Litany of Wrath

by Levi Pfeiffer

  “I assure you, this is no joking matter.” Ibdal touched the side of Lucius’s face, thumb and forefinger lightly pinching his left temple. Images formed in Lucius’s mind, and recollection of his deeds in the cave. Ibdal was quick, and caught Lucius before he hit the ground.

  “What did you do, what did you do?” Lucius was yelling. The burst of memory had sickened him, and he was on his hands and knees, chest heaving.

  Ibdal spoke slowly, trying to find the word that Lucius would be able to hear and understand, “I have lifted the shroud, for a moment, that has clouded your mind since you have been here. It may have been a cruel thing to do, for now the freedom, or doom, of choice is upon you. You can walk away from the peril that surrounds your wits. Though, I warn you, she will have left her mark upon you.”

  For all that Lucius came across to others as foppish and silly, a brilliant mind was behind the show he put on. He was always observing, taking notes somewhere deep in his mind. It had served him well, allowed him to go faster and further than any of his peers, maybe even than those who were considered masters of the Karthild craft. He both understood that he needed to make a choice, and his analysis of Ibdal told him that he ought to trust him. He did not understand all of the details, however, and felt he should make a fully informed choice, especially if it was as dire as the worried frown on Ibdal’s face portended. “What do you mean?” Lucius asked.

  Ibdal spoke quickly now, for he could feel the time was running short, “You accepted, even though it was through deceit, to become one of hers. It was unfair, but that is how things have gone here.”

  Picking up on the urgency in his potential benefactor, Lucius became somewhat tense and terse, “I won’t accept it, I want to go home.” He was beginning to feel distinctly nauseous.

  “That is well,” said Ibdal, “But here, now, the choice is simple. You must make the same choice when I have left. Then, if you succeed, I will know. I will bring you to your companions.”

  “What if I can’t do that?” asked Lucius. His vision was beginning to become blurry as the feeling inside grew stronger. He shut his eyes tight, which helped the sensation of slowly spinning to lessen somewhat.

  “Then you will remain with her for as long as she pleases. It will either be exactly what you want, in which case, it is none of my concern.” Ibdal paused.

  “Or?” asked Lucius.

  “Or it will be your own personal hell. It was not total kindness on my part to waken your mind. If you truly desire freedom, but do not have the power within to refuse her wiles, then you will stay in spite of yourself. As much as it pains me to say this, it would be better for you if you either fully reject or embrace her. Between will only be inescapable torment.” Lucius was left alone again, in a still moment of time, the cusp between sleep and waking. With lurch he awoke to the cave once more.

  * * *

  While Lucius had been in the care of Ibdal, Volmaetria had been busy. The clutter and debris of Lucius’s wild gorging were gone, and the cave looked fresh as when he had first arrived. If possible, it was filled with yet more delicacies. The urge to rush and feed was immediately upon Lucius, a tugging pull that nearly dragged him forward. He remained still through sheer willpower at the ostentatiousness of it all. Lucius had hoped that Ibdal might be there to help him, but he could not see anyone. Volmaetria, having observed Lucius’s picks the first time, had overplayed her hand in one part. She had filled the tables with her refined selections, the choicest dishes with all of the correct sides. For all her effort, not without its effect, it was too much. The display, however much it drew Lucius in, was so perfectly designed to enthrall him that it raised his hackles. It was too neat, too perfect. And she was too late, the part of Lucius that could withstand such charm was working madly, reminding him of the time spent here, the internal disgust at his ravenous chewing, drink spilling down feverishly working jaws, soiling his fine coat with crumbs, grease, and drink. Lucius remembered the first moments of confusion, of his inner mind wrestling with what had been happening to him. It made him feel ill inside to contemplate returning to that state, no matter how short the duration.

  The illusion of the satisfaction he could have here was shattered. Volmaetria could read it in his eyes, the narrowing of Lucius’s pupils. “Stay here, my pet. I will bring back the pleasure you had here.” Lucius was rooted to the spot, for Volmaetria still held a sway on his mind, his will. She paced over, attempting to engage Lucius’s lust by running her fingers along his arm, up to his cheek. “I can invite my sister over. It could be fun. Think of all the wondrous passion you might have.”

