TenThousandBrokenDreams/Session26

Mother Cypress speaks:

“Hello, children. So, you have come for another tale. And what tale would you hear tonight? Would you hear the tale of Hamza of Kirighast, of the Varang folk who worship the stars? Would you hear of how she lived as an outcast, an untouchable, simply because none knew the moment of her birth? Would you hear, too, of how she bargained with a child of the Maidens to gain an auspicious horoscope for herself and for her daughter; and of how that debt was repaid? But no… I see you’d rather hear more of the tale of the Sun’s bright children, and of the coming of the Third Age…

“Then gather round, my children, and spread ears like elephants; that I may tell you more of the tale of the children of the Sun, and of their mission to the city of Tul Tuin.”

* * * * *

A flash of lightning caught Gray Mantle’s face. Rain trickled like tears along the creases in his face and dripped from his ragged beard. He sagged feebly against the bars of the cage.

Zera looked to the old priestess. “Bring him down, please.”

Nala shook her head. “I cannot,” she replied. “He is being punished. To bring him down would be to take the steel from the furnace before its time. An ill-tempered metal will break when tested. He has bent under pressure before; that is why he is here.”

Fetek pursed his lips. Why did she prattle on so? “Just bring him down.”

“I assure you, Lady Nala, that he shall be punished.” A small smile appeared at the corner of Zera’s mouth. “Our masters shall see that he is properly harrowed.”

Her eyes widened. “I do not wish to harrow him. I want him to learn.”

The archer stepped forward, his mien menacing in the flickering storm-light. “I hate to remind you of this, Lady Nala, and I have no wish to embarrass you, but this is not about your wishes. This is about the needs of our masters. We are their direct representatives.”

“But… it is not about my wishes,” replied the old priestess. “It is about what he needs.”

Zera sighed. “He is coming with us,” he said firmly. “Tonight.”

“I am sorry I cannot make you understand.”

He shrugged. “Bring him down,” he said, and Fetek complied, untangling the chain that supported the cage and letting it down with a slow, juddering clatter.

“It is such a shame that you would ruin him.” A brilliant lightning flash caught Nala’s sorrowful look. “He had a chance; a chance at redemption.”

Zera seemed unconvinced. “What a shame.”

Gray Mantle groaned as Fetek pulled him from the cage. He staggered as atrophied muscles struggled to remember their function. “What is going on?”

“Silence,” hissed the archer in the poor fellow’s ear, “is your best path.”

The priestess Nala offered to accompany our heroes on their way, but Zera rebuffed her. A guard approached then, drawn by the unusual activity around the prisoner. “I will need to see your papers,” he said.

“Papers?” Zera snorted. “My masters don’t deal in papers.”

The guard grasped a whistle that hung about his neck, but before he could blow it, Fetek knocked him out with a flung rock. The Lunar then took on the shape of a fine steed. Dragging Gray Mantle with him, Zera mounted his equine companion. He put a knife to the priest’s throat. “You say one word,” he snapped, “and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

Gray Mantle had no reply. So our heroes rode away down the darkened streets. Fetek’s keen eyes found the path despite the darkness and the misty rain, navigating by the dull glow of indoor lamps and the brief, bright flashes of lightning above; his sure feet never slipped upon the water racing over the slick cobbles. If there were any pursuit, they outraced it. They reached the south gate of Tul Tuin in moments. They did not stop for the guards’ shouts; when the guards leveled pikes, Fetek leaped over their heads, and kept his footing when he splashed into the pool of mud outside the gate. A moment later, they were gone.

A chill wind parted the clouds as they rode. The rain died. They found a small village where the fisherfolk stood watch against raiders, and bargained for passage across the river. Watching for signs of pursuit, Zera spotted a strange glassy glint from the riverbank behind them. He recalled the strange viewing device that the scavenger lord Kurokami had used, and shivered in the cold; surely, someone watched them go. But he could do nothing about it, so he let the matter go. The stars slowly turned as they landed on the west bank of the River of Willows and made their way north to Brinlack.

