by Daniel Heck
This hits home. You avert your gaze and hang your head.
Laurassa pats your arm, then steps away a short distance. She turns and says, “May we see each other again soon.”
Dumbfounded and numb, you watch after her as she strolls down the central road, toward the stables.
The rest of the week passes faster, but only with the help of distraction. You offer to give the reigning pastor some time off, and channel your feelings into your daily sermons, without expecting nor requesting the slightest monetary compensation.
That was… unexpected.
Jumping in yourself would be suicide, you conclude. Struggling to maintain a grip on the siderail, you force your way through the gusting squall, toward the center of the ship.
Titania, my love… hang on.
You start to manipulate the ropes holding the lifeboat, and almost have it free when a shout rings out…
“Duck!”
You whirl about. A mast has come loose and swings straight in your direction. You react, but not quickly enough to prevent the hulking mass of wood from crashing into your face. Consciousness fades away without even a moment by which to ponder: will this hapless band of so-called sailors be able to find your salt-saturated body within the depths?
Go back to the previous choice, or start again.
You scratch your chin in thought and turn your sun talisman over and over in your hands.
Titania arches an eyebrow, but smiles. “You don’t know how to cull information from your god, so to speak?”
You shake your head. “Not very well. Every cleric of the sun god specializes in a line of magic. I am a decent healer, but in times such as this, I desperately wish I had expanded my studies into other arenas.”
Titania places a palm on your chest and gazes into your eyes. “Surely, many more times, you have saved a life that would have otherwise been lost.”
You smile, as Titania’s sincerity warms your heart.
“I will need a space in which to concentrate.”
A contrasting chill envelops you as you exit the medical ward and lead the way toward your home in the southern quarter. The door stands ajar, but everything within appears normal. Titania pulls a chair toward you. You sit and fold your hands in your lap.
“Many thanks,” you say. She starts a small fire in the hearth, then takes a seat on the bed behind your back. You glance around. The arrangement minimizes visual distraction while ensuring comfort.
You close your eyes and pray, focusing your abilities.
At first, little happens. But after several moments you feel a magical force pull gently, coercing you to follow an unseen instinct. The hairs on your knuckles rise, as the magic slowly elevates from your sternum and spreads toward your mind. Then, a lightness takes over your entire being. Just in time, you remember that this is when you need to focus on the intended target of your divination.
Where is Fedwick, of the Canterbury Clan? My beloved godfather. He might be in trouble.
You reflect upon Fedwick’s countenance in detail, right down to the small dent near the back of his head, inflicted when an old battle wound healed incompletely. But instead of coalescing into a specific setting like you expected, the area surrounding the internal image remains pitch black. Stars blink in and out of your vision, as if somehow you float among the depths of space.
A sphere of blue light appears in front of you. Your pulse begins to rush as the sphere slowly expands to become a ring. Through the ring, you see a familiar image: a bloody skull, pierced at an angle by a jagged dagger.
It opens its jaw, and breathes in a husky whisper:
“Thomerion shall prevail!”
It cackles at you, increasing in pitch and volume until you can no longer bear the assault.
You open your eyes and come back to the real world. You hadn’t realized that you grip your chair with white knuckles.
Titania approaches and touches your hand. “Are you all right?”
You nod slowly.
“You were kicking your feet and looking quite distressed,” she continues, as she wipes a bead of sweat off your brow. “What did you see?”
“A portal.”
You explain the details. Titania shakes her head in disdain.
“Something deathly serious is occurring here,” she postulates.
“And,” you say, “We still don’t know much about Fedwick’s true whereabouts.”
“I’ve heard of magi needing several tries to get anything useful with this technique. On the other hand, the more you press, the harder it could be on you, possibly to the point of exhaustion or worse.”
What do you do?
I dive deeper into the divination magic.
We hire a tracker after all.
You swallow, but stand tall.
“Perhaps, my liege,” you assert, “the time has come for us to part.” You roll up the scroll and stash it in a pocket.
“You had best think this through further, young cleric,” Mudd warns. “Walk out that door, and I’ll ensure you never work for the Ambrosinian government again.”
“A risk I am willing to take.”
You bump the duke’s shoulder as you pass by him and out of the royal chamber. His jaw nearly hits the floor.
You arrive at Whitetail’s north gate long after the sun’s last blazes have faded beneath the horizon. Titania bolts toward you at first sight, crossing with such urgency that you fear for her safety.
“Thank the gods you’ve come,” she says as you embrace.
“What is the matter? And why the secrecy?”
Titania guides you toward the local medical ward, little more than a nondescript hut in the eastern quarter. About a dozen beds line the walls, most of which support bandaged militiamen. You recognize only a few from your experiences as a military chaplain, but an old dwarf stands out immediately; he sports a dent near the back of his skull. His haggard hair complements shaky fingers and a blank countenance.