  In Lucius’s mind he felt he was walking along the shore again, as he had been when journeying to this cave. The song of the bird guiding him, tempting him forward. The same bird flew overhead, he gasped. Gone was the lustrous white. The shape of the flying creature was the same, but never could he describe it as beautiful. It was rangy, with sopping feathers dragging across the sky as though a dead thing. The song was not alluring, instead a hoarse croak as of a vulture. In that moment he found he was able to move, he shuddered away from Volmaetria. She shrieked her displeasure and stamped about in a rage, but he did not see it. Lucius ran down the hall, along the rough passage cut into the rock and back onto the hungry shore. Black sand showered up in the flight of his passage. He was free, but lost.

  Back in the cave, Volmaetria stamped and spat, throwing dishes against the wall. The splatter of food and clash of cups and broken vessels rang about in cacophony. She stopped suddenly, wheeling around with cup in hand, ready to throw. She glared hatred at Ibdal, who stood once more in her domain. Sneering, she spat at him, “So, you have some strength left, after all. Perhaps I was wrong to side against you. I still think you’ll lose though.”

  Taking care to hide his amusement, Ibdal said, “I’ll take that as a complement.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Volmaetria said with a sullen, sour face, “If he weren’t so busy elsewhere, I’m sure you’d already be gone.”

  “Yes, well. Clearly no love lost between us,” Ibdal said, “I hope one day you’ll see the error of your choice. Maybe then there might even be hope for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her anger hidden as she attempted to preen herself, wiping away particles of food that had landed in her hair and on her dress. Already she was trying to tempt Ibdal once more.

  Ibdal noticed her recovery, he decided that his work had been accomplished and parted with a few, final words, “We shall see. You should know as well as anyone else the turning tides of passion. Or of fate. Good day.” With that, he walked out of the cave, to retrieve the bewildered Lucius.

  * * *

  Not long after Ibdal had left with Lucius, Volmaetria remained in her cave, quietly fuming now. She had vented her spleen in a lengthy tirade, belittling the god of mercy, Eraskur, and her whole situation. She was not happy at all with how things had gone but decided, in a rare moment of rational thought, that perhaps sulking about it was not getting her anywhere. She decided that it was time to put away her tantrum and focus on the future. Sooner or later, another traveler would end up on her secluded isle. It would be nicer to think of happier times. It would be more productive to get things ready. She sighed, so much effort had gone into making the feast, not to mention restocking everything in such a short order. The ache inside to see so much wasted talent and craft was a heavy weight on her mind. No matter, time to start afresh. She waved her hand, nothing happened.

  What should have happened was the disappearance of the ruined food. She would reabsorb her spent power. Then she could have started work on the next feast. She had been considering a theme from long ago that had been very successful. The dainties in her mind ought to have materialized. Instead, nothing. She tried again, hands waving back and forth frantically. “Wha...?” she said.

  “Not so smug now, are you, sister?” Eraskur’s voice reached Volmaetria.

  Volmaetria looked around wildly, she could not see anyone. “W
hat is the meaning of this? I’m in no mood for one of your silly pranks. What have you done?”

  Eraskur made herself become visible to Volmaetria, she was standing nearby, still in her revealing gown of black and white. The tail ends of her skirts waved about in fluid motion as she strode forward, stopping face-to-face with Volmaetria. “You know, you were right, one last time. I’ve changed my fortunes, and I’m happier already.” Without warning, she struck out at Volmaetria, landing a ringing slap on her sister’s cheek.

  Volmaetria’s eyes widened with terror. She knew she ought to have been able to dodge the strike, yet she had stood still, had been compelled not to move. The meaning of her sister’s words sank into focus. “You can’t do this. I am the elder. You owe your existence to me,” she said. Her voice was shrill and frightened, and she could already feel the tremor of doubt in her mind.

