by Jean Johnson
The windows overlooked a broad stone balcony with a view of the night-lit fishbowl. The crystals in the ceiling were radiating a dim sort of light, but her Messenger-trained mind said she could not possibly be seeing what was just outside the window.
It was impossible, flat-out impossible, for what she saw to have fit into the space. Tugging her hand free, she slowly approached the balcony and the vast window that covered it, trying to make sense of what was out there. Vortex was the right name for it, for it reminded her very much of the swirling funnel formed when one pulled the plug out of the bottom of a large basin of water. But this wasn’t water she was seeing.
This was pure magic, and instead of draining down to a point at the base—a bright point of light just a little bit lower than the balcony itself—the Vortex seemed to be spewing upward, infusing the waters of the reservoir almost all the way up to the surface. Except it was also constrained in the whole fishbowl warding sphere at the same time, yet she hadn’t seen any sign of this from outside the building.
“Illusion,” Alonnen stated. She jumped, not having heard him approach close enough to speak into her ear. He shrugged and nodded at the view. “That’s what the reservoir truly looks like, that funnel right there. Everything outside this room, it’s all cloaked in illusion after illusion. Grandmaster-level magery, and we’re damn lucky to have it. The old records say that the previous Guild Master of the Mages Guild had traveled to Aiar to petition for a new God. But we don’t know what happened after that. His replacement, she was the one who quickly caged the shattered Portal that had been on the island and wove all the protective illusions on top of all the previous wardings that had been here.
“Unfortunately, she suffered a stroke before she could do more than start to teach her surviving apprentices how to maintain it all properly, though they managed as best they could. The confusion in the aether around the Heias Dam is the result of generations of imperfectly made repairs from before and after the Shattering. My predecessors then figured out how to capitalize on that effect. It’s helped us to weed out would-be spies. But then you’ve already been through that interrogation process, so you know that.”
Blushing, Rexei cleared her throat. “I . . . am surprised you’re showing this to me. Explaining it.”
He clapped her on the back. “That’s because you, young man, are now on the front line of a war to help save our entire world. From a demonic, Netherhell-based invasion, no less. And for that much, you have the Guild’s undying gratitude. More than that, lad? You’re about to have the undying gratitude of some of the most powerful mages in the whole world. This way—oh, you’ll probably want to disguise your face and hair as a precaution. I do, and I’m not the only one who does. If you like, I’ve got a spare scarf and hat on the rack.
“They’re very trustworthy, but I have no clue whether the priests can spy on scrying mirrors or not, even if this connection goes straight through the Fountainways,” he said, confusing her with the unfamiliar word. “It’s also been a sort of tradition for all the Guardians of the Vortex to hide their identities over the centuries. Even if Mekha’s gone now, I see no reason to stop just yet.” Nudging her back over to the door, he redonned his cap and scarf, settled his glasses back on the midpoint of his beaky nose, and offered her a floppy felted cap and a soft lamb’s-wool scarf to wrap around her throat and chin.
She took both, but after only a few seconds of wearing it, she had to unwind the scarf. He might only be wearing a woven wool shirt and matching waistcoat, but her knitted tunic lay over two layers of linen and her breast and waist bindings. In fact, she was now uncomfortably warm, for the iron stove across the broad room was keeping the Guild Master’s study quite cozy.
“Something wrong?” he asked as she tried to discreetly flap her sweater to cool down a little.
“I’m too hot now,” she admitted, grimacing. “The temple doesn’t get a lot of heat outside the priests’ rooms. I’m not dressed for this.”
“Looks like you have a shirt on underneath,” Alonnen observed, peering at her clothes. “Strip off the knit and make yourself comfortable. Nobody’s going to care what you’re wearing so long as you’re reasonably decent. Most of the people we’ll be talking to don’t wear sweaters or other layers to keep warm—in fact, some are downright undressed compared to us, but that’s okay; it’s just the way they dress in their homeland.”
