by S. G. Night
Rachel picked up the most current manifest, the one containing tentative plans for future shipments during the months of Ethur, Abur, and Zin. “Should I be looking for anything in particular?”
“Look at the outgoing shipments for the 8th of every other month,” Notak told her.
Rachel flipped through the pages and began to read. “Candles…spices…assorted meats…red and white wine….” Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Dírorthan wine, no less. 44 vintage….So Hammon would ship a massive order recurring every other month, all to be delivered to…” she checked the delivery location. “…Dor’mon.”
“You are catching on,” Notak nodded.
“Dor’mon…” Rachel mused. “Do you think they’re transferring it to the port so they can ship it somewhere else? Like an overseas export?”
Notak shook his head. “These are all luxury goods. There is no good way to preserve them for a long sea journey. Not to mention that the only ships that are allowed to leave the shore are those that the Dominion control. Most of the transported goods are imports that the Demons’ motherland sends here. The Dominion does not send fine wine and beef to their old home.”
“So we can assume that Dor’mon is the final destination.” Rachel murmured. “So…we’ve got some rich tosh who likes to throw big parties every month. You think it could be one of the Nineteen?”
Notak nodded again. “If Mrak’s intelligence is accurate, and it usually is, then yes. But the entire charade that the Nineteen are running is based on the Humans not knowing that their gods they worship are really just a council of Demons within the Dominion. So, if we assume that the buyer — the host for these monthly parties — is one of the Nineteen and is hosting parties for the Human upper crust, then he is probably using a false identity.”
Rachel made a face. “I don’t follow.”
“The Dominion allows privileges to those of the Human gentry who are loyal to them,” Notak explained. “Those Humans all owe fealty to a few higher members of the peerage, all of whom are Demons, who in turn owe fealty to the Demonic Duke of their respective duchy. The Dukes remain faceless behind the walls of the city castles. Those of the lesser Demonic gentry are the only real public face that the Demons have; they act as liaisons between the lower Human gentry, and the Dukes.”
“So this Demon in Dor’mon…” Rachel said. “Is one of the Nineteen — a Demon masquerading as god — and so is probably Duke of Dor’mon as well. But has a weakness for decadent parties, and so is also pretending to be a notable member of the lesser Demonic gentry so that he can indulge in the life of a cloying socialite?”
“Exactly.”
Rachel smirked appreciatively, looking back at the manifest. “Very nice, my friend…there’s no address for the delivery, though. All it says is that the stuff changes hands with someone named Brahn on the 8th of every other month.”
“Which means that these parties are probably scheduled sometime during the week after. Those parties are our window of attack,” Notak concluded. “Today is the 8th of Elur. There is no way we could get to Dor’mon before the party occurs.”
“Then we missed our window,” Rachel frowned, closing the book. “And we don’t even know if Brahn is part of Westward Trade or not.”
“So we have until the next party on the 8th of Abur,” Notak said. “That gives us two months from tonight. Sixty days — the entirety of Elur and Ethur. We find the shipment, find this man Brahn, find out who exactly our target is. Infiltrate the party and eliminate him.”
“Then watch the chaos erupt as the other gods get nervous,” Rachel finished. “Let them make mistakes, expose themselves, and pick them off one at a time.”
“Indeed,” Notak agreed. “And hopefully Oron’s new Scorpion will be ready by the time Abur comes around.”
“Let’s hope he can keep up with us,” Rachel grinned, extending her closed fist across the table to him. “To Dor’mon, then?”
Notak knocked his knuckles against hers, a small smile finding his mouth. “To Dor’mon.”
Rachel threw two dyre down on the table and stuffed the manifests into her satchel. “I hope you like the ocean, Elfy.”
“I don’t.”
They left the tavern, two unseen shadows amidst the crowd. There was blood on the wind, and the Scorpions were following with it.
