B.T.V. -- Session 08 Epilogue: The Pale Prince Comes, The Amber Prince Returns

To my darling Airith:



As always, let the first thoughts I jot upon this note be of you, my beloved Airith. With every moment we spend apart, my affection for you grows only deeper, and my nights are full of fitful dreams where I believe I am about to be reunited with you but am always frustrated by circumstance. It is a mistake for a ghostwalker to fall in love, because our calling always demand that we wander from place to place, never having a place to call home. But still I would not trade the anguish I suffer being far from you, for even with the pain, my love for you is like a home built in my heart and spirit.

As you might recall, I had been called to the village of Kekes, high in the mountains west of Arylle, where I dealt with a series of ghosts that had been making their lives miserable. The Circle of Witches I found there had fended off the spectres for some considerable time, but they were wearying of their task, and their defences were starting to slip. Fortunately, I arrived before more than a handful had fallen victim to the apparitions, yet in such a small community, the loss was deeply felt, and if I walked through the village on finding it, I heard keening from one or two houses as victims were mourned. Unlike Draegerans, who strive to be stoic in such moments, Easterners such as us are more likely to let loose with the emotions of our loss.

After the ghosts were safety dispatched, one night around a communal fire I heard one villager lamenting to another that one of their number, who had somehow survived an attack, was faring poorly. He had only one son, who had recently journeyed to Arylle and then Adhrilanka, and they were worrying how long a message might take to reach him. The distance was too great for the Circle to attempt a sending, and the villagers by tradition seldom left the village.

As you are aware, I have always aspired to visit the capital and see its wonders, so I offered my service, saying that I was familiar enough with Arylle to teleport there from Kekes, and from there I could find a sorcerer I could pay to send me on to the capital, shortening the journey time to a day or so, allowing for time to recover between teleports. I am unsure if you have ever travelled by this method, but our people find it taxing at best, and must spend some time resting before doing so again. My offer was accepted with profuse thanks. Somewhat embarrassed, since the favour seemed minor in my eyes and convenient to my notion to visit the capital, I demurred when they offered payment. If I had to wander through the city to find this Simon Belazs, it would just give me an excuse to familiarize myself with its varied streets, buildings and peoples. And I doubted I would need to do even that. The witches gave me a strong psychic impression of this Simon, so that even with my limited ability to communicate this way, I should be able to contact him immediately after my arrival.

The next morning, the inhabitants of Kekes saw me off, a strange and wonderful occurrence for a Ghostwalker, since usually our clients are happy to see the back of us and get on with trying to forget their ghastly memories. I walked for a short distance away from the village, taking in the magnificent views and the clean mountain air. Given my time in larger communities, I knew that I was likely to be greeted by more, let us say kindly, full-bodied inhalations when I arrived in Arylle and then the capital. Collecting myself and taking some few minutes to recall a spot I had marked outside Arylle, because I would be loath to arrive in the midst of a city street and then suffer the sometimes violent after-effects of teleportation, I touched the Orb and an instant later found myself on a road just beyond my first destination. I started a passing farmer pulling a wagon full of produce toward Arylle, but the Teckla recovered quickly, amused I think as I quickly knelt to the ground until the world stopped spinning. His chuckles were not malicious, so I walked along beside him as he completed his journey to Arylle, where his destination was a market where he would sell his crop of sugar beets, he hoped. Being a farmer, he simultaneously lamented how poor his crop yield was this year and boasted no sweeter beets could be found anywhere in the Empire. We discussed the weather as much as describing different forms of cloudiness could allow, and while not stimulating, our words made the trek go more quickly. He thoughtfully offered me directions to an inn where I might spend some hours before attempting another teleport, and I offered him an Imperial for good luck. He at first was reluctant to accept the gift, but then accepted when I said he should buy something for his children with it. I was grateful to have found a brief companion who either knew nothing of my profession or did not care that I “consorted” with ghosts, as I have heard some describe my activities.

Only afterward did I realize we had never exchanged names.

I found the inn and, while with the aid of a good wheat ale with a lively foam and eventually slices of a norska roast, cooked over a fire in the midst of the taproom, and a hearty mixture of roasted root vegetables, I realized I would have to wait until the early evening to finish the sorcerous portion of my journey. Not wise to attempt a teleport with a full belly, I can assure you!

My host, a Teckla who seemed neither hostile nor friendly toward Easterners, was at least good enough to direct me to a kiosk some distance away in the city, where a commercial teleport was available. The cost, I discovered on my arrival, would be steeper than I had expected because while for a relatively modest fee I could arrive in the heart of Adhrilanka , reaching a point an hour or so walk outside it would be more difficult, and an off-duty sorcerer had to be called for. Still, a promise is a promise. Lightened considerably of ghostlight from my cartridges, I found myself on a deserted roadside, the ghostlights of Adhrilanka visible on the horizon. I would have started my journey immediately but teleporting twice in a day had been far more onerous on me than expected. I near to collapsed on the roadside, having only time to take myself off it to find the least uncomfortable rocky pile nearby to collapse on.