Upon their arrival at the Brinlack Manse, Zera sent a servant to summon the rest of the Circle. Thorwald could not be found, but Aekino and Li came to Zera’s quarters. When they arrived, Zera threw his prisoner to the ground before them. “This is Gray Mantle,” he said.

The Dynast nodded. “So this is the person I have heard so much about! But,” he added, peering at the marks of privation upon the man’s body, “he does not seem to have been treated well.”

“That was not us,” the archer of Thorns replied. “He was being punished. By the Lady Nala.”

“Is that what’s happened?” Aekino scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He does seem rather rough around the edges.”

Zera shrugged. “Well, he’s here if you have any questions for him.”

“I see.”

“What now?” asked Li of Orchid. “Would you place him in the dungeon?”

“That would help to avoid talk,” replied a smiling Zera.

The swordswoman frowned. “Did you not drag him in through the front door?”

“Oh, no… we all walked.”

“In a town like this,” Fetek observed, “you could flay him alive, and no one would do anything.”

Zera nodded. “Well then. Let’s get started. Does anyone have any questions?”

With a polite gesture, Aekino stepped back and left the floor to Zera. “Please proceed.”

The archer knelt by their prisoner and slapped him twice across the face. “Gray Mantle,” he said harshly. “Gray Mantle… look upon my face.”

The gaunt, battered priest groaned and winced in the light of the lamps. Zera slapped him again. The man tried to speak, but no words emerged. Li shook her head, disgusted. She turned away; she walked out. No one noticed her departure, so intent were they on what knowledge they might wring from their prisoner.

“He seems parched,” noted Fetek, and he brought over a jug of water. Gray Mantle lapped at it until he could speak. “Thank you, Prince of the Earth,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said the Lunar. He stepped back, leaving the matter to the cold glare of Zera Thisse.

Gray Mantle looked from face to face. Uncomprehending, he fixed on the face of Zera Thisse, whom he recognized as one of the Solar Anathema, those that his cult worshipped as gods. “If I can serve…” he said, his voice faltering. “I have tried to serve…”

Zera stared daggers at him. “With pain and death?”

“But I… I thought you would want to convert your foes –”

“Stop.” The archer drew up a chair and slouched over its back like a tiger upon a rock. “Let me give you a little historical lesson,” he said. “Our kind has been hunted for a very long time. Maybe a thousand years. And we’ve been hunted for good reason; we’ve done some very evil things.” His tone grew sharper. “You only worsen our name.”

The priest looked up at his captors with dawning fear. They smiled down at him; someone cracked their knuckles. And the questions began.

* * * * *

Aekino, Fetek and Zera gathered on the balcony. Dead leaves danced by on a chill breeze, black against the glow of false dawn.

“This has been useful,” said Zera Thisse. He looked to his Lunar companion. “Now it remains to decide what to do with Gray Mantle. You’ve seen what he’s done.”

“I agree with Li,” Fetek replied. “It would be best to leave him in the dungeon.”

Aekino nodded. “I think he should sit in darkness and contemplate his actions.”

They returned to the suite. There, they called upon a guard sergeant, a brawny, tattooed fellow with the pale green hair common to certain barbarian tribes of the farthest East. They instructed him to deliver the priest to a cell where he might meditate upon the error of his ways.

Gray Mantle groveled before them. “You are merciful, my lords,” he whined. “You have –”

“We have not shown mercy yet.” Aekino prodded the priest with his sandal. “Go and meditate as you have been instructed. Do not address us again.”

With the involuntary departure of the priest, our heroes sat about and discussed their plans over a pot of rice wine. Despite the possibility that the new owners of the Tower of Winds might now know about its hidden entrance, Zera thought the attempt worthwhile. The others concurred. “Still,” remarked Aekino, “this must be subordinate to our main goal. Dealing with Amalion is paramount.”

Fetek pursed his lips. He spoke intently. “What do we wish to accomplish with Amalion?”

“Why, we…” Aekino paused. “Where’s Li?”

“She left,” Zera replied. “Quite a while ago. I don’t think she wanted to watch us torture him.”

