arrival; Sheyann and Shiraki had their eyes closed, while Rainwood’s were darting about the clearing as if following motes of dust in the air. Lieutenant Khadaan gave Schneider and then the elves an irritated look before returning to her own taut focus.

While the Imperials conferred, the two outlying wings of Huntsmen and Rangers subtly drew together, pulling away from the central groups—and, by extension, each other. Both their leaders, Arjuni and Brother Djinti, had deemed this crisis enough to warrant their full attention, and thus brought every able-bodied hunter not essential to the running of their lodges, which meant that with thirteen present the Rangers outnumbered the Shaathists, chiefly because they hadn’t left all their women at home. They were now busy conferring softly and soothing their animal companions, which seemed generally well-behaved but had not enjoyed being teleported.

It was perhaps fortunate that the elves and both strike teams kept the groups physically separate, as the fur-clad Huntsmen were giving some very long looks to the cloaked Rangers with their half-female complement, not to mention the domesticated animals among them. Huntsmen were known to dislike dogs, and there were three of those, plus a golden eagle and a giant lynx.

“They come,” Sheyann stated, opening her eyes. “You placed us well, Arachne. It will be minutes at most.”

“Of course I did,” Tellwyrn grunted, folding her arms. “I’m just glad we found Rainwood. Would’ve been a real hassle to try to locate them on the move via scrying.”

“Stand ready,” Major Luger murmured, staring to the northeast. “We’ll give the shamans every chance to settle this amicably. If they can’t get through—”

“Then we’ll try something else,” Tellwyrn interrupted, “and I suggest you remind yourself that one of these creatures is one of my students before you finish that sentence, Major.”

Luger, following the pattern of Strike Corps personnel Tellwyrn had encountered, had shown no sign she was impressed by the presence of a magic caster for whom she was nothing approaching a match, and now gave the archmage a very flat look.

“I was under the impression you understood the stakes, Professor. How much damage has to be done to the entire world before you judge it an acceptable price for ruffling the hair of someone you happen to care about?”

“This isn’t going to end the world,” Tellwyrn said, rolling her eyes. “Worst case scenario, it’ll make it more interesting for a while. I have lived through actual apocalypses, and a recurring lesson from them is to snuff out the wand-happy idiot who thinks they can avert disaster by shooting the right person. Never works, usually makes it worse.”

“Arachne, behave yourself,” Sheyann said curtly. “Major, this is a process. We are unlikely to find unequivocal success on our first attempt. We will get through to them as quickly as we can, but using force is certain to help nothing and likely to worsen the ripples through Naiya’s magic.”

“The Elder’s right, Luger,” Antevid added. “If the wolves attack, take a defensive stance, but we should be careful not to harm them even so. Arcane shields should drive them off, as fae as they are.”

“They won’t attack if they aren’t attacked,” Rainwood started to interject, but Luger rolled right over him.

“I did not ask your opinion, Captain,” she snapped, glaring right through the elves at Antevid.

He shrugged. “If you have a problem with my decorum, Major, you can take it to the Lord-General at any time. I would rather explain that to him than why I stood around letting your hot head kick off a catastrophe.”

“Lance, you’re posturing,” Lieutenant Agasti stated. “This is not the time for it.”

“Verily, the warlock still speakest the purest truth on this mad day,” Shiraki intoned, folding her hands. “Hark, all. The time is upon us.”

It was slightly less upon them for those without the benefit of elven hearing, but it was only a few more minutes before they arrived, just enough time for the Huntsmen and Rangers to arrange themselves in two wide arcs to funnel anyone who came at the clearing from the northeast right at the shamans in the center.

They were, if nothing else, beautiful. Nearly a score of wolves bounded out of the shade beneath the trees which crowned the hills all around, bringing their own light with them. In color, they were predominantly white, with patterns on their fur in green, blue, and violet, where normal wolves would have shades of gray and brown. Most of them also bore strangely regular markings in the same colors, faintly luminous and forming abstract glyphs. The creatures were notably larger than average wolves, and carried with them a faint, pale glow as if moonlight fell wherever they stepped.

Upon entering the clearing, the pack came to a halt arrayed along the slopes beyond the treeline, staring down the assembled bipeds facing them.

“Magnificent,” one of the Rangers whispered. All of them, as well as the Huntsmen, were staring at the creatures in open awe.

A single growl sounded from deep within the chest of one of the wolves; the others shifted their heads just enough to watch him without taking their main focus off the humans and elves.

Arjuni went down to one knee, followed by the rest of his Rangers. One of them struck a small handheld bell, while another began playing a soft tune on a wooden ocarina. Several of the others started humming along.

“What in hell’s name,” one of the Huntsmen began, only to be shushed by Brother Djinti.

“Let them work,” the lodgemaster said softly. “Shadow Hunters are known to charm animals to their will.”

It did not appear to be working, however. The large wolf who had growled sprang forward, prompting Antevid and Tehradjid to snap arcane shields into place around their respective teams.

The wolves closed half the distance before the world around Tellwyrn slowed to a halt.