Not quite comfortable, Rexei unbuckled her belt, set it and her pouch on the side table, then pulled the wool tunic over her head. She had tucked her medallions back under her sweater on the walk to her tenement with his brother, but not underneath her undertunics. Not when they had been exposed to the chill winter air. They were still cold but not shockingly so. She had to redon the cap, but this time when she tried the scarf, it wasn’t so cloying. Nodding, she looked at him.
“Good—try those blue-tinted lenses, if you want to hide your eyes,” he added, nodding at a set of spectacles on the narrow, table-like side cupboard not far from the pegs on the wall. “Mind the curvature, as it might make you a bit dizzy. I’m mildly farsighted; I need ’em to look at things close-up.”
Unsure what the lenses would do, Rexei picked up the glasses and gingerly peered through them. Everything turned blue, and there was indeed a slight sense of distortion . . . but she kind of liked everything faded to blue, so she carefully hooked the wires over her ears and gave him a thumb-out gesture, palm flat to the floor to let him know she was okay with it despite the discomfort.
FOUR
Pleased that the lanky young man was doing alright, Alonnen moved over to one of the three silvered glass mirrors on the wall near the desk. Boy’s not quite so suspicious now. Can’t say as I blame him. I do wonder about Harpshadow’s choice of Longshanks for playing spy in the heart of a bloody temple though . . .
Stroking the edge of the mirror, he muttered his activation word and waited for the scrying spells to connect with the Tower far to the west. Blue rippled across the screen for a few moments, only to be replaced by the dark-skinned face of a woman. She smiled wryly at him. “I’m sorry, Guardian Alonnen, but the Master of the Tower is not available at the moment and will be indisposed for another hour. I can record a message for him, if you like.”
“Great. Can you connect me to the other Guardians?” Alonnen asked.
“I can certainly try. Is this an emergency?” she asked politely.
That made him pause. Whatever the priests were planning, the fact that Mekha was no more and that other cities would no doubt be on the brink of rioting meant the priesthood would be in turmoil. Which meant the Guardians probably had a little leeway. His brother and the Precinct captain would keep Heiastowne as calm and orderly as possible, but their only concern was for the citizens; looting, fighting, and setting fires were not things one did carelessly in the harsh cold of winter.
“Well, it’s not yet life-or-death, but it is more than a bit important,” he finally said. “Get who you can on the Fountainways, and record our conversations for the others when they’re free.”
“Of course, Guardian. The Tower is happy to serve your needs in this matter.” She shifted and did something that caused the blue glow to come back, covering the surface of the mirror.
“The Tower?” Rexei asked him.
“Yes, it’s . . . um . . .” Alonnen scratched at one ear, trying to figure out how to explain it to a fellow Mekhanan. “It’s . . . utterly unlike the Vortex. Pretty much the exact opposite, really. Mages openly flaunting their powers, scrycasting what they can do . . .”
“Scrycasting?” the youth repeated, giving him a dubious look.
“It’s like a performance by the Bardic or Actors Guilds. The important thing is, the Master of the Tower, Guardian Kerric, has a special mirror that can peer one year into the future. And in that mirror, he saw . . . ah, hello Guardian Sheren,” he interrupted himself, greeting the wrinkled, white-haired woman who appear
ed on the mirror. A moment later, the image split, with her face sliding to the left and shrinking a bit, and a new face appearing on the right. “And Guardian Keleseth.”
“I just woke up,” the darker-haired but still elderly woman on the right groused. “What’s so important that we have to talk about it right now?”
A third face appeared between them, a man with blue eyes, short blond hair, and a worried look pinching a line between his brows. “What’s the emergency, Guardian Alonnen?”
“Please, gentles, if we can wait until we have everyone who can join this scrying, then I’ll answer all the questions all at once and not have to repeat anything,” Alonnen stated. He glanced over at Rexei Longshanks, who was hanging back a bit, peering at the mirror in curiosity but clearly not willing to get close to it. “Oh, don’t worry, Longshanks. It’s not going to hurt you. Come here.”
