The mist Maldon brought indoors with him dissipated after three minutes. For Maldon, whose memories included walking the Chaosways this was both impressive and depressing. Depressing because he would never walk in those places again. His thoughts as to why a longer than normal substantiality of mist might be impressive were interrupted by, of all things, a cat. It likely belonged to the tavern he had entered three minutes and fourteen seconds ago.
The dappled cat moved around his calves with its kinds’ usual purpose.
“Pardon my familiar and my familiarity, Maldon. I’m Atharctyk Ipnacre, in the flesh.”
The man held two clay-fired tankards, that dribbled liquid as he sat down across from Maldon. Ipnacre pushed one ambitiously filled vessel toward Maldon at the same time as he drank deeply from the one he retained.
“I’m making the most of my return by enjoying the fruits of someone’s labour.” Ipnacre said this and then as though recollecting something and with an apologetic, small smile, raised the clay mug and said, “Your very best health.”
Without waiting for a response Atharctyk began again.
“It seems you have ventured into the place where my home once stood. I say that and realise that it’s a lie. Lying is something I do without effort. A professional foul, if you will.
You will have many queries that you will want to ask. As I am not about to vanish, there is no hurry to breathe life into all of them at this point. What you need to know is that —“. Atharctyk’s voice trailed off and his expression asked, ‘what’s wrong?’.
Maldon’s expression was less informative but that something was indeed very wrong was clear. The fact that a being sat across from him, acting normally when Maldon was used to being shown odd imagery by this same individual, who seemed to be on another plane of reality, struck him as ironic. The irony came from the other fact that he was seeing a vision now and it was obvious Ipnacre didn’t realise it.
Maldon’s mind moved through oil, trying to discern meaning in what he saw. Bolts of light settled into the flashes of violent beams from attacks. The attacks must be from far off as Maldon couldn’t make out the source. The target became visible as he perceived more. Absolom sat at the damaged control panel of his vessel. He tapped a few buttons and nodding to himself, leapt forward and out of the ship. That would be difficult under regular circumstances but the reinforced hull of the ship was no longer in front of the control panel so all was well. Absolom didn’t ask for him to remain behind so Maldon followed.
Absolom landed a fair distance below the spanship. He kept busy during his fall by firing off a series of shots into the grey sky. These had to be intended to give the individuals who shot this way some pause. Absolom’s intention was ignored. More shots and in greater variety of coloured beams, bolts and rays came at him. Maldon too. The power of these energies was evident by the air heating, cooling or varying in other different ways.
This seemed to have an unexpected effect in Absolom. Rather than grimace at the lack of a slackening in the shots being taken in his direction, he instead used his oddly-fashioned hand to grasp at one of the incoming shots: a red, flaming projectile. Maldon was sure that some damage was being done but if there was, Absolom ignored it. He hurled the still potent-looking, fierybolt toward a sizeable puddle before them. The water hissed and steam rose violently into the grey sky. A muttered thanks came from Absolom and he stepped into the steam.
Maldon couldn’t be sure if his father had also muttered to follow but he did anyway — he was getting good at being a visionary. He might have wondered whether this ability came from his father or his mother but not right now.
Maldon could see that he was elsewhere and he knew where. This was a realisation. It took half a minute. That was because the place had undergone change. The Castle Sax had seen better times. Only two walls still stood. Where a finely wrought series of gates had stood there was nothing — even the ground they had stood on was missing. Near his feet, Maldon spied a fragment of a Sax banner, its colours prematurely faded by whatever had ruined it. Maldon ignored the obviousness of finding this symbol destroyed. It did delay him from immediately following his father though.
When he found Absolom again he was farther away, among the remaining battlements. Maldon could see his father looking for something. Absolom shifted the stones and when they resisted used other energy than the bodily type to make reluctant blocks of wall get out of his way. Absolom’s words carried to where Maldon watched.
“Are you there? Can you hear my voice? Call out to me, love if you can hear me. Move if you can’t. I can’t find you.”
Maldon knew with apprehension that his father sought Syrynx. What emotions he felt were tossed away from him by an exterior upheaval. His body was projected skyward into the grey. The noise on its own was an assault. Maldon was hit several times by bits of what had been his mother’s kingdom and the Third Foundation. The rending was total and it came to him that this meant his mother’s life was in peril. He recalled being told by some nobleman of the Courts that she had put something of her self into the Foundation to make it hers. At the time he’d been proud that his lineage could achieve such a creative ability. He wasn’t so happy about it any more. He located his father. Absolom was moving in a different direction but like him, this was because of the explosions not by choice. In Absolom’s arms, Maldon could see he carried a body...
“Are you alright?” said Ipnacre.
Maldon’s expression spoke for him.
Atharctyk raised his tankard again, “The Courts and its Queene.”
Maldon was silent for many hours.
Atharctyk got the man a room upstairs, saw to getting Maldon up there and arranged for food and drink to be brought at regular intervals. He didn’t ask Maldon what he wanted. Atharctyk knew the man wouldn’t care what he ate — if he ate. Atharctyk wasn’t exactly patient with Maldon. He’d been awaiting this time for too long to wait more. That’s why on the afternoon following Maldon’s loss, Atharctyk said,
“You will think this an effort to lift your malaise. It isn’t. You haven’t been here long. You may not believe me. I’ll say this anyway. There’s hope for your mother. I can prove these are not just comforting words.”
Atharctyk motioned with his drawn sword and powered blue then green energies filled the rented room. Maldon watched tenth-interestedly. Within the field of power he saw Bosphor. His uncle stood within the aqueous light. Stood? Undeniably, Bosphor stood and on his own legs. Remarkable as he’d been crippled in the battle to save the Courts from the Inundation. His uncle had made the best of his paralysis by fashioning a spider-like conveyance to get around in. Maldon had found that confronting. Bosphor had always been a graceful and lithe provocateur. The contraption was a wonder but it was too obvious a thing for a spymaster to be good at his role.
Bosphor too seemed interested in his ability to stand. He took a step to see if other related skills might have also been restored. As his heel contacted the room’s oak floor boards a cascading tinkling sound began. Bosphor’s face showed disappointment and chagrin. His face was the last part of him to transform into shards about the size of a man’s thumb. As the cascade started at his left foot and proceeded upward, he did have time to meet Maldon’s eyes. And they remained locked on Maldon... After his knees collapsed into bits... After his thin sword and waist shattered, coloured flecks of both dropping to the wooden floor... His mouth spoke the words, “Nephew, you’re whole. What does this mean? Can you piece things together?”, then Bosphor’s means of speech dissolved leaving only his eyes for a moment afterward. They and their brows suggested there was a chance. Was that his uncle’s sly wink? Perhaps.
The floor supported a small heaping of crystalline shards. Maldon thought they looked like some of the panes at the Hall of the Array. These pieces were all that was left of his uncle. What had the doctor called them? Splinters. They were certainly that. It seemed an appropriate name. Splinters usually were removed from a person to take away pain or a worse sensation. The doctor had said something about these splinters bringing back sensation
or better -- a person' life too, perhaps.
Atharctyk said, “Found your voice yet?”
Maldon had but he was thinking and said nothing.
As if capable of reading Maldon’s mind — because he was — Atharctyk said, “You’d think you need a necromancer. You’d be right but not because Bosphor is dead. You need one because necromancers deal with planes and such. The ‘dead’ part just comes with the territory. I know one. A Dragaeran named Nazeel Strayhorn. You’ve read about him in your Conclave doings. Shall we visit his shop? It’s in YardDocks, up the road a bit.”
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