Adjusting her spectacles, the sorceress stepped forward past her associates, currently frozen in time along with the humans around them. She ducked her head to avoid an immobilized butterfly and walked right up to the wolf who was apparently the leader, a pure white specimen whose only marking was the shaft of an arrow in glowing green running down the center of his face, its tip almost touching his nose and the fletching branching across his forehead.

“Ingvar,” she said, bending forward to peer into the wolf’s luminous eyes. “Well! Inconvenience notwithstanding, I can’t say it doesn’t suit you.”

Tellwyrn turned and paced back to the others, reaching out to lightly touch Sheyann, Shiraki, and Rainwood in turn. All three elves began moving at the brush of her fingertips.

“What…oh, Arachne,” Sheyann said, heaving a sigh of exasperation.

“This is creepy,” Rainwood muttered.

“Complaints will be accompanied by better ideas or dismissed as the pointless noise they are,” Tellwyrn snapped. “Don’t waste time.”

“Can we?” Shiraki asked pointedly.

“Stopping time is beyond even my power, Chucky; I can only accelerate our passage through it relative to the world, and compensate for little inconveniences like having our skin sanded off by air friction. Don’t touch anything or anyone you wouldn’t want to punch with the strength of a dryad. All right, Rainwood and actually competent shamans, this buys you a moment to examine these creatures more closely. Let’s see what we can see.”

Shiraki tilted his head, listening. “The spirits are silent…or, I suppose, whispering too slowly to be heard. Without their wisdom and their power, Arachne, our own is severely hampered.”

“I don’t suppose that is something for which you can compensate?” Sheyann inquired.

Tellwyrn shook her head. “I know exactly the limits of Vemnesthis’s tolerance, and this right here is it. Even if I could single out your particular fae familiars from the background noise of Naiya’s ruffled feathers, if I started shifting them out of sync with the world we’d be neck-deep in Scions before actually accomplishing anything. Sorry, this is the best I can do.”

“It is a golden opportunity, even so,” Shiraki agreed, nodding. “Very well, let us do what we can, Sheyann. Rainwood, try not to break anything else.”

“I hope you don’t think you’re making an impression on me,” Rainwood sneered. “I have been henpecked by the very best, and none of you are in Kuriwa’s league.”

“Hush,” Sheyann said brusquely, already having strode forth to bend close to a pale green wolf whose coat was striated in patterns of gold, with the gleaming icon of an aspen leaf tattooed on her shoulder, apparently inked in sunlight. “I have never seen a transformation quite like this. Up close, it is clear even without my spirit guides that Aspen’s innate nature played a critical role in causing the effect. That does not account for the entire thing, however.”

“There is a strong divine element in this,” Shiraki agreed, pacing down the line of wolves. “I believe this one used to be an ordinary wolf; it did not affect only the humans. Interestingly I don’t detect the influence of any specific god. Ordinarily, you can pick out the presence of at least one of them where there is this much divine energy.”

“It is remarkably well-integrated into the fae, as well,” Sheyann mused. “The weaving of both types of magic is intricate, and seems quite stable. It would normally take great effort by skilled casters of both schools to do this.”

“Looks like the standard high-level fae curse to me,” said Tellwyrn. “I’ve always somewhat resented how you lot can wiggle your fingers at the right bugaboo and have something so incredibly complex it’d take me all day to design a corresponding arcane spell just sprout up organically.”

“Yes, but it’s the integration that’s anomalous,” Sheyann replied. “Organic growth of complex fae spells such as you describe doesn’t apply to cross-school applications. The spirits won’t, under ordinary circumstances, weave their magic in and around the divine in this manner. Such an effect usually means the influence of a skilled caster, but…”

“Looking at this,” Shiraki added, “I surmise that the weaving was done by the spirits, using borrowed divine power. But that would mean both that it was channeled through a fae source—in this case, likely Aspen…”

“Feasible,” Sheyann mused. “She is a demigoddess, and the dryad transformative effect is known to have unpredictable results.”

“And also,” Shiraki continued, “to have been accessed directly from the divine field without the intercession of a god, any of whom would probably have stopped this from happening had something drawn their attention to it. Dwarves can do such as this; was there one present, Rainwood?”

“No, that’d be her,” Tellwyrn said with a sigh, kneeling in front of one lunging wolf, a smaller specimen with a goat of dappled gold. Eagle wings were emblazoned on both her shoulders in glowing white. “Honestly, November, when you opted to take a semester off this was the last thing I imagined.”

“She was prompted into this business directly by Avei,” said Rainwood. “Which is only part of the reason I’m not panicking about this, despite all your Elder chunnering. It’s not as if I didn’t know the uncertainty and the risks involved. I did this because I trust my guides, as any shaman should, and they were confident that it would work out well.”

“Yes, just look how well it worked out,” Shiraki said, giving him an irritated look.

“It hasn’t worked out,” Rainwood replied. “It is still working; that’s what we are doing here. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of Elder? I really shouldn’t have to explain the importance of letting things take their course.”