The images split and shrank even more, reducing into a grid of nine. Alonnen taxed his memory to remember all of them. Besides Sheren of Menomon and the grumpy lady, Keleseth of Senod-Gra, they now had Daemon of Pasha; Suela of Fortune’s Nave in Fortuna; Sir Vedell of Arbra; the dark-skinned Tuassan of Amaz; the tired-looking, spectacles-wearing Koro of the Scales; the autocratic Ilaiea of the Moonlands; and the woman from the Tower whose name he couldn’t remember. He knew her face, but he couldn’t remember her name.
“These are all the ones who are answering the call, Guardian Alonnen,” she stated. “The rest are either delayed or have messages stating they are out of reach, and the Fountain of Nightfall is completely without communication at the moment thanks to the reconvened Convocation.”
Alonnen heard the lad a few paces to his side draw in a sharp breath at that, but the Guardian ignored Rexei’s shock. He nodded. “Thank you, dear. This’ll do for now.”
Nodding, the woman bowed out of the scrycast call, leaving a grid of eight faces on the horizontally hung mirror. Rubbing his hands together, he drew in a deep breath and began.
“Right, then. To get straight to the point, I do believe I know how the foreseen Netherhell invasion begins. Or at least, where it begins. Come here, Longshanks,” he ordered, tipping his head to summon the youth. Eyes blinking behind the blue lenses, the young man moved closer until Alonnen could pull him into proper viewing distance at his side. “Everyone, this is Longshanks, who was assigned to spy on the priests of Mekha. Several things happened today which are extraordinary and which pertain strongly to our current mutual quest.
“Longshanks, these are eight of the Guardians of the world—like me, they protect powerful sources of magic. They are as trustworthy as you could hope to find, and I want you to start from the beginning and tell them whatever you overheard and anything you saw today. Give us your report like you were going to give to Harpshadow. Don’t worry about being understood unless it’s a term unique to Mekhana. These mirrors are made to automagically translate everything we say. Got it? Good. Go.”
Rexei nodded, swallowed, and began at Alonnen’s command. “I, uh, was picked because I . . . can hide all traces of . . . of magic from the priests of Mekhana. I was supposed to spy on them, and this morning I saw them bring in a pair of newly captured . . . uh . . . mages . . . hauled all the way up from the Arbran border.”
“Wait, you’re in Mekhana? You’re Mekhanan? A land that devours mages? When were you going to tell us this?” Ilaiea demanded.
“Ilaiea, would you keep your mouth shut?” Alonnen interjected. “It doesn’t bloody matter where we live; we’re not priests of Mekha. Now do have the courtesy to be quiet and listen. Please. Go on, Longshanks.”
Rexei cleared her throat before continuing. “Uh . . . right. The two, ah, men—the priests distribute the captives across all the temples, and I think we were overdue. That’s what the other Servers Guildmembers said when I joined. I was hoping to find a way to break the binding spells on them and help them get away, but the priests came in early. One of the two managed to convince them to let him talk . . . and he asked them why they were using, uh . . . our kind to feed the God. Mekha.”
The men and women in the divided grid of the mirror flinched at Longshanks’ words but thankfully stayed quiet.
“Go on,” Alonnen encouraged again when Rexei paused. He stayed close to the youth’s shoulder, lending support and protection as the Hostess of Senod-Gra scowled.
“There was a bit of name-calling, and then the foreign one—he wasn’t from Arbra, but I don’t know where—he said they should be stealing energy from demons . . . and that he knew how to bind and drain ’em.”
Noise erupted from the eight Guardians as they all reacted and tried to speak at once. Alonnen subtly braced Rexei, waited for a brief pause in the hubbub, and spoke up sharply. “Oy! With respect? Shut it! He’s not done reporting yet.”
Longshanks nodded and continued when they fell watchfully quiet. The scarf shifted off the youth’s jaw, distracting Alonnen with the dawning realization that for someone as old as Longshanks surely had to be, there was no sign of stubble, let alone the beard-shadow that should have been there on someone with such dark hair. There wasn’t much time to contemplate that oddity, however. Alonnen pulled his attention back to the subject at hand when Rexei continued.
