Chelsea was easy to spot in the field. Her crimson uniform made her body a minority in the throng of uniforms. Most of her soldier brethren wore white and gray. Only officers and sergeants like Chelsea were entitled to the red. Mal wondered if there was some connection to the colors of the Artificer robes, but dismissed it. Colors were colors and she was far more fun to think about. Chelsea was made even easier to spot by her bright golden hair, pulled back in the ponytail that Mal had discovered was a bit of a trademark for her. He wished she wore it down more. Her hair was fine like corn silk, and hung perfectly straight when she allowed it to. It framed her petite features like a golden painting, and made him stir happily. He hadn't felt happy in a very long time, and it took conscious effort to swallow down the guilt that came with it. The memories of Marissa were painful.
The drill ended, and before Chelsea had the chance to notice him in the raised bleacher seats, Mal got up and headed away. He didn't want to appear too interested just yet, especially before the 'date' they had coming up. There were proper courting courtesies to be observed, after all.
Chelsea had already seen him though, be he didn't know that. Seeing him made her happy as well. But he didn't know that either.
Umaryn's first two weeks as a ranking member of the Artificer's Guild was mind breaking. Her work was not physically arduous, but it did stretch her thin in nearly every other way. She was tasked each and every day with studying more and more of the arcane and heavily detailed organization of the Guild. There were the six principles, and she felt like a thousand rules and guidelines for each. The Principles were easy enough.
The Principle of Value: Everything made by hand has value. From the priceless drawing of a child to the priceless Artifact made by a master, each holds the same value to someone. Value Everything.
The Principle of Quality: Do your best in everything you do. If you can make something better, then do so. Giving birth to sloth is nonsensical, and will only hurt others in the long run. Give all in everything.
The Principle of Repair: We can maintain everything if we take the time to ask the Spirits what they need. Things shouldn’t degrade because of our neglect. Preservation is immortality.
The Principle of Recycling: If something has seen its end of days, see to it that the pieces are brought along to a new life in something else. Even the things we create can have their own children. So is the cycle of all things. Evolution is necessary.
The Principle of Destruction: Nothing should be intentionally destroyed unless necessary to save life, limb or Spirit. Pay the proper atonement after such deeds, and ensure to live your life in remembrance of what you’ve done. Destroy with regret only that which must be destroyed.
The Principle of Research: Those who make are led by those who think. Support those who seek to find new and better ways to do things. Untold Spirits wait to be birthed by the hands of the seekers of knowledge. Innovation is salvation.
The six principles were integral to how the Guild faith operated, and how the day to day affairs of the entire organization happened. The spirits of the created were well taken care of.
The Guild also stretched Umaryn's ability in The Way. Her exhibition at the lengthy admittance ceremony did her reputation in the Daris Guildhall a credit. It had advanced her status in the guild, and now she was regarded by her more experienced peers as a bit of a savant in the art. For one to master so much of The Way without formal Guild training was unheard of. Now she had to learn everything again, but in the manner the Guild required.
In truth much of it was easy for her. Nothing they asked her to do challenged her knowledge of The Way in the least. What wore on her was the sheer quantity of The Way they asked her to do. Every day when she arrived at the Guildhall she was sat down with the man who she'd first met there; Librarian Nolan Renaud. Renaud presented her with test after test in The Way. She would be given a rope, then asked to turn it hard as iron. Renaud would then present her with a rope already made as stiff as iron, and she'd be required to undo The Way already working upon it, returning the strand to its softer, natural state. These exercises continued for hours upon endless hours, until her mind literally ached from the expenditure of focus. Early in the training she felt unable to even feed herself she was so drained.
But now, just two long weeks later starting her formal training, Umaryn's mental reserves felt more than doubled. Tripled maybe. She could cast far more spells every day before reaching her limit, and that was exciting. Her confidence in The Way matched her new capabilities as well, and Nolan Renaud was quick to praise her.
"You are a sponge little Everwalk. Everything said near you has no chance of escaping into the air. You learn all that you can, and make it look very easy."
Umaryn puffed up, proud. "Thank you Librarian. The Way is very important to me."
"It is very important to us all. Just today on the Varrland border with the Realm of Duulan there was nearly a derailing. Imagine the horror of ten full passenger cars spilling their living, breathing contents out into the wilderness? That's near the Eastern Wilds no less. The casualties would rise as the undead, and who knows how far the terror could've gone were our rail teams not present to fix the steel. Every day our vigilance keeps people alive Umaryn. Without The Way, the people of Elmoryn would fail. Our world is too harsh to survive without it. That's why our mastery of it is so important."
"The Church of Souls would argue that their use of The Way is more important than ours. Healing the sick and ensuring that the dead do not rise against the living seems more important than what we do."
Renaud nodded. He'd heard the same argument made countless times. "What would the Apostles do if their houses would not stand?"
Umaryn shrugged.
"What would the Apostles do without their Cathedrals? Without the reliquaries that we build for their precious saints?"
She shrugged again. This was not a time for her words, only listening.