The Dynast sputtered. “What, torture? What did she think we were going to do?”

“She has been moody of late,” said the Lunar, as if that explained everything. “She still has her dreams.”

“Ah, of course. She still carries the sword.”

“Where is Thorwald?”

Zera smirked. “He’s probably drowning himself in ale in some tavern somewhere. I’m sure we’ll see him in the morning. I’d say we should wait till then before we discuss anything further.”

So they slept. The next morning, all five heroes of the Circle gathered together, there in the living manse of wood, to break their fast and to prepare for their venture to Tul Tuin.

“So. What do we want to accomplish,” repeated Fetek, “with Amalion?”

Aekino delicately spread fresh butter across a slice of bread. “We wish to convince her to leave, of course. She was summoned in an... unclean way.”

“But how may we convince her to leave?” Li sipped tea from a porcelain cup. “I thought that demons liked to be in Creation.”

“There are many reasons they prefer Creation to their own home.”

“And what if she bewitches you and Fetek again?” Zera gestured with a biscuit spread with smoked eel. “Will we fight you as well as her?”

Thorwald snorted. “They won’t fall for her wiles.”

“It’s not so easy as that.” Zera leaned across the table to fix Fetek with an earnest gaze. “If your shard is anything like ours, then some part of you still loves her.”

“I can’t speak for either of you, but my identity is my own,” snapped Aekino. “I have had a real lover for a dozen years. That should hold off her unnatural charms. And if not…” He shrugged. “If not, then things will go poorly.”

“Can she be killed?” demanded Thorwald. “If it comes down to that.”

“In theory,” Li replied.

Aekino gestured grandly with his teacup, glad at the opportunity to pontificate. “The building in which she dwells is Amalion, in a metaphysical way,” he expounded. “Sufficient harm to the structure of the building itself may be enough to drive her off.”

“How can she be a person and a building?” Thorwald waved a forkful of eggs; crumbs spattered across the table. “That makes no sense.”

They continued to talk throughout the morning. They discussed what Aekino had learned from Stone Rain, of how the city of Longcorner raided the villages to the south for slaves to sell to the Guild, and of whether they might put that to a stop. They considered the state of the city, with its small allotment of guards, its eager but ill-trained militia, and its ruined walls patched with log palisades, of only marginal use against a real military threat. They discussed the knowledge wrung from Gray Mantle, of how the city’s population now was mostly comprised of the cultists, with their perverted worship of the Unconquered Sun and of demons, and the city’s underworld denizens, the thieves, bandits, gangsters and thugs who had not fled with the rest of the populace, but remained to loot the city and exercise their worst impulses on behalf of the most militant of the priests. They considered, too, their tactics for their raid upon the Tower of Winds to capture Darien Tal and his daughter, who they hoped might grant them some knowledge that would assist them in banishing the demon queen Amalion. The consensus was that Fetek and Thorwald would attempt to slip into the Tower through the hidden entrance, to capture the Dariens and hustle them out of the city.

So, in the early afternoon, Thorwald and Fetek walked north of the town of Brinlack, along the narrow band of scrub that lay between the river and the cliffs. Thorwald then swam across the swift, chill current with powerful strokes, while Fetek outpaced him in the form of a river fish. Upon the far side, they came to the rocky promontory upon which the Tower of Winds perched; and Thorwald led his companion to the hidden place where lay the tunnel into the stone warren far beneath the Tower’s base.

Only it was no longer hidden. The brush that had concealed the entrance had been slashed and torn away. The ground had been beaten into mud, and crushed grasses marked the path of many feet. Cautiously, they peered within, and there amidst the dirt of the tunnel floor they saw the booted tracks of many men fleeing the tunnel, along with massive, clawed prints that were decidedly inhuman.

“Vir’s forces left this way,” rumbled Thorwald.

Fetek nodded. “I would say so. And demons pursued them. Blood apes.”

“The demons came back, after.” Thorwald probed at the tracks. “We can investigate.”