“Enough,” Sheyann said wearily. “We have much to do and no time for squabbling. This has been informative, thanks to Arachne’s knack for temporal magic. The task appears to involve disentangling fae and divine magic of considerable power.”

“That will take time,” said Shiraki. “Quite a bit of it. And as we cannot do it without our spirit guides—or without risking the antagonism of the Scions—it will have to be in real time. That raises its own host of problems. In the immediate term,” he added, turning to look back at the staggered row of humans, “how best to prevent this from becoming another debacle?”

“I believe it will work out,” said Sheyann. “These humans, I think, possess sufficient restraint not to become violent without necessity, and the wolves are not attacking. Look.” She paced around behind Ingvar and pointed forward in the direction he was bounding. “He is leading them into the gaps between groups; the others are collecting together to aim for other breaks in the line. None of them are baring teeth.”

“Funny,” Tellwyrn grunted. “For a man on a crusade to debunk Shaathist alpha male nonsense, Ingvar sure does have this whole group eating out of his…paw.”

“It’s instinct to follow the lead of whoever seems to know what they are doing,” Sheyann replied, giving her a faint smile. “Most social animals will do that, including people.”

“Especially people,” Tellwyrn said with a sigh. “Just imagine what the world would look like if competence were rewarded the way confidence is… All right, thanks for your insight, all three of you. I believe I know how to cut through this knot. This is going to feel weird, but I promise it’s not harmful. Just go with it.”

She made a swirling gesture with one fingertip, and all four elves rose slightly off the ground. Fortunately, they all possessed the sense to follow her advice and relaxed into the effect as they were floated bodily through the air and repositioned right where they had been before she accelerated them out of sync with the world.

Immediately the flow of time resumed around them, most compellingly expressed by the whole pack of spirit wolves lunging straight at the line.

The elves remained still and unfazed, the Imperials held their discipline behind the glowing blue shields their mages had up, and the Rangers did not pause in their musical attempts to connect with the pack. There were a few outcries from the Huntsmen, and one of the younger among them was knocked to the ground in passing.

But aside from those very minor brushes, the wolves flowed smoothly through them, pouring into the gaps opened up in their line and swiftly disappearing up the hill behind and once more into the trees.

Captain Antevid heaved a sigh and dropped the shield around his strike team. “Well, that was good and pointless.”

“Not at all,” said Tellwyrn. “We were able to gather some crucial insight from their presence.”

“Do tell,” said Arjuni, standing back up and turning to face her.

“The transformation is sustained by fae and divine magic, woven together in a way we can’t easily untangle. It’s doable, but it would take time, and we would need to find a way to pacify the creatures that doesn’t kick off another big spiritual disruption.”

“Which is a significant risk,” Sheyann added, “connected as they are to the flows of fae magic and sending their calls into the minds of everyone attuned.”

“Time is going to be an issue,” Major Luger said curtly. “Given the rate at which they’re traveling, on this course they’ll be in Ninkabi by tonight.”

“They will turn aside long before reaching it,” said Djinti. “Wolves will not enter a city unless forced. That raises its own problems, of course; once they change direction we will have to find them again, and N’Jendo becomes more populous toward the coasts. It will not be long before they can no longer avoid encountering people.”

“All right!” Tellwyrn said briskly. “The core issue, then, is that we do not have the time or the resources to solve this intractable problem before it becomes exponentially worse. The good news is I know just the person to cut through this knot. It’ll mean calling in a favor I’ve held onto for more than a thousand years, but what the hell. The need is dire and honestly I can’t imagine what else I’d ever want from him. It will be tricky to even get his attention—certainly took me long enough last time—but with skilled divine and fae casters here I’m confident we can jury-rig something. First of all, witchy types, we need to know where the pack is heading and have another open space where we can get in front of them to set this up. While you’re figuring that out, let me walk the rest of you through what I’ll need you to do. Shaathists, you’re going to find this tremendously exciting and possibly fairly sacrilegious, so I’ll ask you to consider what’s at stake and try to keep your pants on.”

Brother Djinti stared at her for a moment, then shifted to address the other elves. “Is she always…”

“Yes,” the Elders answered in unison.


The actual work of magic was not prohibitively complex, once they got to it; the hard and time-consuming part, just as Tellwyrn had predicted, was in convincing both the Huntsmen and the Rangers (and to a lesser extent, the strike teams) that what she planned was both possible and not an unforgivable offense against the gods. She gave them patient explanations at first, gradually escalating into bullying everyone into compliance by the time the three shaman had finished their oracular work to find a new site to intercept the pack.

The passage of two more hours found their whole increasingly strained alliance positioned in another clearing, this one on flat ground surrounded by pines, which they had set up fully according to the improvised specifications of the invocation Tellwyrn wanted to perform. Much of the ground had been decorated with glyphs and spell circles inscribed in a variety of ways, ranging from streaks charred into the soil by fire or simply areas of vegetation stomped flat to more delicate streams of dusts, powders, and crystal fragments supplied by the shamans. All around the perimeter of the space, Shaathist talismans had been hung from the lower branches of the trees. These charms were somewhat improvised as they had been limited by what the Huntsman and a few of the Rangers happened to be carrying, but Djinti and Tellwyrn judged that it would suffice for her purpose.