I woke up perhaps three or four hours later, in True Dark or near it, and after a brief meal of travel biscuits and wine, I collected myself to attempt a psychic contact with this Simon. Surprisingly, I felt a contact almost immediately, and relayed my news to a deeply concerned Simon. He resolved at once to set out in the morning for his journey home. I was surprised to learn he would not teleport. As much as he expressed love for his father, he said that he was near allergic to that magic and suffered much worse after-effects than I did when attempting such travel. He pretended not to have the money to take passage by sea, air or lococobra to Arylle and on to his village and would have to set off on foot. I revealed my location and suggested we meet the next morning, passing each other like vessels in the night, and he agreed. As he and I had nothing better to do, he described his adventures since arriving in the city only a few days earlier, and I must say I was astonished. The stories of the great city of Adhrilanka did little to prepare him, or I daresay me, for the reception he received, the people he encountered, human, Draegeran and otherwise, and the adventures he had gotten up to.

He worried that a new friend he had made, one Selador of Law, might be lost without him, because this newcomer seemed a stranger not just to Adhrilanka but to Axildusk as well, as incredible as that might seem. I had heard folk tales of such travelers, but those had seemed only analogies whereby the mores of a society and individuals could be examined by someone with presumably an objective viewpoint, but supposedly in this case the tale was true. Intrigued, I agreed to take on Simon’s role as a local guide, if Axildusk can be described as merely “local,” if only for a short time.

The next morning, I met Simon, who had made an early start out of concern for his father, and while we did not linger, he implored me to give something to Selador, having forgotten to do so in his haste to depart. I agreed, and examined with some interest the intricate object, which I quickly realized was a Splinter of some form. I packed it carefully in my belongings so it might not be damaged, and set off for Adhrilanka, with Simon having told me how I could reach the Coal Fires and Red Hot Pokers tavern, where he and Selador has been staying.

Even as I came into Adhrilanka, and I can assure you I had to strive mightily to avoid appearing the gawking tourist, possibly with little success because of how I would stop and stare at new wonders as I came across them, I was accosted by what I discovered to be a ship’s captain or owner, and his burly Orca mate, who glared daggers at me. Well, not daggers, perhaps, but certainly fists and feet, as I suspected he would like to give me a sound beating, though for what offence I knew not, except being an Easterner.

The ship’s owner, recognizing me as a Drifter, as Draegerans call us, sought to retain my services, explaining he had a ghost aboard his ship. I expressed surprise, since I had never heard of such a thing, though he assured me it was far from uncommon. Being a port city as Adhrilanka is, I suspect he might well know better than I. The Orca interrupted to say that, as I had not dealt with such an apparition before, I was surely not prepared to do so now. I demurred, but on learning that the ghost had been acquired on the sea, during a Leviathan hunt, I allowed that the mate’s opinion, though hasty, might in fact be accurate. I offered to at least examine the situation and try to identify the nature of the ghost, but the captain worried that doing so would only exacerbate the haunting. The ghost was threatening to make the ship unsailable, and he didn’t want to irritate it more than it was already. I did learn that the ghost was not that of a crew member who had perished during the hunt, at least, so I allowed it might be beyond my capabilities, and we parted company.

I eventually found the tavern and, eager to supplement the biscuit I had downed that morning with watered wine earlier, I entered. Checking in, I saw someone who had to be Selador from Simon’s description, sitting, as suggested, as if his spine was not supple at all, but an unalterably straight rod incapable of flexing. However, my attention as drawn instead to his breakfast companion, both a Draegeran and a madman from all appearances, since he wore a coronet upon his brow in a manner that could only be described as a statement of open rebellion against the Empire. Worried at what I might be walking into, rather than introducing myself, I sat a few tables away, where I could see both human—for the word “Easterner” did not seem appropriate to Selador—and the mad Draegeran, who seemed composed enough, as lunatics sometimes do between fits. From the way this elf turned his head, I would tell he was listening in my direction, though unless he was seeking the warning signs of my leaping up to attack him, I saw no point in, though it could be some gesture of sorcerous sensing, I suppose in retrospect.

Using my hearing, which you might recall is particularly acute, I learned the madman’s name was Mythic El’Nibone, a lineage I had not previously heard of, though I made no particular study of Dragon genealogies.

He tells Selador that he if of Chaos, putting a capital “C” on the word through inflection, but his affiliation is of a Dragon. He no longer wears rings, nor a horn at his side, and Selador, from this cryptic aside from the elf, seems to know him, or at least of him.

“I brought about the end of the realm,” the madman murmurs, rather dramatically for the lack of emotion in his voice.