  “I cannot. That is true, but he can make it so.” Eraskur’s eyes beamed brilliant triumph and gloating. “I cannot kill you outright, yes, but I’ll make you part of me now. Let’s see how you like it. He’s noticed your little failure here, and he is not happy at all. It’s time we were together again, dear sister. Let’s see how you like riding around, knowing how much better a job I do. I know I’ll enjoy feeling your shame.”

  Volmaetria felt the constriction, the draining of her power. She struggled against it, feeling like she was getting smaller and smaller, like she was shrinking. The horizon was only filled by the smiling, unkind face of her sister. Eraskur smirked, “So easy.”

  “Wait, don’t,” Volmaetria pleaded, “I’ll turn over control to you.”

  “I already have control,” Eraskur spat with venom, “The time of stupid passion is over. Your time is over.”

  Smaller and smaller, there and not there, Volmaetria felt herself unravel, lose her physical form. She was not dead, but defrocked, stripped of her power. Worse, it was taken from her, poured into Eraskur, who nearly glowed with the imbued essence. Now she was only a thought, indestructible, but pitiable compared to her previous form. In her terror she sought to flee, but was no more able to do so than make a hole in the sea. Eraskur laughed with delight, and wrapped herself around the frightened, intangible form of her sister.

  Volmaetria was locked away within Eraskur. She saw what her sister saw, felt what her sister felt, but was separate. She fought against the power that held her, but it was useless. “He betrayed me, he’ll do the same to you,” she shouted without words.

  “That’s enough from you, sister, be silent.” Eraskur commanded.

  Power contorted, and Volmaetria felt the bond upon her voice. She was now silent, trapped, watching on as Eraskur reshaped the cave into her own image. Gone were the tables, the food. In their place a lavish four-posted bed, hung with draping translucent curtains. It was an immense creation, a work of art that would be the altar of her sister’s work. Eraskur purred contentment, sliding onto the bed’s silky sheets with a sigh, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  12 THE BLIGHT SPREADS

  Ought I hope for their return? Time drags on with each interminable hour. How I wish now that we had heeded sooner the warnings of my dear friend. Did I do all that I might have? The question weighs heavily upon me. I pray I have not sent them to their deaths, and ours.

  Private journal of Stentor Folson, high councilor of Entigria

  Reuben walked along the edge of a series of hilltops. Below, the amber fields swayed continuously, reminding him of an ocean. He had walked the full circle, out of habit, and estimated that the patch of green was maybe the length of ten or so city blocks, roughly oval shaped. As he had been on the circuit, he noticed that at one end of the oval there was a cluster of trees in a hollow. Nearing them again, he decided to investigate. After he had been, well, dismissed by Ibdal, this is where he had arrived. He did not like that word, dismissed, but it was the truth of it. There was no company for him to pass the time, not that he minded. The only company he wished for was Lucius and Pim to be back safe and sound. Then, if they could manage to rouse the gods in their favor, perhaps their mission would not have been in vain. In the meantime, he was back where he had started, Zuetal’s realm he supposed. That is who he had met here before, but now there was neither sight nor sound of the deity.

  He left the edge and headed towards the trees, letting his tired feet meander in an uneven line. Eventually, he reached the ring of trees. They were tall, about the size of the trees he knew from his youth, not too broad and with a nice architecture of spreading branches. Ducking beneath their outflung arms, he entered the shade and soon came upon a small pond that was circled by carefully clipped grass up to the water’s edge. It was immediately soothing, a cool, refreshing place. Without hesitation, he quenched his thirst from the still, clean waters. It was cooler than he expected, but invigorating. He sat down on the soft grass, watching the rippling waters. He felt much revived and yet, despite the tranquility of this spot, he was pensive. He was looking forward to returning to Entigria. His job would be over, the problem handed over to the gods, and that would be that. Whatever came after was out of his hands. He pondered his future as the gentle zephyr still played with the water’s surface, tugging this way and that. Reuben tried to follow the mesmerizing patterns as the rings collided, but soon lost interest.