“This is crazy,” Antevid commented without much emphasis, peering around at their handiwork.

“If you had a better idea, the time to share it was before we started,” Tellwyrn retorted.

“Oh, believe me, Professor, none of this would be going down if I had a better idea.”

“They are coming,” Sheyann announced, staring fixedly to the northeast. “As you surmised, Arachne, the preparations here are drawing them actively.”

“They are wild things,” murmured Shiraki, “and yet magical things. Both instinct and spirit move them—and somewhere deep beneath, the memory of sapience. It may be that they seek salvation from their cursed state.”

“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” Tellwyrn replied. “Back up, everybody, give our guests of honor space. Their presence in the clearing is going to be the next-to-last catalyst for the invocation.”

The tension was palpable from among the humans. The hunters, at least; the strike teams seemed generally nonplussed about the whole business, going along because, as Captain Antevid had pointed out, they had no better ideas. The rest were as taut as bowstrings, however, over the implications of this.

Tellwyrn just moved calmly to stand in the middle of the small spell circle she had supervised Sheyann forging, just in front of the largest of the rings laid out on the ground.

Again, the wolves emerged from the trees amid a glow which brightened the clearing even under the afternoon sunlight. They ran silently, slowing upon finding themselves confronted by the same group of people. This time, though, they did not come to an abrupt halt, instead slowing to pace forward one cautious step at a time.

Upon their arrival, magic began to rise. Charms hanging from branches rattled as a soft breeze rose from nowhere. Some of the traceries upon the grand began to flicker alight, bringing mossy and floral scents to the air and a faint ringing at the very edge of hearing as fae and divine magic coalesced.

The wolves finally came to a stop, arranging themselves in a neat wedge behind the white wolf with the arrow marking.

Glaring right at them, he bared his teeth, growling softly.

“Oh, boy,” Antevid muttered. “They’re mad, this time.”

“Professor?” Luger prompted in a warning tone.

The wolf moved another step forward, growling more insistently.

“Arachne,” Sheyann murmured, “you do not appear to be receiving the reaction you had hoped.”

Frowning, Tellwyrn looked down at the now-glowing circle in which she stood, then behind her at the much larger one, which was still fully inert.

Another step and another growl from Ingvar brought the rest of the pack forward as well, several of them now growling in unison.

“Orders, Major?” Luger’s warlock pleaded.

“Wait,” she said, staring at Tellwyrn. “Give her a moment…”

“HEY!” Tellwyrn suddenly shouted, tilting her head back to glare at the sky and pointing imperiously at the middle of the large, empty circle. “You owe me, dammit! I demand payment of your debt!”

Lightning blasted downward from the cloudless sky, the flash and thunderclap momentarily blinding everyone present and causing a few of the humans to shout in protest. In the next moment they were silent beneath the weight of the presence which had descended upon them.

He was a simple, average-looking gray wolf, yet also a titanic being which towered over the very forest. The unmistakable impact of a god’s consciousness, the overwhelming force of thoughts which seemed to press every other mind in proximity in on itself, contrasted with the ordinary appearance of the best—when it appeared ordinary. It seemed almost to flicker, his gray and brown coat utterly unremarkable one moment and the next formed out of light itself. His very presence was a dizzying maze of contradictions, as if even he did not fully understand what he was meant to be.

The entire pack immediately folded themselves to lie on the ground, staring at the great wolf before them. Ingvar whined softly.

Shaath raised his head toward the sky and let out a howl that resonated across the world.

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15 – 50

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“Really, that’s your concern?” Captain Antevid asked in a tone just a hair too polite to be openly sardonic. “The world being rocked by what can only be called an apocalypse, and you’re most worried about whether the Empire will use it against you?”

“Thou speakest in haste, as is ever the wont of thy kin,” Shiraki intoned solemnly in his archaic Tanglish. “In the passing of our ages, we have observed many upsets such as this. They harkened not the end of our world, and nor will the current travail. And yet, however dire the portents and deep the suffering, ever do the thrones of mankind scheme toward their own advantage. Wherefore, then, should we blindly offer trust amid this tumult?”

By and large, the strike team were doing an excellent job of keeping pace with the three elves as they navigated through the Jendi forest. It showed an uncommon degree of agility for humans, but perhaps not unexpected of the Empire’s finest. Now, the captain proved he was adroit enough to cast meaningful looks at each member of his team and then another on Sheyann, all while traipsing through waist-high brush and without slowing his pace.

“Is he really going to do that all day?” Antevid inquired.

“You must forgive Elder Shiraki, Captain,” Sheyann replied with a wry expression. “He makes it a point of pride to be out of touch.”

Shiraki, of course, had absolutely no difficulty navigating the forest at a brisk walking speed, which he now demonstrated by bowing while in motion, as if he had just been paid a compliment.