You close in, tense with worry. “Godfather,” you say as you kneel beside him and attempt to look into his eyes. “What is the matter?”
The old man that you helped some time ago looks aside and whispers, “The gate shall open.”
“The gate shall open? What does that mean?”
Fedwick stares for a moment, and slowly paws at the air. Once, twice. His gaze darts about.
“Can you tell us more, godfather?”
He emits a weak giggle and his eyelids flutter.
“The gate shall open,” Fedwick repeats.
“Rest now,” Titania helps him lay back, and he starts to calm.
“How long has he been this way?” you ask.
“A few days. Up until then, everything seemed normal, until one night he remarked upon having had some strange visions. His peers dismissed them as senility, but as soon as he started going downhill from there, I knew something had to be done.”
“What did he say he saw, while still lucid?”
“A skull, pierced by a dagger.”
Unrest rises within you. “Thomerion.”
“The god of destruction.”
You wring your hands. “It has been six years. It seems unlikely that the magic of the seal could still be affecting him.”
Titania nods. “And yet…”
You both glance again at the dwarf, who snores gently.
“We need more information,” you say, “Shall we go see what the connection is between Thomerion and this ‘gate?’”
“The temple archives would be quick,” Titania replies.
You shake your head. “I recommend that we see Katalina.”
Titania rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Not her again.”
You extend your hands in supplication. “She is a capable source of lore, as she has traveled more of this country than you or I would ever hope to experience. And her fortune-telling could help us determine the best course of action.”
“And her headquarters is in Sungaze, two days’ journey away.”
You ask an attendant if Fedwick seems to be a threat to himself or any of the patients or staff, which yields only a shake of the head. The attendant turns away to fold some bedsheets, and you scratch your head, pondering. Titania’s opinion aside, you admit to yourself that the time issue may make a difference.
What do you do?
I insist that we see the fortune-teller.
I give in, and we go to the temple of the sun.
Under other circumstances, you may have had to ask for help to find a wanderer like Katalina, but you are already familiar with her headquarters. You plod toward a cul-de-sac in the northwest corner of town and recognize a burlap tent, the sides of which billow in the breeze like a fragile tree. Above the entrance hangs a sign which reads:
Prognosticative Services
Suggested donation 5 Gold
“Only five gold, Kat?” you call in. Out bounds a young, light-skinned woman wrapped in multiple exotic scarves and grinning from ear to ear.
“Bartleby!”
“I knew you had set up your own business,” you reply in half-seriousness, “but I also know you are more valuable than that.”
“It is very good to see you again,” she says, offering a hug, which you take without getting too close. Titania shakes her hand with a stoic expression. “And a fortune-teller has to start somewhere, after all. Please, do come in!”
The inside of the tent is small. Deep brown animal skins and webs of string connect the upper corners and line the floor, creating a mysterious and vaguely intimate atmosphere. On a wooden table, a crystal ball sits upon a rounded marble slab, and a bench offers just enough room for the two of you to sit comfortably.
Katalina plunks herself down opposite you, barely containing her excitement. “What brings you here? What can I do for you?”
You and Titania exchange glances and take a moment to breathe.
“It’s about Fedwick,” you begin, “he is having visions relating to Thomerion. Something about a gate.”
Katalina blinks soberly. “That sounds ominous, indeed.”
“We were wondering if there is anything you can tell us about what can, or will, happen next.”
Katalina nods. She slowly extends a hand.
“This may get a little more complicated than a normal personal reading. If I may…” At your approval, she places two fingers lengthwise upon your left temple. After a moment, she dips her head slightly, closes her eyes and concentrates.
A minute passes. And another. The tips of Katalina’s fingers become warmer, even hot, to the point of digging into your skull without any noticeable effort on her part. You grimace but wait patiently.
She opens her eyes and backs away a few inches. She slowly folds her hands, her gaze boring into you, weighed down with grave concern.
“I saw…” she whispers, “The demon realm.”
You and Titania exchange glances.
“And you were both there. Actually in the demon realm, crossing scorched lands as red as lava, sustaining yourself off withered plants and the meat of decrepit imps. And... a cannon. Something about a cannon. It was far less clear than the rest, but it seems to stand in some sort of area with no doors. Finally, some words kept coming to me… ‘You must claim your throne.’”
She looks aside, and lets this information sit. The wind blows the flaps of the tent back and forth, lending the moment a sorrowful, isolating air.
“That certainly doesn’t seem very pleasant,” you comment. “What would happen instead, though, if we were to somehow prevent what you just saw from happening?”
Katalina concentrates once again. Another minute passes.
“My perception…. “ she mutters, “is vague. Cloudy. But I see… the god of destruction. Walking among us. Causing utter chaos, smoke and haze, as life itself gets choked out of the ecosystem, out of our cities…”
Suddenly, she screams, and pulls her hands away from the crystal ball, as if it were burning.
You and Titania exchange wary glances.