  As the breeze quieted down into a drowsy stillness, Reuben realized that time must pass here after all. It must not remain the high noon that he had first encountered, for pastel colors were reflected in the mirror of the pond. Peeking through the trees, Reuben could see the same colors wrapped around the horizon, with small dots in the sky he figured must be stars. Which stars he did not know, not his certainly. A myriad of them were waking up, and they were strong enough to be seen in the waning light. Reuben plucked moodily at the grass, muttering under his breath. His former restful mood had departed as the lazy evening was drawing to its close; he was hungry, irritated, and tired.

  A rustle of clattering beads caused Reuben to look up, Zuetal was approaching through the trees. His heavy form, tall and broad, did not harm the grass, and Reuben wondered how such a heavy and tall creature could tread so lightly. He would have sworn that the deity had not been there a moment before, and that he had sprung from the ground itself. His pulse quickened in apprehension, for during their first meeting he had spoken rather rudely. The antlered god was getting closer, but taking his time to peer around himself, a deep rumble of chanting echoing from the barrel chest. As the god neared Reuben’s curiosity was roused, overcoming any anxiety, “What’s that you’re singing?” he asked.

  Zuetal spoke, “Growth and strength, rest and the close of day.” It was the first time Reuben had heard him speak; the voice fit the figure, a deep, resonating bass. Zuetal still wore his serene smile.

  “I’m, uh, sorry,” Reuben said, “About yelling at you.” He had gotten to his feet, part of him readying himself to flee should the god appear angry.

  Reuben almost took off running as a cloud of concern and sorrow appeared on Zuetal’s face. He need not have worried, however, for the large frame bent down to the ground, long and hirsute fingers stroked the very blades of grass that Reuben had been destroying in his idle boredom. A green light, like mist, shimmered down from Zuetal’s fingers to fall like dew upon the ground. Reuben had no doubt that, had he stooped to look, the blades of grass would be whole once more. The smile returned to Zuetal’s face as his eyes turned from his handiwork to Reuben, “Most guests here are not so bold as to disturb my creations.” He rose to his impressive height, “But I forgive you, for your words earlier and for your deeds at my resting spot.”

  Reuben was at a loss, he clearly had made a fool of himself again. “I guess you’ll want me to be leaving then?” He waved his hands around, “But, uh… Which way?”

  Zuetal shook his massive head slowly, “No, not yet. Please refrain from harming more of my garden, but wait awhile with me. I have confidence that Ibdal shall be returning with your wayward companions soon enough.” The god s
at on the ground, at the spot Reuben had been resting, overlooking the cool waters.

  Reuben sat down too, with more care than he ever had, trying not to bruise the grass. “You seem to like me,” he said, “Though I’ve no clue why.”

  “The Torald family line were once great stewards of fields I blessed them with. Your ancestors stored up much patience for their descendant with their good labor.” Zuetal never stopped smiling as his long, gold, hair was buffeted by the playful wind that never stood still for long.

  Reuben considered his apparent good fortune, deciding to press his luck with his mission once more. “I’m grateful, but just right now I’m more concerned about the future than the past,” he said.

  With a gracious nod, Zuetal responded, “It is always as such with mortals. It ought to be the other way around, if you really understood.”

  “Who will tell me, then?” Reuben said, trying not to let his frustration show, “The world burns and we’ve no answers.”

  “Answers?” said Zuetal, “Why, we all act according to our natures, that is wisdom, that is truth.”

  “That’s a riddle,” said Reuben.

  Zuetal spoke slowly, his sonorous voice heavy with his surety, “If it is, it is only the mystery of simplicity.”

  Reuben tried another tactic, “Earlier, Ibdal said to me that you all can only do so much, that there are other forces at work. Does this mean you all are fighting each other? Is that what the cinder lands are all about?”

  “Fighting amongst the gods?” said Zuetal. “No, or at least, not the way you think. We are gods, we do not use force or violence against each other, for what would be the point? Yet, there are other ways to hinder or hurt. Each of us has things that we care about. It is possible to strike and destroy these things. The world has suffered much for our disunity.”