“You found a cure for albinism,” Selador responded, and this explained the strange pallor of Mythic, who gave the impression of always having just seen a ghost. The elf agreed, adding, “My strength means that I no longer carry a blade.” I imagine he pretends to be such a mighty warrior he has no need for a physical weapon, and I note only a dagger at his side, though looking twice perhaps it is decanted in some way or is a focus on place of staff or wand. “The Blades,” Mythic continues, again with the capital “B,” “are held without Shadow, but one in inside and draws the others to it.”

I decide he must mean Null, the Great Weapon left in a lane near the Night Market, as described to me by Simon, a “Blade” of great portent and power indeed, if the calligrapher—that is by the way Belazs’s profession—is to be believed, and the mere appearance of Selador and Mythic, who seem as figures out of stories long since forgotten from a time when giants strode the world, gives credence to his words.

“There are numerous examples of how great a folly it is to consider oneself equal to such Artifacts,” pronounces Selador. I quickly come to learn that Selador refers to himself in such a detached manner, as if to maintain a distance between him and those he observes and walks among, like an Athyra scholar observing flocks of nesting birds in study of their habits. I begin to wonder if he categorizes living being as no different from objects, more to be examined than interacted with.

Mythic replies, “I have experience that most would not know here,” and as an expert on Swords, yes, that capitalization again, he needed to be in Axildusk, since he was once Ruler of Swords.

He continues that he sees his race, meaning elfs, rule this world and not humans, something he seems ever so slightly startled by. Selador answers, “This place is distinct in that it has been withheld from the Annals of Law.” So Selador too shared this ability to capitalize the spoken word. These two seemed like either peas in a pod, or adversaries who had fought each other so long they had come to respect and possibly even like one another. “I am here to represent my Dragon,” which from the intelligence Simon had parted with, was Acadia of Law, whatever that might mean.

“Much is unknown as to what has been fashioned here, but it is important to All that exists,” he continues, seemingly just Axildusk itself. Perhaps he includes the Paths of the Dead and the Halls of Judgment, and the dimensions said to be inhabited by Demons and others. Mythic observes, “I hope the Dragons (I think he means either the House or Draegerans) are up to it. I prefer the dragons you can control.” I suspect he means the creatures of Axildusk rather than the “Noble Thoughts” Acadia and these other Dragons seem to represent as overarching ideas or concepts that form reality.

Simon said involving himself in these adventures occasionally in Selador’s adventures sometimes caused his head to ache, and I begin to sympathize. “Draegerans. How quaint,” Mythic comments, reinforcing the perception he seems to feel himself above them while somehow still part of them. Perhaps he is an ancient hero of the Dragon House returned from the Halls of Judgment for some great purpose, as Kieron the Conqueror is said to bid his time, though in his case supposedly impatiently. “You are not exactly as I imagined a Lord of Law to be,” Mythic carries on, and I perceive this is the first meeting he has had with Selador, at least in person. “There is something familiar about you.”

Selador allows he is not strictly of Law, but also of another place, as if a place could embody a concept and a concept could be embodied in a place. “It was a Lord of Law that killed my companion,” Mythic recalls, with perhaps just a tinge of sadness in his voice, though perhaps I imagine it, giving human feelings to such a being as I am forced to admit that perhaps he is not just a madman. Or, if a madman, one of those who became kings or emperors due to their derangement, rather than in spite of it. “Many died an agonizing death at your hand,” Selador reminds Mythic. I suffer a brief image of the elf wading through a mob of enemies wielding a Great Weapon, reaping spirits by the dozens, a fierce smile etched on his face.

Mythic then moves on, stating that despite whatever duties he might perform on behalf of his Dragon, he also has empirical ambitions, explaining perhaps his coronet. Perhaps he is an Emperor reborn by the Gods, or the Jenoine, and here to reclaim what was once his. He is certainly garbed in what appears to be an ancient uniform of some sort, which despite being outdated certainly suits him, and he wears heavy metal gauntlets upon his hands, a strange eccentricity, and I support they must be decanted against common spells that would cause them to heat to searing temperatures or twist unnaturally breaking fingers, which was why most Draegerans, even warriors, eschewed metallic protective devices of any kind. Mine, of course, are fashioned from black plasm or ectoplasm, and proof against such everyday incantations. Mythic inquires, “your study of Law is continuing, or are your already a graduate?”

Selador, after a moment’s hesitation, prevaricates, stating “One is always a student.”

“In due time, these things will become better known,” Mythic observes, again a cryptic statement to me, reinforcing the gap between myself and those I observe. I being to suspect Mythic is more than Draegeran, and Selador more than human.

I confess to you, Airith, my confidence was almost shaken past standing, and I considered departing the tavern rather than embroil myself in this world that these two titans represent, but I remind myself, a promise is a promise. You always chastised, though gently, me for giving my word too easily, and I admit you might well be right. But the character I inhabit depends on sticking to my word, no matter than cost, and as you will see later, I expect to be paupered by another vow made in haste.