“Every hospital is filled to capacity,” Antevid said abruptly, eyes ahead now. “Religious, private, government…all of them. And there’s just not much they can do for persistent nightmares and vision comas. Temples are being swamped and police forces barely keeping a lid on the agitated public. There were riots in Shaathvar overnight, and apparently it came very close to that point in Veilgrad and Leineth. ImCom is inundated with pleas for help from every corner of the Empire. And that’s just what we were briefed on before being deployed this morning before dawn. This is a crisis. The Emperor has decreed that we’re to go to war footing. Every unit of the Army is activated and are being spread across every inhabited region of Tiraan territory. By this time tomorrow there will be at least some military presence in any town in the Empire with a population of more than a hundred souls.”

The team’s cleric cleared her throat. “Lance, should you really be briefing the elves…?”

“I’m going to assume that anything they could read in today’s papers isn’t classified, Rosa,” he replied. “If I’m wrong, I guess I’ll owe Lord Vex an apology.”

“And what can soldiers do against dreams?” Sheyann asked quietly.

“As little as your tone implies, Elder,” Antevid replied in a nearly identical tone. “But their presence will reassure people that they are being protected, and that the government has not abandoned them. Also, soldiers with battlestaves will be more than capable of repelling incursions by wild wolves. Even if they come in impossible numbers out of the elemental planes in random locations, which ImCom is treating as a serious possibility.”

“Highly unlikely,” Sheyann murmured.

“Impossible?”

“Unlikely,” she repeated. “I only wish I could say what is not possible on this day.”

“War footing is about logistics and infrastructure as much as military deployment,” Tellwyrn mused, pensively tapping her lips with a fingertip. “It means suspending civilian access to the Rails and telescroll network, and clearing non-Imperial traffic from the highways. That’ll slow the spread of rumor and refugees, which will help preserve stability. It also activates the House guard of every House that has one and places them under the command of the Throne; in addition to having the extra troops, any nobles inclined to stir up trouble will be deprived of one of their biggest stirring spoons. And while the Throne can’t command the cults directly, under the Third Covenant they will all be mobilized as well, coordinating under the Universal Church to assist the public according to their specific talents. With the soldiers heading out, a lot of peacekeeping duties will be taken over by the Silver Legions…” She glanced sidelong at the strike team, who continued to walk alongside the elves with a few feet of space between the two groups. “War footing would usually mean military forces being concentrated along borders and frontiers.”

“If you’re worried about your school being occupied, relax,” Captain Antevid replied, winking at her. “The Golden Sea frontier hasn’t been a military concern since Sarsamon’s day. Last Rock will get the same token Army presence as every other tiny town, and there’s no reason any Imperial personnel would set foot on University grounds. Anyway, as I said, troops are being dispersed as evenly as possible across the Empire. Which is basically the worst possible deployment in military terms, but the threat is evenly dispersed, everywhere, and so that’s where the response has to go.”

Tellwyrn nodded, apparently mollified. “Politically speaking, this is serious business indeed, Sheyann. The Emperor didn’t even go to war footing during the hellgate crisis. It’s a good move, but only in the very short term. The longer this goes on, the more pressure it’s going to put on every sector of the economy and on the public’s patience, not to mention that the very term war footing will make people think the Empire is under attack, even if that’s not explicitly the case. Sharidan is gambling with very high stakes that he can identify and end this threat quickly. It’s a bold strategy. Pretty risky, though.”

“The next time I see his Majesty I will relay your concerns, Professor,” Antevid said solemnly. “I’m sure he’s kicking himself for not consulting you. My point is, Elders, this is a hazard of unprecedented scale. The idea of seizing control of…whatever’s going on, while it may alarm you, is not even a factor in the Empire’s response. If I were handed a golden opportunity to take control of a conveniently pocket-sized fae weapon, gift-wrapped and served on a silver platter and garnished with a handy instruction manual, then yeah, sure, I’d take the opportunity. That falls under my general mandate as a servant of the Silver Throne. But I consider that possibility too remote to be arsed about. My orders are to find out what is happening and shut it down with extreme prejudice. Secondary objectives are to gather enough intelligence to prevent this from happening again, and keep other interested parties from interfering, to the extent that those goals can be pursued without compromising the core mission. So I assure you, the Empire is not regarding this as an opportunity.”

“Do the elves need to know the full details of our mission?” Lieutenant Mahmenaad asked in a strained voice.

“Rosa is very concerned about operational security,” Antevid confided, winking again. “It’s a laudable trait in a soldier. But, again, so long as I’m in command I will exercise judgment concerning what we’ll do about whom. If three elves want to help put a stop to all this and not take control of it themselves, I will gladly accept their help. You can’t do much better than grove Elders when it comes to handling fairy nonsense.”

“Have you had to deal with many other concerned parties here?” Sheyann asked.

“Most of the personnel now combing this stretch of N’Jendo are Imperial,” he replied. “The Azure Corps is out here in force, as well as multiple strike teams. We’ve not met anyone else personally, but evidently other teams have removed personnel from Syralon and Rodvenheim to Tiraas for a remedial lesson in the sovereignty of national borders. We were just the few lucky enough to run across your charming selves.” He gave them a sunny smile.