***
TWENTY-EIGHT
Laughing Flame
As evening gathered around him, Racath sat cross-legged on the grass in an isolated part of the domus, more than a mile away from Oron’s home on the plateau. He and Nelle had parted ways almost an hour earlier, leaving him in solitude to wander, think, and meditate. And as he sat, he was staring at his palm, at the apex of his markara — into the heart of the magic that dwelt there.
At the moment, it was lightning. Small sparks and static flitting between his upraised fingers. The arcs were white, pale and bright. They crackled and snapped, twisted, writhed, like a cosmic song and dance.
Racath extended his hand, the electricity brimming on his markara. He made White Lightning.
A bolt of brilliant energy erupted from his palm. It existed only for a split second, shattering the air with its deafening sound and leaving a streak across Racath’s vision. The lightning connected with the face of a nearby cherry tree. The tree exploded. Its leaves burst into flame, the trunk crumpling beneath the blasted like a withered flower, blackened and charred.
A tumult of screeching cries went up; a flock of small birds, startled by the thunder, took to the sky, squalling as they fled. Racath watched them go.
He felt the lightning still pulsating in his hand. It was powerful, potent. Devastating enough to split the cherry tree and cast burning pieces of bark across the grass. And yet it was too powerful. The toll that White Lightning had taken on his getu was noticeable, like he was suddenly only half full.
Furthermore, the electricity just didn’t…sit right, in his hand. It was functional, certainly, as demonstrated by the broken tree. But it was uncomfortable; it didn’t seem to conform properly to his markara, like wearing a shoe on the wrong foot, or a glove on the wrong hand.
The lightning did not speak to Racath. Not even as it crackled between its fingers. It didn’t even notice him.
So he cast it aside. He willed the magic to change, and suddenly he was holding a small orb of light. The light glimmered and pulsed, a soft tinkling sound emanating from its edges. It buoyed and floated in the air. Through the fading daylight, a ring of illumination formed around Racath, gently swaying.
It hurt his eyes to look at. The orb was arrogant, self-indulgent, a dramatic little pixie bobbing blithely above his hand as if to swoon and say O world, look at me! It was superfluous. Any Magick that this light could be shaped into — Star Scalpel, Star Spear, whatever — any function it could perform, could be done just the same by other energies. Could be done better. Simpler. With less cost to the caster.
Racath didn’t even bother to test it. He discarded the light.
His search fell into the usual routine. Cycling through the other spheres of galdury: kinetic, cognitive, antiphotonic, black-galdury — he even toyed around with what little chaos-magic and sorcery he could, but he kept those to a minimum. Tasting each energy on his markara. Making a Magick or two from their substance, testing their feel as he wielded them. Drinking in their scents, their sensations. Listening to their whispers, waiting for one to call to him.
Still, nothing. The energies that seemed to fit him, that were comfortable in his hands, didn’t speak to him. The Magicks that did speak to him, on the other hand, were clumsy in his grip, too hard to use — he had no talent for them.
Dejected, he let out a bitter sigh. Grudgingly, he called up mage-fire. The ruby flames lit his markara, coalescing into iridescent sphere in his hand. The heat brushed his skin. He moved it, and the fire arched and twisted around his arm like a crimson snake. It was seamless, effortless. It fit him.
Racath made Red Claw. The fire morphed, comp
ressed. It fashioned itself into a long, solid mass. The fire extended from his fist in the shape a Stinger-like blade, red and glowing. The air boiled and rippled against the flame-blade’s scalding edge.
There was a whisper of wings and something alighted on Racath’s shoulder. He didn’t look up to recognize Sokol’s sound and presence.
“Hey, love,” he greeted, not taking his eyes off the Red Claw.
Sokol chirped, inquisitive.
“Looking for my dosdom,” he answered.
Another chirp.
“No. Nothing yet. No magic certain enough to make me feel good about trying to kill myself with it.”
Sokol made another sound, encouraging this time. She nipped his ear.
Racath sighed again and reexamined the blade of flame.