He had learned the Empire was governed by the Cycle, and that as it turned, “It will before the Dragons to accept me as their true master.” My love, if you do not realize, the Dragons are next in the Cycle to hold the throne.

“I have course will have to put my claim to the throne forward, when it is appropriate.”

“As long as it is lawful,” Selador adds, and I see perhaps the ghost of a smile appear on the elf’s face and disappear as quickly.

Mythic, who is a great observer, stated, “The predictability of your kind is its great strength, and the opposite.” I presume he means these Lords of Law, not humans.

“My father said something similar,” Selador notes, and Mythic seems reminded of something by that.

“I thought it politic to meet with you. As a future claimant to the throne, you might be of value someday. “I deal in the unique,” the elf adds.

An Easterner server who I would learn was named Monish Monish appearing, begging Mythic’s pardon for not having noticed him enter the tavern. “You were not meant to, but I allow you too now,” the elf intoned. He asked for a second mug so he might share in Selador’s khlava. Monish Monish rushes off to fetch one, obviously attempting to conceal how cowed he is by the elf’s appearance, and the coronet on his brow.

Then two more tavern employees enter, one I would later discover was named Grallan and a shift manager of the business, and Klaid, his doorman and bouncer, and they too hurried to greet someone who gave every impression of being at least a Crown Prince. I’m not certain the Tecklas realized that only the Empress was entitled to a crown, and no one below her unless declaring to be an enemy of her intent on usurping her power.

Mythic turns to look upon them, and his eyes appear as dark pits to me, with no sign of any colour. Perhaps his pupils are black? I cannot tell. I would have suspected him to take note of my aqua eyes, since he seemed almost preternaturally perceptive, but I got not sense of that, reinforcing the impression that while an elf in appearance, he was either not native to Axildusk or came from a time before ghosts, though I did not know when they first appeared, of if they had always been part of the world. The danger, my love, of learning one’s trade by experience rather than by schooling, I suppose, but as you observed once, you cannot teach a sculptor her art from books, only by laying hands on clay and shaping it.

My stomach rumbled but I ignored it. I doubted the servers would spare me more than a glance while this Prince of elfs was among them. I was hardly in a position to object and I was hoping he would forget I was even there.

“We are pleased to welcome you to the Coal Fires and Red Hot Pokers,” Grallan tells Mythic, and offers to clear rooms above, including I expect the one I have just rented with a five-imperial deposit, so that the Prince could take his ease in privacy.

He declines politely but allows as he might want a room.

Grallan is apologetic, saying a room could be made available—I wonder how comfortable it is to sleep under the stars in a gutter, my darling—but would require at least two hours for cleaning, to make it fit for an elf of such standing.

Grallan offers to send Klaid to the nearby White Lantern tavern, which had more sumptuous rooms and even suites on offer, to find better accommodation more suitable for a prince, but Mythic says, “I am used to sleeping under the stars.”

Selador takes a moment to inquire about Simon, who he has not seen yet that morning. I of course know Simon has departed the city, but choose to remain silent on that, not wanting to disturb two titans as they conversed. Grallan relates that Simon had checked out and departed the city that very morning, but offers to check for a message, then scurries off to do so.

Klaid, abandoned, baldly asks Mythic what House he is of.

“I am of the Dragon,” the elf pronounces, which seems to surprise the doorman, perhaps because of Mythic’s pale skin, so unlike a Dragon or really any of the houses save perhaps the Phoenix, and his hair is snowy white rather than golden as a true Phoenix would sport. Klaid then also departs, perhaps realizing sensibly he is in over his head.

“My people seem much changed,” Mythic says ruefully. He appears discomfited by the service and timid nature of the Tecklas. I imagine this opinion might change when he encounters Athyra, Hawks, Yendi, Tiassa and Lyorn for the first time, not to mention Dzur. If he insists on wearing that coronet, he will draw challenges like Selador’s breakfast honey attracts flies, though he pretends not to notice the insects.

Selador counters, “This is a curious, distinct environment,” and he agrees that Klaid seems “surprisingly simple.” Mythic says he understands each of the Houses of the Cycle are associated with animals or beasts of the world, and Selador confirms that.

“As often happens with heraldic devices,” Selador adds, suggesting that, while a giant among elfs and men, his knowledge is not as complete as even my own, though I take little comfort in such gaps I might enjoy.

“I am told they are most ancient,” Mythic in turn adds, presumably meaning the Houses.