“Lance Antevid,” Tellwyrn said thoughtfully. “Of House Antevid, in Vrandis?”

“Indeed! My great-aunt attended your school.”

“Telora, yes, I remember. What an insufferable pest of a girl. I quite liked her.”

“We shall reach the lodge anon,” Shiraki noted. “I have seen no sign of Huntsmen on the watch ’round their home—another troubling portent.”

“This will have upset them more than most,” the team’s witch noted. Though clean-shaven in contrast with Shaathist sensibilities, he was a blond man of clearly Stalweiss origin, complete with a heavy mountain accent that only came from deep in the remotest reaches of the Stalrange.

“Well, our new friends have brought us the first solid lead all day,” said Antevid. “As soon as we find out what there is to be found at the lodge, we’ll need to report in. You three stay with the elves while I ‘port to field command and back.”

“I will shadow-jump to deliver the report,” Lieutenant Agasti replied impassively.

“Maehe sometimes forgets she’s not in command of this team,” Antevid commented, giving Tellwyrn a conspiratorial smile.

“Lance sometimes forgets he’s not a storybook wizard with three sidekicks,” the warlock retorted in a sharper tone. Unusually for a Tiraan soldier, she was a Tidestrider woman, complete with braids and facial tattoos. “This is a fae threat; my magic is all but useless here. I will handle rapid transport while you conserve mana for whatever more aggressive measures are needed, as protocol dictates.”

“You know she’s right,” Lieutenant Mahmenaad added. “If you wanna be a hero, Lance, at least be sensible.”

“Verily, ’tis a passing strange turn,” Shiraki observed, “that amongst the Emperor’s retainers, ’tis the warlocks who speak sense. Hark, now, we approach.”

“Yes, better hark if we’re close,” Antevid added solemnly. “Rolf, what’re we walking into?”

“The lodge is at the top of this rise, just over the ridge,” his witch reported. “There are people present. Agitated people, some with fae gifts… I’m sorry, Captain, that’s the best I can do right here and now. This whole forest is practically swimming with agitated spirits. I’m only able to do that much because the Elders are exerting a calming presence.” He half-turned while walking to nod deeply to the elves.

Sheyann nodded back. “Listening to the whispers of the spirits, I feel the fear and anger of the Huntsmen and their families even from here. They appear fully focused inward, not even keeping their customary watch. And…I believe there is an elf among them, a shaman. This, it would seem, is the place.”

“Form up,” Antevid said quietly, his expression completely serious now. The strike team smoothly shifted to a square formation with himself and Mahmenaad in the front, positioned to meet any fae threat with divine and arcane magic. Shiraki gave them a sidelong look, but kept his face expressionless.

The forest was mostly flat, coming quite abruptly to the foot of the rise upon which the lodge was hidden. The paired groups emerged from the treeline several yards from an obvious trail leading up to the top, and without speaking strode over to that before ascending. There was still no visible sign of anyone’s presence, though by that point the distant conversations atop the ridge were audible to the elves, at least.

Only upon reaching the top were they met. Cresting the rise, they found the lodge itself, a classic Shaathist longhouse of modest size, positioned against a higher hill at the rear with a long yard stretching out before. The whole flat top of the ridge was surrounded by a low lip of earth and several pines, helping to obscure its presence from sight below. People were clustered around the fire pit before the longhouse, one of whom was just striding toward them as they arrived.

He was a Huntsman, clearly, a man with graying hair and rather sunken eyes, likely due to the sleepless night he and everyone else here would have just spent.

“I apologize,” he said curtly, “but the lodge is not open to visitors this day.”

“Well, it’s about to be,” Captain Antevid replied with a pleasant smile. “We need to have a word with you about the recent events I’m sure you’re aware of.”

The Huntsman scowled more deeply. “I don’t wish to be rude—”

“Let me spare you the trouble,” Antevid interrupted. “We, if you can’t tell from the uniforms, are from the Imperial Strike Corps. That means I have the legal authority to go wherever my mission requires on Imperial territory, the physical capacity to flatten this entire lodge, and the legal authority to also do that. Whatever you people just did has had repercussions all across the Empire, and I do not have time for Shaathist standoffishness right now.”

“The Captain, though pushy, isn’t without a point,” Tellwyrn added. “Fortunately, my friends here are extremely well-versed in fae magic and can probably help. Since we all know,” she amended with a significant look at Antevid, “you lot didn’t have the magical wherewithal to do this.”

“Do we?” Antevid demanded. “Do we really know that?”

“Lodgemaster,” the Huntsman said, turning to another man who approached them. “Imperial soldiers. And elves, who say they want to help.”

“Oh, really,” the new arrival stated sourly. “I am Djinti, and I lead here. I’ll ask your forgiveness for the state of my lodge’s hospitality, but we have had about as much help from elves as we can survive today.”

“So you’re in charge here, then?” Antevid inquired. “Right. What do you know about what’s happened here?”

“Oh, let them help!” piped up a new voice. “Please, I should think you know very well that we need any and all help we can get.”