And they did, moving into the darkness of the passages that underlay the Manse. The northman’s caste mark cast a clean golden glow upon the rough rock of the walls, upon leaf-strewn dirt that gave way to stone. A strange, savage howl echoed through the tunnels. Another shriek answered it from somewhere deep within.

“They have heard us.” Grimacing, Thorwald shifted his grip upon his daiklave. The pale jade shimmered like a ghost.

Fetek peered into the shadows that lurked beyond the golden glow. “What do you wish to do?”

“Destroy all of them… but that is not something we can do right now.”

“In any case, it will make stealthy infiltration impossible.”

Thorwald nodded. “Go back. Get the others. I will wait for you outside the entrance.”

“Outside?” The Lunar frowned. “That does not seem like a good idea. You may be seen.”

“It will be fine.”

Fetek sighed. “If that is your wish, oh Pillar of the Sun,” he said. And he went away, leaving Thorwald to linger amid the rocks at the base of the high, stony hill.

Crossing the river on eagle’s wings, Fetek came to the others in the late afternoon as they were discussing Ledaal Vir’s fate.

“Vir may have gone to Longcorner,” Li suggested, “where his son Tristen holds some authority.”

Zera smirked nastily as he retorted, “Or maybe Tristen had Vir killed.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” frowned Aekino. “Tristen seemed loyal.”

“You’re just saying that because – Fetek. Where is Thorwald?”

“He is waiting for you.”

So they gathered up their things, trekked a little ways north, and ferried themselves across the River of Willows. They reached the hidden entrance as the sun was setting. There they found a cranky-looking Thorwald sitting on a rock. “What took you so long?” he grumbled.

Zera smiled easily. “How’s it going? … Don’t look now, but we’re being watched.”

“That’s no surprise,” muttered Aekino. “We are not known for stealth.”

“Off to my left, in the forest – no, don’t look, Thorwald! – there’s a glint, like glass. We saw it when we were bringing Gray Mantle across the river.” He tilted his head slightly. “No… no, it’s gone now.”

“It looks like we were noticed noticing.”

Fetek stretched; his neck made little cracking sounds. “Should we check it out?”

“No,” replied Zera. “This isn’t the time. We have a plan.”

So they went east and south, around the base of the promontory, to where the curtain wall that abutted the base of the Tower met with the city wall, and farther still until they reached the city’s east gate, closed now against the evening.

“We could have killed the apes first,” Thorwald observed as they walked, “and then gone into the city.”

Aekino shook his head. “No, we can’t go into the city all bloody and wounded,” he replied. “It would be bad for our image.”

“We could scare them off.”

“Blood-apes don’t scare easily.”

The Northman pondered this for a moment. “So, instead of sneaking, we go in through the front door.”

“Yeah.” Zera smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Hmph. It is foolish. But it will do.”

They approached the heavy wooden gate, behind which the air glowed with torchlight. The air was thick, wet and chill, its silence disturbed only by the muted scrape of their boots upon the road, and the chirp of thrushes migrating by night.

Thorwald stopped a few yards from the gate. He looked up. “We will look awfully foolish if they do not let us in.”

“Then we’ll make them let us in,” Zera replied.

The Northman grinned. “Now you’re talking!”

He approached the gate with his caste mark afire. He raised his fist; Essence boiled around it like molten copper. “Open the gate!” he roared.

And so they did.

Our heroes stepped into the foggy streets of the city, all of them shining with the light of Sun and Moon. The guards and other nearby folk dropped to their knees. “Oh mighty demons!” they gasped, and “Bless us, Anathema!”

The Exalts advanced, surrounded by a corona of metallic light at whose edges the cultists pressed close like shadows. Zera stared straight ahead, but he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, “You know, this whole ‘Demon Prince’ thing is starting to get old.”

Fetek smiled. “What’s in a name?”

They made their way up the city’s sloping streets to the brazier-lit bazaar, where a handful of vendors and seedy customers knelt before the newcomers, staring. From there they progressed into the upper city, where the fine homes and manors of the wealthy had been transformed into alien towers of black stone and brass. There, amidst the demonic architecture that had assaulted the city, they saw a single cathedral of basalt whose elegant lines drew the eye like true love. Fetek shivered. “Amalion,” he whispered.