He then inquires of Selador if he has noticed me, who pretends not to stare at them. So much for being forgotten, and I am unsure if he is aware I heard his words as clearly as if he sat next to me. Selador observes, “He knows me,” though how he is aware of this I do not know. Perhaps he has psychic abilities, and knows I am a messenger from Simon. I would feel invaded, but I have little to hide. It’s not as if the secrets of a ghostwalker would do anyone any good, unless they were born with the ability I share with other Drifters. Mythic allows his presence might be keeping me away. “I am somewhat used to making an entrance,” and he gestured for me to join them.

I rose and since I had neither cup not plate to hand, walked empty-handed save for my Emitter to their table, bowing formally to Mythic as suits a crown prince or the humouring of a madman, though the latter possibility seemed to fade from my mind even as I considered it.

“Your highness,” I greet him.

“What’s this?” Mythic responds, then seems to recall the coronet adorning his head. “This explains a great deal,” he adds as he removes it and hangs it casually from the back spindle of a nearby chair. “It would explain some of the reactions I’ve been getting,” he continues, more to himself than to me.

He murmurs—because Dragon Lords never mutter to themselves—something like, “The Ashes of Yesterday imbue the world of Today.”

Looking up, he offers, “I have set a world ablaze and seen it reduced to your namesake,” after learning my name is Asher or, as you know, Ash less formally. Comforting words indeed to hear from such a presence. For, if I am honest, he had ceased to me to be more than an individual but an embodiment of some kind. In ways like a ghost but giving none of the signs of being the spectres I am accustomed to.

“In your study, Selador,” Mythic says, turning his gaze on Selador while I seated myself rather reluctantly amongst them, “Have you found the Draegeran society acceptable??”

“I try to understand, not judge, and if needed rectify,” Selador answers, which sounds a great deal to me as if he must judge at some point, but I expect I lack the mental facilities, my love, to truly understand what he was seeking with mere words to convey.

“You have not put forward your ambition yet?” Mythic inquires, an arrow, if a might use such an analogy, that seemed to find a target of some kind.

“No,” Selador replied, with no pretension.

Mythic comments that, when he takes the throne, “I might need to rewrite the laws of Draegeran society. Would you be interested?”

And with that, my darling, we return to my original opinion he was a madman. While he appeared much more than I could comprehend, being a mere human, I could see him usurping the throne and even deceiving the gods and perhaps even the Jenoine into accepting him as inevitably the ruler of the Empire, I doubted the Cycle would, not so soon after it had been interrupted. I think this one might find the forces of all of Axildusk uniting against him. But I rapidly bury those thoughts. While Mythic is intent on observing Selador’s reaction to his offer, I do not double he has leftover capacity to spare to read my uppermost thoughts, if he could be bothered to do so. Selador than states, to my worry, and my love I can assure you I will be spending much of the rest of this correspondence worrying, “One would be intrigued, if not fascinated.”

Mythic sips from his khlava but leaves much in the mug. He seems disinterested in the beverage, as much as the nobility of Draegera seem to relish it, as do many Easterners. He gives an impression of overwhelming age and, as I understand from what I have heard about Sethra Lavode, the fact her age spans not just centuries or millennia but nearly the entire history of the Empire, she has experienced so much that finding something novel worthy of attention is agonizingly rare, my dear heart, that I can take some comfort in knowing the lifespan of a human is but a mote in the Gods’ eye, but still intense, even when lived mundanely.

Monish Monish, who has returned, inquires, “Perhaps something sterner, my Lord? The cellar is open to you.”

He offers a selection and runs off to accomplish his duties as a server. Considering the tavern seems to host such luminaries as the two I share a dinner table with, I wonder what splendours their wine cavern might produce. As you know, my darling, it is in the nature of a ghostwalker to drink throughout the date to dull difficult memories, but never to excess, as one never knows where a spectre might appear and be drawn into the attack, at least the malevolent ones. I am pleased to know at least some seem benign even, and because of the lone nature of a Drifter—though I rush to assure you, you do and will always occupy a place as companion of my spirit and heart, even if we cannot physically be together as I might passionately wish—I sometimes find companionship of a sort in the brief times I spend in their company. I believe that these friendly ghastly apparitions do not always appear visible to the human eye as their hostile counterparts do, but through their efforts their ghostlights lead you to possible boons and treasures, though as I would shortly be reminded, even that can be tinged with the quality of a practical trickster, a sting levied in return for a reward.

Ah, my mind wanders as I continue to jot down these words. It amazes me that only a few hours can occupy so many passages of script, but as always, I seek to share everything I experience so you continue to at least know of me.

Mythic, meanwhile, continues his interrogation cum conversation with Selador, who gives the impression of sharing the naivete of a scholar who knows of the worldly only through scrolls and books and not direct experience. Quickly, though, he returns to himself, which despite his efforts to be polite appears to be his favourite subject, a tendency I come to think he shares with Selador.

“I cannot expect the Throne to come to me uncontested,” he confesses. “There is much I must learn. If I must be a medium of change, this will be a wayward proposition for most here.”