“And this is what I meant,” Djinti said with a heavy scowl, turning his head to glare at the man who approached him from the lodge. This one was an elf, with upright ears and black hair. “Huntsmen are always inclined to greet Naiya’s children with respect, but that was before I learned of your role in this gigantic mess, Rainwood. And now, more of them? Are these at least better elves?”

“Well, I dunno from better, but these know their way around a disaster,” Rainwood said bluntly. “All three fought in the Third Hellwar and that one’s Tellwyrn, if that helps you any.”

“Indeed.” The look Djinti turned back on them was thoughtful, and more respectful.

“Rainwood,” Shiraki said with heavy disapproval. “I confess, thy presence and involvement in this disappoints me. Wandering vagrant though thou art, I had for thine intellect more respect than this, ere this day.”

“And I see Elder Shiraki is still doing that,” Rainwood said disparagingly. “Look, Djinti, it’s not my general habit to roll out the welcome mat for Imperial troops and I definitely don’t care for the airs grove Elders like to put on, but I wasn’t kidding. Any competent help here will be important. Please let them in.”

“Rainwood,” Tellwyrn interjected, “what in the hell did you do?”

“Well,” he hedged, “it is a bit of a story. If you’d—”

“He tried to replicate a Shadow Hunter ritual,” Djinti said, “for communion with wolves. Except he didn’t know how it was done and used fae spirits to stand in for the alchemy they use. He did this to a mixed party of younglings from my lodge and more from the local Shadow Hunters, as well as a group of apostates led by Brother Ingvar from Tiraas.”

“There’s a bit more backstory that explains—”

Once again, Djinti pressed on over Rainwood’s attempted explanations. “You would know better than I exactly how ill-advised that was, but even Rainwood acknowledges that he failed to account for the effect of the existing disturbance among the spirits on his ritual. And further,” he added, shooting Rainwood a hostile look, “for the effect of casting this upon a group which included the dryad Aspen. I did not even know that dryads have a latent transformative ability, but he appears to have triggered that, as well as her deep connection to her mother’s magic. As a result, an entire group of people and a pack of wolves have been transformed into some sort of spirit beasts, which are now heading right toward Ninkabi, and apparently calling out as they go to everyone who has the slightest sensitivity to fae magic, everywhere.”

There was a momentary silence in which everyone stared at Rainwood. He chewed sullenly on the inside of his cheek, saying nothing.

“Aspen,” Sheyann said at last. “Why did it have to be Aspen? We just un-transformed her. It is so very like you to wreck someone else’s hard work, Rainwood.”

“He’s one of Kuriwa’s get,” Tellwyrn mused. “She’ll be seven shades of pissy if we kill him.”

“Oh, everything’s murder with you,” Sheyann retorted. “This is not one of those situations that will be neatly solved by striking down the person responsible, Arachne.”

“I think,” Antevid stated, still staring at Rainwood, “we had better listen to the long version before we do anything else. And then make with the doing as soon as we have a plan of action. The Elder is right, you can be dealt with after your mess is cleaned up.”

“Oh, good,” Djinti said, scowling. “Excellent. More help.”


One face of the sprawling castle-like structure which served as the city hall and governor’s residence in Veilgrad faced the city’s largest square. Not the side on which it had its entrances; along the wall here was a permanent dais intended for public addresses.

Currently, the square was filled by an alarmingly restless crowd, and the no less than a dozen staff-carrying Imperial soldiers barring access to the dais were themselves beginning to look quite tense. Lars Grusser currently stood at the podium, his voice projected by an arcane charm as he alternated pleas for calm with attempted explanations of what had been happening. Given that his explanations thus far had consisted mostly of admissions of ignorance and platitudes to the effect of the Empire having everything under control, he did not appear to be having much of an effect on the clearly riled populace. Behind him stood several other city and provincial leaders, who as the address went on had begun to display increasing nervousness themselves by clustering closer together under the crowd’s angry stares.

One tower at the corner of the city hall held an excellent vantage over both the dais and the square, and further had its windows covered by elaborate wrought ironwork which left just enough of a gap that those in the space behind could clearly see out, while being completely obscured from view from below.

“This looks bad,” Jonathan murmured, staring down. “I realize that’s probably unnecessary to point out, but I’ve seen a few riots; I don’t know if you two have. If not, you may not appreciate exactly how bad this could get. That guy means well but he clearly has no idea how to handle a riled-up crowd.”

“Oh, I’ve seen more than a few,” Kheshiri cooed. “Ranging in scale from bar brawls to full-sized revolutions. You’re right, this has all the hallmarks of a situation which is not under anyone’s control. That Grusser fellow will be lucky if the worst thing that happens is that the Empire replaces him with somebody who can actually placate the rabble.”

“Who’s that dwarf on the dais?” he asked.

“She heads the company from the Dwarnskolds that was brought in to restore the catacombs,” Natchua said. “I met her the other day.”