Unlike the others energies, the fire seemed to look directly at him. Like he was the only interesting thing in the world. It spoke to him like none of the others had. He remembered that day on the Milonok Bridge, when the Demon Briz’nar had doused him in fire. He remembered when he’d caught the flames, absorbed them, and cast them back out. And he remembered the power that had filled him. For him, mage-fire offered everything that a corobna dosdom was supposed to.
And yet it couldn’t be fire. Grimacing, he remembered the searing pain as the fire scaled his body. The blinding, burning agony in his veins when his markara began to drink in the flames. How it had felt when he had held Briz’nar’s fire inside himself, like he was about to burst, like he had to eject it all back out, or he would roast. That much flame, surely, should have been enough to open the rift in his anda if fire really were his dosdom. But it hadn’t.
As if the fire could hear these doubts, its whispers were suddenly clearer to him. He understood them now.
Its words were not welcoming. They were not accepting. They did not call him by name, inviting him into the embrace of fire. No. They were mocking. Spiteful and cruel. The fire was challenging him. Daring him to even try to call himself its master.
You think you can control me? the fire seemed to say. I answer your calls only because it amuses me. You are not fit to command the smallest spark. I am the master, you the slave. So go on, try me. Pursue fire as your dosdom. Set yourself aflame, and see if I hesitate for a moment before I burn you to ashes.
Racath didn’t answer. He was afraid to. He cut off the flow magic, and the fire faded, laughing as it went.
TWENTY-NINE
The Many Faces of Evil
It was morning again. Early sunshine glistened through the windows, piercing the kitchen with lines of dusty light. Racath waited patiently in his chair at the table, killing time before Oron came out to join him and begin the day’s lesson. Sokol perched on his shoulder, ruffling her satin feathers. He fed her the crumbs of the early breakfast he’d made for himself while she chirped appreciatively in response.
“You’re up early.”
Racath turned his head to see Oron standing in the doorway, fully dressed. In his hand, the older Majiski held a thin bundle of ancient looking paper, bound together with crude twine.
He shrugged. “Thought I’d get a head start today. Did some reading.”
“Is Nelle awake?”
“Don’t think so. Haven’t seen her.”
Oron scratched at his beard. “No matter, I think we’ll be alright on our own this morning.” He moved smoothly around the furniture, but instead of sitting down, he passed the table by and headed for the front door, gesturing for Racath to follow him. “Come.”
Bemused, Racath half-stood from his chair. Sokol flapped indignantly at the disruption and flapped away to join Elohim above the stove. “We aren’t starting in here today?”
“This morning’s topic will require a little more space than the house can accommodate,” Oron explained, opening the front door. “So we’ll be having lecture in the pit. Come on,” he gestured to the open door and the beautiful morning outside. “After you.”
Together, they left the cottage, heading for the pit out back.
“How go your meditations?” Oron asked as they went.
Racath soured a bit, reminded of his fruitless experience the evening before. “Not great,” he admitted.
Oron looked at him questioningly. “Oh? How so?”
He gave a helpless shrug. “I dunno, just…I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere. I’ve looked at all the different kinds of energy, but…”
“But…?” Oron probed.
“But nothing seems to fit. The Magicks that I like, I’m no good with. The Magicks I’m good with bore me.”
That wasn’t the whole truth and Racath knew it. He remembered examining mage-fire a few days before. Those Magicks did fit, did suit him. But still…he couldn’t shake the doubt. And he knew that if he brought it up now, Oron wouldn’t understand.
The older Majiski put an encouraging hand on his back. “It’ll come in time,” he said. “This kind of thing can’t be rushed. Finding your corobna dosdom is no perfect science. Things will become clearer as we continue practicing your Magicks and familiarize you with the different kinds of energy. Just keep trying, and you should see results eventually.”
Racath shrugged again and grumbled. “Thanks.”
They descended the stone steps into the pit. Racath saw it fitting to change the subject.
“So what is the topic today?” he inquired when his boots were once again nestled in the increasingly familiar carpet of sand.
“The enemy,” Oron answered simply. “Demons.”
“I thought we’d already covered that.”