For a moment I wondered if Adron had somehow been reborn.

Then he told Selador, “On occasion, what you represent might be on the same side as mine in a revolution.”

“There is a type of peace that can only be found after war, and a type of Law found only after Chaos,” Selador recited. He often sounded as if he was recalling passages from a book he had read, and I cannot tell if these are thoughts he shares or simply rigid adherence to doctrine and dogma. “But you have not sought power before.” Mythic allowed that was true, as so many despots and dictators have also asserted in the past.

“Who can say what will happen once I am upon the Throne?” However, teaching revolution might be enough, he says, and he might not seize the role of Emperor for himself. He allows that Adhrilanka, viewed close up, was “full of machinations,” though from afar the city might appear to represent order and structure. “Perhaps the influence of men needs to increase.”

“The weakness of humanity has always been its willingness to follow without question,” Selador avers.

Mythic, to my discomfort, then turns his attention to me. He tells me “Drifter” is a pejorative term in many places, as if it is not in the minds of many here or might not be. He seems ignorant of the presence of ghosts upon Axildusk, let alone their nature and effects. He claims, though, to be from a “not dissimilar place” where his people had been the rightful and ancient rules of their world, as well. A time of great sorcery was enjoyed for a time, similar to the discoveries made following the Interregnum that the Orb, back from the Halls of Judgment where the Gods dwell, had changed in some way that made sorcery much more potent. Some suggest that the difficulty of decanting with the Orb absent had raised the limits of Draegeran sorcerers, but given they must have been using, and surviving, Elder Sorcery, I cannot imagine how their capacity would extend to so many decanters.

“The world became for this great conversation,” Mythic continues about his world’s study of magic, but fascination led to obsession, and eventually the development of such vast and deadly magicks that the world “had to be unmade.”

However, in the destruction of that world, the peoples, beasts and animals were allowed entry into another existence, the elf asserts. “Axildusk is part of a grand concourse. “I mean to make myself very much from here.” This reminds me of something I heard from Simon about a similar conversation with Shadowjack, who spoke of the advantage “insiders” had over the “outsiders” now present here.

Mythic rose to depart, and of course I did the same to offer him a bow, though Selador rather rudely did neither. Customs vary from house to house, and obviously humans stand outside that society, but a bow can be of respect, not just submission. I am uncertain Selador has any give in him though and am reminded of the story of the oak and the willow. The elf did not immediately move away, leaving me on my feet, but sitting would be awkward at this moment.

Mythic noted that, in his experience, the Lords of Law were reluctant to become involved in anything.

Selador responds, “Of the Seven Lords of Law, one who did participate, Lucifer, did not end well.”

The elf finally leaves and Selador seems to have finished breaking his fast. Seeing no servers anywhere near, I abandon my hopes of my own meal. Instead, Selador, who as I understood from Simon pretends only to follow, never lead, sought my opinion on what we might do next.


Recalling some information Simon had provided to me, I suggested going to the Six Towers, as a strange Draegeran named Strayhorn, had suggested. I would come to assume that this Strayhorn, again seemingly a devotee of a Dragon, in his case Shadow, either intended his suggested as a cruel trick or malevolent plot, because Simon would have had no real way to detect the infestation of Ghosts upon the islands that held the towers. We first approached the island along a bridge on the northeast side, and encountered first the Tower of Battlefear, as I recalled from my readings about the capital, and nearby the Pediment Tower. Even as we started across the bridge, I felt increasing unease, and then realized that were we to set foot on this haunted ground, I might easily be overwhelmed by ghosts, who I am best suited to deal with individually or, if pressed, perhaps, two at once.

Battlefear is an oppressive, foreboding presence, so much so that whatever spiritual emanations the Pediment might produce, are overwhelmed. I see ghostlight pouring out of the latter, and indeed covering much of the island, but it is almost an illuminated mist compared to what I am accustomed to. I determine we should walk along the far shoreline of the Towers’ island to a bridge on the south side, and partway there encounter a friendly group of Teckla. By friendly, of course, they sneered at us less than most, and deigned to speak to us and, after a few words, they seemed to accept us as not equals, but at least amusing enough to while away a few minutes with. They relate that the island is home to a community of ghosts, something I had somehow never heard of. “It’s Six Towers, isn’t it? Nobody lives there.”

The island is where the city started, they say, and the ancient nature of Battlefear would seem to support that, though other Towers seem more recent, if still from thousands of years ago, suggesting a time came when ghosts occupied the island. Perhaps they were somehow contained there to free the rest of Adhrilanka from their haunts, but I see nor sense any protective fields meant to imprison them, and I wonder that no watch is set upon the bridges to keep newcomers from wandering into a dangerous zone. I suspect some, perhaps Necromancers, might still go there, and Simon had heard two Orcas discussing how a Yendi had been seen there. “A bit of the lost city” within Adhrilanka one Teckla says. One started to tell a story about a fair maiden with dark obsessions named Nana Kathyron who occupied the island, but his comrades begged him to stop, admitting the tale kept them awake at night, so frightening it was. The storyteller offered to continue to story if I could find him some night at the White Lantern, where he drank at night, and I resolved to seek him out some evening, offering to pay the shot for drinks in recompense for his tales.