Renaud's voice was calm, and lacked any air of judgment. "What would the Apostles do without the swords, axes and hammers we supply to the armies that keep the violent and the dead at bay? What would the Apostles do without our trains? The very same locomotives that carry food and medicine from one end of our world to the other? How would the Apostles read to their flock at night without the lamp oil we make? And what dear Umaryn would they do without our ability to repair the things that break each and every day?"
"I think the Church would suffer. Life wouldn't be as easy for them and especially the common people."
"To say the least. And be mindful of the term common people Umaryn. We are all common people Umaryn. I need not remind you that much of our mastery of The Way manifests in a martial bent. Artificers are crafters first, warriors second. We take the fight to the wilds, instead of waiting for the warriors to return wounded. We act, where instead the Church of Souls reacts, and our practice of The Way shows as such."
Umaryn was roused, and invigorated by Renaud's solemn speech. He made this easy for her. "Can we get back to the lesson?"
With a nod the aging Librarian returned to his original lesson of the day.
"Have you brought the incense I requested?" The Bishop asked James as he entered into the small alleyway. The Bishop was kneeling near a small pile of refuse, pouring out bone colored ash in a faintly sinister diagram on the rough stone ground. It was sunset in Daris, and the night's chill was creeping into the air.
"I did. Though I am wondering why I needed to head to the market to buy this instead of the Cathedral's store rooms for it. You know this incense is kept on hand?"
"I am aware," she said as she rose to her full height. She looked flush with intensity to James. "I do not want to draw the attention of some of the Church's less visionary figures. This is sensitive work we are doing here. I cannot, and will not allow anyone's nosiness to interrupt what must be done."
James handed her several wrapped sticks of incense. She already had several braziers burning tiny coals arranged in the shape
of a triangle on the ground. She removed one stick of the incense from the wrapper and placed it delicately in the center of the dull red coals. They flared as she walked from flame to flame, releasing a pungent, earthy odor. James thought it smelled a bit like rotting flesh, but he kept his mouth closed.
The Bishop took her place at the center of the triangle of smoking braziers and spoke aloud as the third flame belched forth a column of white, acrid smoke. "Ancestors I call to thee this night. As the sun fades from the sky so too must souls fade from the land of Elmoryn. I beckon to you not once but thrice. Give to me the souls of the angry, the souls of the vengeful, the souls of those who died in the Great Plague, so very long ago."
The smoke pouring upward from the braziers suddenly shook and wavered powerfully despite there being no wind in the secluded alley. James was certain there was a… life to the smoke. A presence.
The Bishop continued, "I pray for the power of the dead to give mortal release to two of my own blood, for they wish to return this world to the heretical ways of old. Ways without faith, without ancestors, and without hope. Should they survive, all of Elmoryn shall suffer, slipping back into the dark times before the rise of our magic, and the glory of our Church. Give to me three Spirits, for one act of justice this night."
James stepped back as the smoke coalesced and solidified into shapes that resembled a human's. The Spirits were tall, nearly a hand taller than he was, and unlike other Ancestor Spirits he'd seen summoned from beyond the veil of death. These were hunched slightly, with broad, translucent shoulders and long arms tipped with long, crooked fingers. Dark amber eyes that radiated an otherworldly intelligence hung suspended where normal eyes should've been. His mouth went dry from fear. They seemed malevolent, and sinister.
The Bishop looked as comfortable in their midst as she looked giving a sermon in the Cathedral. She almost seemed… radiant. James shivered. Everything happening in the alley felt wrong.
"Taste of my life, and seek out the two who would do your legacy so ill a deed," she said as she produced a small ornamental blade from an inner pocket of her robe. James sucked in a breath of shock as she dragged the blade's angry edge across the palm of her left hand, parting the skin with a twitch of pain on her face. Her red life's blood spilled onto the street as the three Spirits lurched forward towards the spattering blood. The Bishop raised her hand up high, and the three Spirits began a feral grapple to get to the wound. One Spirit, slightly larger than the rest shoved the others away with great force, and supped at the drops of blood that fell from the Bishop. James watched as the drops dissolved into the shadowy body one by one. Once sated, the big Spirit moved aside drunkenly, allowing for its lessers to have their turn. Each drank of their own accord, and moved back, each still contained by the triangle of smoking flames.
"Seek out the twins, and usher them into the oblivion of final death." The Bishop lowered her head and the three Spirits turned suddenly facing James. He took several unsteady steps backward as they approached him, his stomach churning in fear. When they were about to touch him with their vaporous limbs, they slid around him and exited the alley into the now dark city streets of Daris. In the night they were nearly invisible until you were upon them.
The Bishop lifted her cut hand and looked at the parted flesh. James approached her, unsure of what to think of what he'd just witnessed. The bishop used the tip of the knife to spread the bleeding cut open further, examining the sinew and bone. She looked inquisitive.
"Doesn't that hurt?" James asked.
The Bishop looked up at him like he was a simpleton, "Of course it hurts James. I'm cut to the bone." The Bishop flung the tip of the dagger towards the ground, sending her blood covering it away. James watched the row of red drops form, and felt queer.
The woman spoke softly, like you would to a lover, "Spirits of the old city come to me and mend my flesh. Make me whole again."