And they climbed out of that dismal place, where demons peered down from high black windows, onto the road to the Tower of Winds. The endless wind that circled the tower buffeted them; they passed through, and approached the fortress that sprawled at the tower’s base. The guards, bearing the badge of the green and gold sun, saluted and unbarred the gate.

“This is borderline insulting,” murmured Zera Thisse.

The courtyard bore the marks of battle and the scent of smoke. The gardens had been burned; a black stump thrust up where once had stood the cherry tree. A few guardsmen diced in the corners, or drank, or practiced desultory maneuvers. Something large and insectile glimmered through a doorway with terrible beauty.

Finding a chamberlain, our heroes easily arranged an escort to Darien Tal’s chambers; it seemed that he had chosen Ledaal Vir’s chambers for his own. The guards at the chamber door actually made a reluctant effort to prevent entry, but intimidating them proved easy. Thorwald pounded on the door.

“Go away!” Tal’s voice drifted through the door. “I’m busy!”

Thorwald pounded again. “You will let us in.”

“It’s you!” Clearly, Tal recognized the Northman’s voice. Given prior circumstances, it’s no surprise that he didn’t sound happy.

Before Thorwald could smash the door down, Zera knelt before the lock and twiddled at the mechanism with a knife. It took no time at all for the lock to pop open, and another second to jiggle at the doorjamb to dislodge the bolt.

The Circle marched into the opulent bedchamber. There, amidst the polished woods and leather-bound books and the carvings of marble and jade, in the silk-curtained bed that once was Vir’s, the fat merchant lay with a woman. He fumbled at a bed sheet to wrap around his hirsute body, while she smiled and drew a yellow robe across her shoulders.

“Get out of my… room…” Tal’s snarls died down to a choking wheeze as he realized that the annoying travelers he recalled from the Dayshield’s Daughter were Anathema. He sputtered wordlessly as anger and resentment wrestled with religion and self-preservation.

Aekino ignored him. He inclined his head respectfully to the woman. “Greetings, Auguinare,” he said courteously. For by her luminous violet eyes, her glossy black hair, and the six fingers upon each of her hands, he had recognized her from certain demonological texts that he had studied in his youth.

“You know her?” asked Thorwald.

“Her name is Auguinare. She is one of Amalion’s daughters.”

“I see.”

The Dynast turned back to Auguinare. With a pleasant smile, he said, “Lady, we will be speaking to your paramour about some difficult matters. It might be best for you if you were to find yourself elsewhere.”

“Of course.” She smiled back. “I’m gone.” And she was.

All attention now focused upon Darien Tal. He backed away from our heroes, stuttering and stammering, as he glanced at their blazing caste marks, their stern and unrelenting faces. “Listen… ah, great ones… I know we had some troubles in the past, but surely, ah, we can put that behind us…”

“Put a robe on.” Aekino spat. “You disgust me.”

Zera curled his fingers around his dagger’s hilt. “We have some questions that you might be able to answer,” he said silkily. “Your answers might have some influence upon your continued state of good health.”

“Now… now listen here!” The merchant-turned-cult leader belted on a robe with shaking hands. “You, you can’t just walk in like this and give orders!”

“Want to bet?” With a quick shove, Zera knocked Tal to the ground, then placed a booted foot on his chest. “We are Anathema. We’ll do anything we damn well please. Now, we are going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them. Understood?”

“Perfectly.” The merchant’s face had turned a greasy white, contrasting sharply with the chamber’s dark green carpet. “I am… at your service, my lords.”

Zera smirked. “Good. I assume you can tell me the names of all of the members of your cult?”

“Not all… I know most of the important ones by name…”

“Good. You’ll recite them, and I’ll have a scribe sent to take notes.” The archer chucked the supine Tal under the chin with the tip of his boot. “Now, your daughter. Where is she?”

Tal sputtered. “She’s got nothing to do with this! I, we’ve tried to keep her out of the business. Leave her out of this!”