Selador and I had a brief discussion about Dragons, or should I say Noble Thoughts, since he referred neither to the House not the creatures of Axildusk. I attempted to sound clever, but really the conversation was far above my mental capability to comprehend, and I gleaned little from, save the impression this Lord of Law gave the impression of understanding them while not really being capable of doing so either.

I do recall he spoke of 12 “Noble Thoughts,” two of which had taken a hand in Axildusk, Shadow and Time.

Again, remembering something Simon had mentioned and connecting that to Mythic’s references to Blades from without the shield of shadow, I led Selador to the place where Null was imbedded in the cobblestone foundation of Axildusk. He pretended to be disinterested, and at times while physically present he seemed mentally absent. As we neared what I will call “Null Lane,” we encountered an Imperial police inspector named Pelonia, who had been set to watch over the blade and warn off treasure hunters who might be tempted to retrieve what was, by mere glimpse, obviously a Great Weapon from its resting place or, if Mythic is to be believed and I see no reason not to, its workplace. He said that three Teckla, a Creotha and a Hawk had vanished after grasping the hilt, and others might have done the same without being observed. I am startled only one guardian has been assigned, but it seems in the natural of Adhrilanka, as with the Six Towers, to allow fools to suffer the misfortunes of their follies, something Pelonia confirms.

I ask Selador if the Blade seems any different from when he and Simon first encountered it. “It does not communicate with me,” Selador allows, so it was different this time. “It was comfortable. It is something that devours.” Pelonia tells Selador he is watching over the site to warn if Jenoine return, not to warn passers-by. “The purpose of such things is to be wielded,” Selador orates. “This is its great weakness,” though he doesn’t explain what that means.

“It got rid of the vermin in the lane, and the Night Market as well,” Pelonia offers. The sewer grate in the lane used to swarm with rodents. The Blade, he is sure, must be part of a Jenoine plot. They were inclined to attack Axildusk, then retreat only to return, he explains. None have every been captured alive. “They seem to have teleporting down to a fine art.”

As Selador and I strolled back to the Coal Fires and Red Hot Pokers, we came across a sewer grate in a plaza, and I spotted a tendril of ghostfire emanating from it, seemingly trying to open the grate, even though it could easily pass through it easily. Sensing no ghosts and intrigued, I attempted to lift the grate, but it was too heavy and awkward for me to move on my own, and Selador obliged me by helping. The tendril, rather than emerging, seemed to invite me down into the sewer, 15 to 20 feet down a narrow passage to its bottom. There, I could see what appeared to be a glint of orange emerging from water so soiled I will be offense your sensibilities, my love, by describing. Selador, with keener eyesight, described the object emitting the glean as being perhaps three and a half inches wide by eight inches long, and he thought it might be a Splinter. Glancing at Selador and his larger size, I sighed, but at the same time began removing my clothes, armour and belongings along with my black plasm cloak as I readied myself to descend. As I did so, we heard splashing from below, and voices suggesting someone else was after the treasure to salvage it.

I arrived at the bottom of the shaft as the same time as a more sensible Easterner, armed with a lantern, did so. He seemed amiable enough, and I offered to pay him for his help. I reached down into the muck below the water, and my fingers encountered, well, I won’t say what, but eventually they came across something that felt like a rough surface. Pulling it out and up into the light to examine it, I saw an yellow-orange rough gemstone, and the other Easterner’s eyes lit up in greed, and he demanded the treasure. I tried to talk to him and offer to share any value, but he was relentless, and I was unarmed, so eventually I gave it to him, but begged him to bring it to the Coal Fires so that my employer, Selador, might have an opportunity to do so. He made to leave, but before he got far, Selador without a word dropped my emitter to me. Caught by surprise, rattled against the shaft and then splashed stock-first into the water. I grabbed it before it could be damaged, fearing I might have to spend months if not years finding another Drifter to replace it if needed. I decided I would not trust Selador with my belongings again until I explained his value though I suspect his devotion to his philosophy made him callous when it came to the property and even lives of others, as I would discover through further conversation with him later. I caught up to the Easterner and, seeing me armed, he tossed me the Splinter, allowing he had a family he wanted to return to and leaving me ashamed that I would commit such an armed robbery on a fellow human as casually as a Jhereg might. I implored him to bring his partner outside the sewer to the Coal Fires in the next day or two to seek compensation. He seemed cynical at the idea, but if he does so, I will have to give him what meagre treasure I have, since Selador told me he felt no compulsion to do so. The Splinters, he lectured me when I returned to the plaza, were objects of destiny or fate or the like, and hence belonged to no one. He left unspoken the words, “Except me,” but I heard them clearly regardless and, given later events, I must confess he might have a point, but more on that momentarily. We walked back to the tavern, after I had washed the soil of the sewer mostly off myself in the river near the Night Market where I had emerged from the sewer, and we went to Selador’s room so I could give him the Splinter Simon had given me for Selador earlier that day.