Katalina glances over your shoulder. There stands a family of three residents in dirt-stained overalls, waiting.
“It seems I have more customers…” the fortune-teller chimes, with a fake smile. “It was really good to see you. Now get out before I faint.”
You spend a moment trying to ask more questions, but upon being politely waved away, Titania pulls your arm until you comply and leave the tent. She leads you to the shore, where you sit on rocks, thinking hard.
“How would one even get to the demon realm?” you ponder aloud. “Do we need to open a gate in our own right?”
Titania scratches her head. “The more urgent question may be,” she counters, “What do we need to do once we get there?”
How ominous!
You take your time in winding your way back to the main wing of the temple, then march down the center aisle toward the exit, feeling focused and determined. A worshipper turns to watch you, coughs and mumbles a surprised word or two.
Back out in the open, you find Titania drags her foot along the edge of the dirt road, her eyes locked on its many pockmarks and anthills. Not until you are nearly beside her does she look up.
“What did you learn?” she asks, excited.
“I am honor-bound not to say.”
Her face falls.
“But, I can still use you. Come, there is important work to be done.”
You turn, and begin to return to the medical ward, soon noticing that the former mayoress does not follow.
The two of you lock gazes. She stands stiffly, unblinking.
“You can tell me nothing?”
You shrug. “For the safety of Ambrosinia. I was told panic could ensue.”
“So, this gate? The visions? What do they mean? What do we need to do?”
You maintain silence.
“Someone in there knows?” she asks, pointing at the temple. “Someone I’ve never met, that you somehow trust more than the love of your life?”
Shame flushes your cheeks.
Titania inches away, her shoulders slumped.
“Well, he’s your godfather.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know perfectly well,” she snaps, “and I’ve put up with feeling excluded for long enough. I care about Fedwick. And you’re acting like that has never mattered for one day.”
Titania whirls about and stomps in a northwesterly direction.
“Where are you going so fast?”
“Back to Sungaze,” she yells without turning, “where I belong!”
Desperation rises within you. “Titania! Please reconsider this…”
Soon, she is gone.
An afternoon breeze whips your hair into your eyes, stinging more than usual.
I can do this on my own if I must, you tell yourself. She’ll calm down and come to her senses eventually.
Remembering what Cristof suggested about Fedwick, you return to the medical ward and ask your godfather as many questions as you can think of, while taking absolute care that none of the staff deduce or overhear exactly what you’re talking about. His mumblings, however, are largely incoherent. Even when you use a map to corroborate what you saw in the temple, the best he can do is point to a general area well away from the Ambrosinian mainland, point to his head, and then back again.
“The frozen isles to the north? You saw something about the isles?”
Fedwick nods, so fiercely that he makes himself dizzy. With your help, he lies back down again.
Investigation of how to travel that far takes several days. No one in Whitetail can really help, so you rent a horse, travel to Noblehorn and resume the pursuit. Even at their local tavern, most people don’t seem to want to talk about the isles readily. One gentleman, a scraggly-looking sailor with only one eye, admits that he makes the trip about twice a year, if only to see whether the natural crop of crystal salt growing there has refreshed itself.
“Not had much luck the last few times,” he
grumbles, “but I’d be willing to take you there, for a price.”
You agree, without hesitation.
As you pull out your coin pouch, however, you realize that fate may have other plans. The sailor laughs heartily as you open the pouch, shake it up and down and peer inside, for everything and anything that might remain.
You’re flat broke.
It hadn’t even occurred to you that, since you abandoned your diplomatic mission at exactly the wrong time, you hadn’t received the pay for which you were scheduled the day after.
“Duke Mudd wasn’t kidding,” you mumble.
“When it rains, it pours, sonny!” the sailor shouts, still guffawing.
You’re able to get back to Whitetail, but feel in the end that you’ve accomplished little other than having wasted a lot of time. You beseech the duke for your job back, only to be flatly refused.
What started as a mystery has devolved into a fight to fulfill your basic needs. The only question now is, which scars your conscience less: begging on the streets, or stealing from the church till?
Go back to the medical ward, or start again.
There’s no real need to argue here. You can get to the temple, figure this out and get back to Noblehorn the next day, perhaps even in time to patch things up with Duke Mudd.
“You may be right,” you concede. “But it’s late. Let’s see what we can discover here, tomorrow morning.”
Titania smiles and takes your hand in hers. You recite a short prayer for Fedwick, then whisper your for-now-goodbyes and step quietly out of the hospital.
At your home, sleep comes quickly. The morning sun wakes you, and you stretch to work out a knot in your back. Titania greets you as you step outside.
As you march toward the northern quarter, the streets echo with the shouts and play of children, some in tatters, a few in unstained royal blue vestige. The adults watching over them chat idly with merchants without buying a thing. One glances at the sun talisman at your waist, then at Titania and back again, and frowns intensely.