“Your daughter tried to summon a demon. A very powerful one. I think she has a lot to do with this.”

“She…” The merchant seemed to deflate. His eyes roved the scrollwork on the ceiling. “That wasn’t her. It was not my daughter.”

Zera applied a bit more pressure. “Try again.”

“No, you don’t understand! There is a power that comes upon her, a haunting… she is unaware of it. It descends on her at Calibration, at the dark of the moon. It came from my great-grandmother… Gisla. She made a pact, long ago… the source of our family’s wealth. She has attached herself to my daughter… my daughter…” His voice dissolved into a pathetic blubbering.

“Get up,” snapped Zera. The merchant obeyed, trembling. “Lead us to your daughter.”

Darien Tal led the way down the stairs. The Circle conversed as they followed him. “It’s been a month since they seized power,” muttered Aekino, turning up his nose. “That’s a long time for Auguinare to sleep with that obese, hairy creature.”

“Demons have different standards of beauty than our own,” Fetek replied.

“More likely, it’s in payment for his help in summoning them,” interjected Zera sardonically. “In any case, what are we to do with him? Should we have Thorwald throw him out the window?”

“I’m in favor of that,” said Aekino. “He should die.”

“That seems too good for him, too easy. He killed Ledaal Amaya, and he tried to kill us. He has even twisted his own family.”

Li brushed back a stray lock of hair from her eyes. Her fingers toyed absently with the hilt of Burning Tiger that gleamed behind her shoulder. “Perhaps we should chase them all out of the city,” she mused. “And then go to join with Ledaal Vir, to drive the demons out by force of arms.”

“Not if he’s gone to the Monastery of the Red Butterfly,” Aekino replied. “The monks wouldn’t allow it.”

“Now that we have the Dariens,” spoke Zera, “we should consider what we’re to do with Amalion.”

“Well.” Aekino stroked his chin as an elder would a long white beard. “What arguments may we muster against her presence?”

“I have a sword,” Li replied. “It is a compelling argument.”

“Before we go to such lengths, I am curious what we might learn from her about the workings of the Essence…”

Fetek coughed. “I will not harm her.”

“I know,” Zera answered. “I hope we will not have to.”

They reached their destination. Tal knocked. “Gisla, my dear, please open the door. You have guests.”

A young, pretty girl opened the door. She bore little resemblance to her father, with her fair skin, snub nose, and nut-brown hair with just a hint of green in it. Were one to imagine her face pierced by a hundred moonsilver needles, a demonic sigil crackling upon her brow, and eyes blazing with inhuman fury, she would indeed be the creature that the Circle had stopped from conjuring a demon prince; but she bore no such marks. Her mouth formed a neat little “o” as she regarded the Anathema.

“Where is your lore?” blurted Thorwald. “Your books of vile sorcery; where are they?”

“I…” She fluttered her eyelashes in what seemed honest confusion. “I don’t have any lore! I have a diary…”

“Enough, brother.” Zera grasped the northman’s shoulder. “She doesn’t know.”

“What’s going on?” The girl clutched at her nightgown, as if she feared ravishment by the Exalted.

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Zera sought to appear solicitous. “Why don’t you pack a bag with your things. You can meet your father down in the courtyard; the guards will escort him there.” A quick glare toward the door facilitated this state of affairs.

“Am I going on a journey?”

“Not far,” he assured her. “You’ll be staying with your father.”

And so she would. Our heroes made their divine nature eminently clear to the guards in the tower, and after the bowing and scraping, they instructed the guards to lock Darien Tal and his daughter into one of the servants’ chambers until told otherwise, and to keep constant guard to ensure that they did not escape.

They went out, then, into the night, past the guards and the agata and the endless wind, down into the place of black towers. There, they crunched over broken stone as they brought gold fire to the twisting streets. The air smelled of old smoke and of frost. Constellations winked overhead, drawing their cloaks of cirrus close against the cold.

Amalion loomed before them, her basalt spires gleaming with brass, her perfect buttresses spread wide in welcome. Like candles they came; tiny sparks of silver and gold. The darkness pressed in around them.