Jonathan leaned back from the window, shooting Kheshiri a sidelong look. “I may regret asking, but I don’t suppose your particular gifts could help calm this down…”

“Sorry, handsome, but de-escalation isn’t part of the succubus toolbox. Now, if you want this turned into a riot, gimme two minutes and a kiss for luck.” She shrugged, grinning. “I can give a pretty good speech, but I’d need both a way to get to the dais and an excuse for being there, both of which are tricky.”

“Jonathan, we don’t ask Kheshiri to help,” Natchua said pointedly. “Her talents are properly used skulking around backstage collecting information. Speaking of which, why exactly did Malivette want you to show us this?”

“It wasn’t so much that she wanted you to see it, per se, as she gave me permission to show you,” the succubus said sweetly.

Natchua grunted. “So she wanted you out from underfoot. How much of that was due to the situation itself and how much to you needling at her?”

“See, that’s why I adore you, mistress,” Kheshiri simpered. “You’re nowhere near as daft as you like to act. It’s a classic grift, but a respectable one.”

“Kheshiri,” the drow warned.

“I didn’t have a specific end in mind,” Kheshiri said, immediately growing serious. “But it’s always my base assumption that you’ll want to know what’s happening so you can make your own plans. You don’t strike me as the kind of person to sit back and let things just happen to you. Whatever’s happening, it is clearly going to have wide-ranging repercussions that have only just started to be felt. If nothing else, we’re based just outside this city, and the last time there were riots in Veilgrad a mob went right after Manor Leduc.”

“Great,” Jonathan muttered.

“What do you know about what’s happening?” Natchua asked.

“Very little,” Kheshiri shrugged again, “but I insist that’s no reflection on me; I know as much as anyone does, which is still almost nothing. Unseen wolves howling all night, and constant nightmares about wolves for everyone sensitive to dream magic. This isn’t just here, either, it’s happening at least all over the Empire, and the leading assumption last I heard was that the event is worldwide. The government is scrambling to figure out what’s going on and deal with it, as is everyone else who fancies themselves a player, but they’ve barely had time to start, and nobody has any answers. At least, no answers that are going to calm down that crowd. Apparently Shaathvar’s already had to be fully occupied by Imperial troops to restore order. It may come to that here.”

“Veilgrad is not a good place for this, Natch,” Jonathan said, turning to her. “It’s always been known for mysteries and wild magic, which is the only reason this isn’t already worse, but that chaos crisis a year ago left a mark on the city and the minds of everyone here. These people are entirely out of patience with magical crap.”

“Mm.” Natchua stared down at the increasingly angry crowd, absently rubbing her thumb across her fingertips. “Why, Kheshiri, did you want me to see this?”

“Why, mistress, as I told you—” There was a sharp snap as if a very small firecracker had gone off in the room and the succubus broke off with a yelp, seizing the tip of her tail.

“I’m not in the mood,” Natchua stated.

“Nobody appreciates my flair for subtext,” Kheshiri complained. “All right, fine, this is all part and parcel of what you asked me to do with Malivette. She wants to control you; you don’t want her to. It would be inconvenient to leave Veilgrad and disastrous to try to challenge her directly, and having me trip her up is at best a holding action. The best course of action to thwart her, mistress, is to seize the initiative. She wants you to work as some kind of fixer and problem-solver for Veilgrad? Perfect, start solving problems before she asks you to. The more known, liked, and respected you are around here, the less ability Malivette has to keep a leash on you.”

“I hardly want to challenge Malivette for control of the province,” Natchua said scathingly.

“Well, that’s the age-old dilemma, mistress,” said the succubus. “Power is freedom. Hermits and recluses aren’t truly free, they’ve only chosen the nature of their prison. Being free from the influence of others means having influence of your own.”

“She’s talking plain sense, Natchua,” Jonathan warned. “That means she’s trying to manipulate you.”

“Yes, I know,” Natchua murmured, squeezing his hand. “Put that idea right out of your head, Kheshiri. I want a peaceful coexistence with Malivette, not a feud.”

“Okay,” Kheshiri said with another shrug. “Just think about what conditions will have to be met before she lets you have one.”

“I think your original idea is best, love,” Jonathan murmured, placing a hand against Natchua’s lower back and leaning in toward her ear. “We’re better off staying out of sight, in the background.”

“I agree,” she said with a soft sigh, momentarily leaning against him, “but it may be too late for that, after the production I made of the last favor Malivette asked of me. And if there’s one thing I’m good at doing, it’s coping with the consequences of my mistakes.”

“I believe that,” he said frankly.

She grinned at him. “You have to lean into the fall, Jonathan. Freezing up or trying to abruptly change course will only make it worse. I’m already the local warlock who loudly cuts through complicated problems… And this situation right here is clearly not under anyone’s control. If something isn’t done very quickly it’s going to get ugly beyond belief. We definitely can’t afford for Veilgrad to be entirely upended.”

“Natch,” he said delicately, rubbing her back in a soothing motion, “you know I respect your ability, but I think it’s worth considering how applicable your particular skills—”

Suddenly he was caressing shadows, and then nothing. From below there came a general outcry from across the square as Natchua materialized abruptly on the dais.

Jonathan heaved a sigh. “And there she goes.”

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