The air stirred in the alley, blowing the three wavering columns of white smoke about. James caught some of it in his lungs and coughed. It burnt. Then, right before his eyes the power of the benevolent Ancestors knitted the Bishop's hand, mending the slashed ligaments and putting her pale white skin back together as if the cut had never happened. The only evidence was the stain of blood on her unblemished skin.
"I've never seen a summoning like that. What you just did. It seems wrong. It felt nearly evil Bishop. Is this all really necessary?"
The Bishop put the dagger away and pondered an answer. When she spoke, she had conviction in her words. "James we release the souls of the good daily as they pass away. We give them that gift because we believe that no soul should be left to fester and rot in a dead, decomposing body, bringing it back to an unlife composed merely of hatred, and violence. We give that gift unconditionally, and we give it to the good, and the bad, yes?"
"Of course. No soul should be left behind."
"When we call upon the Spirits we release, the very souls and essences of the dead, there are as many needs as there are individual souls to call on. Should I need to send a message to an associate in another city, I beckon to someone who traveled in their life, or was a fast runner. In death, their essence transfer power to what they offer us, the Apostles."
"Yes, I suppose you're correct."
"And what kind of Spirits should someone summon when death must be handed out?"
"Murderers. The angry. Soldiers perhaps."
"Soldiers perhaps, yes," the Bishop said. "We release the souls of the evil just the same as those of the good, and we must task them with what the living need, and tonight, I need to ensure that two young malcontents are put to rest before havoc ensues. No better souls for that than the angry, and the vengeful."
"Then let us hope the Spirits follow your instructions, and kill only the two you have sent them to kill."
"Let us hope."
Malwynn and Chelsea were on the plush goatskin couch in the fourth floor flat the twins called home. The soldier and the death mage had been alone enjoying their date for some time and with the assistance of a nice bottle of Oakdale wine, they had both built the courage to sit against one another. It was juvenile, but both were happy. Mal felt like a kiss was only minutes away, and his palms were sweaty. Some things never change.
Mal reached out and put his hand on top of Chelsea's. The pair smiled at each other.
The three manifested Ancestor spirits slid down the empty Daris city streets like a bad mood spreading amongst the jaded. Anyone who came within ten paces of the insubstantial, dark trio felt their presence as a sudden pang of doubt, and a rush of forgotten, ill memories. People unconsciously moved to the other side of the street to get away from them, even though no living eyes saw them. They parted the thick, muggy air seamlessly, leaving a wake of doubt and anger behind.
One of the Ancestors stopped, his invisible body feigning the useless gesture of sniffing the air. The others froze, hung still in the night air like a black sheet forgotten. They turned and lifted their crooked heads, sensing the presence of the heretical blood they had been summoned to spill. It was close. Near enough to taste.
The smallest of the three looked to the sky, pointing his amber-coal eyes to the tall wooden structures that Daris was famed for. The spirit had been a tracker, a hunter during The Fall, and some skills never fade, even in death. His keen senses saw motion high above on stairs, and with a thought as pure as an ignorant's hatred, he knew the person ascending was his prey. His wraith-like body suddenly leapt forward like a hound off the leash, and the other two followed suit. A young child and her mother started to cry in the street, and didn't know why.
Umaryn was bushed. Another long day and evening with Renaud coupled with only a single light meal for lunch meant she was spent. Despite the enhanced reserved her new training gave her, she still felt nearly ill with fatigue. Trudging up the steps was more than a bit of a chore at this later hour.
Umaryn leaned on the rail heavily, and used it to pull her body up. She appreciated the feel of he
r gray robes, and looking at the red trim denoting her skill in The Way gave her a small bit of vigor. So few had worn the same robes she wore, and her exhaustion was the price one paid to earn that right.
Umaryn's mind drifted to the argument she'd had with Mal the night of her induction ceremony at the Guild. They'd argued over the very idea that she belonged in the Guild. Mal had asserted that her membership would draw undue attention to their quest for vengeance, their mission for justice.
What the hell did he know? What right did he have to tell her where she did, or didn't belong? He was a damned necromancer. A hypocrite! Umaryn thought to herself, suddenly fancying a plan to get back at him. She considered telling Chelsea that he was, in fact a necromancer. Someone who spent too much time thinking about dead bodies, and the sick things he could do with them. That'd show him what undue attention really was.
She snapped out of it. Why would she do such a thing to her brother? She loved him. He was the only thing left in the world she loved. The thought of ruining his relationship was vile, and self centered almost beyond imagining, and it was something she'd never consider. The thought felt intrusive, invasive, and foreign. Umaryn felt a chill run down her spine, like someone had walked over the ashes of her funeral pyre. For no good reason she leaned over the heavy wooden railing and looked down, sensing that someone was watching her, or using some foul form of The Way on her.
Something moved far below. She trained her eyes on the stairs and watched for a few seconds, sensing that there would be a revealing of something, and she was not disappointed. Umaryn was rewarded with horror and fear as three pairs of otherworldly eyes, absent of bodies looked up and locked gazes with her. In one moment of foul precognition, she knew those eyes wanted to see her dead and bloody.
The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2) Page 5