“Mind you, I couldn’t hear all of it. They kept trying to send me off—I was playing the part of a dumb servant, a lackwit, and had been for two months, so they’d be used to talking more freely around me. But I did hear enough. He, the foreign man, wanted to bargain with them, with Mekha’s priests. Set him free and give him access to the power they raised . . . but then a novice came running up with the word that Mekha had disappeared from the power room.”
“Power room?” the woman with sun-streaked light brown hair asked.
Alonnen explained that one. “Every temple to Mekha has a set of rooms in the basement level—down where they keep the mage prisoners they drain to feed the Dead God. It’s said that Mekha divides . . . or divided . . . Himself into pieces and sent each of those pieces to a temple to be housed, so that He could drain all the locally caught and enslaved mages of their power. The power room is where He is—or was—rumored to sit and sup.”
The winces of disgust and disbelief on his fellow Guardians’ faces were mollifying to see. Not everyone understood what his fellow countrymen had suffered all along, but these mages were beginning to understand. He nudged Longshanks subtly, who nodded, swallowed, and continued.
“Right . . . So the God-piece in the local temple was summoned by some sort of shimmering light, He apparently said something about it finally being time, whatever that meant, and then vanished. I wasn’t there to see any of it, so don’t ask me whether the report was accurate,” Rexei added quickly as one of the men in the mirror drew in a breath to speak. “You have to understand, the Servers Guild was forbidden to go down to the basement level. We always cleaned the public parts of the temple, and the novices cleaned the hidden parts and . . . and took care of the prisoners and their cells.
“But then a short while after Mekha apparently vanished . . . so did everything of His. All the walls were carved with His sigils and signs, and the priests’ robes were embroidered with the same sorts of symbols. I watched it all fade from the walls right in front of my eyes, and when I looked at the priests, their robes were bare, without a single stitch of embroidery. And that was when the foreign fellow said it was most likely a sign that Mekha had been removed from power. They even used one of their Truth Stones on him.”
“I know, thanks to our little cross-guardianship conferences, that the Convocation of Gods and Man has been reinstated,” Alonnen stated. “So whatever is happening down in Nightfall, even though we cannot get through to Guardian Dominor right now or to Priestess Orana Niel, who pledged to my people for generations that she would take our complaints to the Convocation when next it took place . . . I’m pretty damn sure Mekha is gone for good . . . and good riddance, I say.
�
��Of course, this causes a bunch of other problems for us, things which may impact our ability to stop the Netherhell invasion, but we’ll give you our all. Now, back to the lad’s report. What else happened?” he asked Rexei.
Licking her lips, Rexei continued. “Well, I’d stashed a spare coal bucket in the next room over, so I could pretend to go get extra for the braziers, and though they kept sending me off, I heard much of it. The foreign man said, to throw off any rioting, something about setting the imprisoned mages free, if they weren’t going to be drained by Mekha anymore. And . . . it sounded like the two priests listening to him talk about conjuring powerful demons with their help were going to give it actual thought. But then everything vanished of Mekha’s, and one went running off to mirror-call the other temples.
“So I grabbed my bucket and followed to see if he was going to share the offer with the other temples, but before I could hear much, the archbishop—that’s the local high priest—he grabbed me and made me go into the basement rooms and start . . . and start bringing up the prisoners.”
Alonnen could only imagine what the youth must have seen, for his cheeks flushed and his mouth sealed for a moment in a grim line. Cupping his hands around the youth’s shoulders in silent support, he wordlessly urged Rexei to continue.
“The novices and the other servants, we brought up over a hundred and fifty of ’em, sat ’em on benches in the prayer hall. Then we guided them to the door, where the archbishop and a fellow bishop-ranked priest unlocked their spell-slave collars and pushed them out through the wardings. I got pushed out, too, and they said the temple was closed until further notice, and . . . that’s it. That’s all I know.” Rexei shrugged. “I don’t know if they’re going to take up this foreign fellow’s offer on conjuring demons or not, and . . . well, that’s all I know.”