“We covered their origin,” the older Majiski clarified. “But not their entire nature. Not in detail. Today I’ll be showing you what we know of the Demonic archetypes.”
Racath frowned. “I’ve talked to Virgil Tarem about it quite a bit,” he said. “I’ve read the stuff he’s written on the subject for Mrak. But isn’t his research about as far as our knowledge of them goes?”
Oron shook his head. “Hardly. The Genshwin archivist is very bright, judging from what I hear from Mrak, and his hypotheses regarding Demonology are impressively accurate for someone working purely off observations and third-hand reports. That’s good enough for the Genshwin.” He held up the ragged stack of paper. “But we are the Scorpions. Speculation and guess work is not good enough for us. Gratefully, we, the Scorpions, possess a considerable amount of first-hand information on the subject. Straight from the Demons themselves.”
“What is that?” Racath asked, pointing at the papers.
“During the siege of Krvistata,” Oron said. “My commander, Micah Killian, sent out a small sortie into the enemy camp. They caused some damage, did some spying…and brought a few things back with them. Including this.”
“Old paper?”
Oron laughed once. “Not the paper, no. The sortie brought back a book. A book that the enemy had kept within the camp’s temporary shrine. The cover was scaly, covered in all manner of decorative images, ornaments. Very ceremonial-looking. Killian ordered its contents translated and transcribed as quickly as possible.” The older Majiski snorted reminiscently. “Little bastard of a book. I remember watching the scribes trying to work out the translation. The pages kept flipping on their own, and the writing kept changing. First it would be Rotenic, then the ink would shift and suddenly it would be in Skuran, and then it would change again, into languages we’d never seen before. It was like the book itself was alive, and desperately wanted to prevent us from reading it. But, eventually, we got most of it transcribed.”
Racath raised his eyebrows. “So what was in the book?”
“The Demons. Their history, their culture, their practices. Everything, dating back to the time of the Neophany and Perdition. See, when the Demons arrived, even the Jedan Church had no idea what they were. We didn’t recognize them as the fallen Arelim described in taj Libris Io. But the information gathered from the record we stole revealed the truth.”
“But, wait,” said Racath, holdin
g up a hand. “Then why didn’t that become widespread knowledge? Why didn’t the Human, or anyone, have any idea that the Demons were from Jedan doctrine? Why wasn't that piece of information passed down through oral traditions? Something like that should have mitigated the loss of Jedan knowledge, right?”
Oron looked at him sadly. “Racath,” he said. “Remember that almost everyone at Krvistata was killed. The Majiski who escaped went into hiding. The information never reached the people. When the Demons took the fortress, they recovered the book, and burnt most of the translation we had written out. But, I,” he held up the paper again. “Managed to salvage some of it. This is only about a fifth of the transcript, but it covers many of the important topics. Even got some nice illustrations in here, too.”
“What sort of important stuff?”
“Almost everything on the Demonic archetypes,” said Oron. “There are a few pages missing from that section, but most of it is in here. Plus some of their history after the Perdition.”
Racath’s eyebrows went up again. “Tarem would kill for something like that.”
“I imagine he would,” Oron nodded. “I wanted to give it to Mrak so he could turn it over to Tarem. Supplement his research. But Mrak wouldn’t hear of it.”
Racath scowled. “Because he’d rather get rid of every scrap of Jedanism he can find than share this information with the Genshwin.”
“Sadly, yes. Gratefully, however, he cannot stop me sharing it with you Scorpions. So, let’s begin. The Demonic archetypes.”
“I’m all ears,” Racath said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back on one heel.
“From what we read in taj Libris Io, we know that after the Perdition, the rebellious race of the Arelim in Fyrstheim — both the Arel spirits who had yet to be born, and those who had already lived, and died — were banished to a distant plane of existence. Those Arelim were all in spirit form at the time, and therefore had no physical bodies. Meanwhile, here on Talkrilia, on the continent of Oltamn, the Arelim who were alive in mortality were smitten with a curse. They became sterile, immune to the passage of time, and grotesquely deformed — thus, the Demons came into being.”