The first Splinter, from Simon, was an intricate object that I sensed somehow was a structure that seemed to be a representation of how it would look if extended over time. I made no mention of this, and so received no credit when that turned out to be the case, but it is hardly worth mentioning, my love, though I do. I confess Selador had irritated me with what seemed to be disregard for his fellow humans, though I force myself to recall that, while he appears like an Easterner, he is not, and perhaps as far from human as Mythic.

Selador, who I admit appeared to be making an effort to be amiable to me though that didn’t appear to be an innate part of his character, or at least a portion he seldom got to exercise, that a Splinter was a “remnant of previous lives,” not “baubles” or “a currency of exchange.” He had lost many of his acquaintances and family members of both Law and a place called Amber, and the Splinters were his only hope of bringing them back, which I confess, my dearest, mollified me, though that would be upset soon after.

“This is what is left,” he avowed. “They represent a life that is lost.”

Then he summoned or revealed or otherwise decanted the entrance to his Entombed Treasure Room,” and we walked down into a vast chamber 50 feet to a side and as high, filled with portraits of relatives, clothes cabinets and chests containing untold precious goods. I grimaced inwardly, thinking how easily he could reward the two Easterners from earlier, but as it turns out, Lords of Law are very attached to their possession, given each has a similar treasure room. I didn’t see a connection between that and Law, but I supposed that is due to the limited nature of my mental facilities and my imagination. He pointed to portraits of his mother Majia, his Law mentor Lord Arkene, and his father, Prince Gerard, who seemed to be from Amber. Shelves around the room were filled with scrolls and thick tomes he pretended to have studied.

When we emerged from the treasure room, we were greeted by Michtey, who Simon had revealed to me was somehow involved in a plot involving at least Captain Sadderome Vill’paque of the Special Tasks Group, a Dzur allegedly posing as an Athyra.

“That’s where you go to,” Michtey welcomed us, admitting he had gotten a glimpse inside the chamber.

“We have questions,” Selador returned with some hostility, putting Michtey’s back up. “Questions that demand answers.”

He moved immediately to accuse Michtey of plotting with Vill’paque to some nefarious purpose. Michtey countered that he had tracked down the captain after hearing Selador’s suspicions of him the previous night and admitted to “a chat.”

Selador retorted, “Proof has been submitted to us. We demand to know the answer to it.”

Michtey, despite being a Teckla, would have none of it, reacting aggressively, very unlike his House and suspicious for that. “Draegerans are allowed to speak to each other,” he answered stiffly.

Selador carried on regardless, asking how far the conspiracy extended, and if Calcitrant, a Dragon lord who employs Michtey, was involved. Selador admitted to a meeting earlier in the day with another great Dragon lord, which seemed to upset Michtey’s equilibrium slightly.

I suggested that Michtey might be more cooperative, given he had murdered a helpless Jhereg child the day before.

“Children die every day,” the callous Teckla answered. “Easterners might value children more than Draegerans do. A crime is a crime, is it not? A murder is a murder?”

Selador offers Michtey the opportunity to walk away if he is that confident. The Teckla does so, teleporting away, and I wonder how long it will be before the assassins begin to hunt us. Selador seems oblivious to such threats, though, my heart, I am greatly worried by them. I mentioned I would return to worry, didn’t I? Ah, how pleasurable it would be to see you before I pass from this life to another, and I hope to do so, but I fear the chances of that are rapidly diminishing.

Selador seems drawn back to his treasure chamber, where he closely inspects the two Splinters. He picked up the gemlike one, and becomes seemingly lost to thought, at least of this world, and I suspect he was exploring the artifact psychically. From his reactions, I guess that he first hears a hum, and then obtains a connection to a different reality, where he sees the outlines of those from Amber he knew and didn’t, as if the silhouettes are a representation of these people or a potential of them, rather than the reality of them. He sees nothing of Finndo within, though his cousin is in Axildusk, or perhaps because of it. Then he seems to turn his focus on the ziggurat Splinter, where he realizes only a speck is enough to encompass its entirety, and that following its paths, he could reach anyone and anywhere.

When he emerges from his reverie, I urge him to contact Finndo for advice on what to do. Simon had described Finndo as someone of equal wonder and potential as Selador if not more, and he seemed our only lifeline, though Selador was not convinced of that. Still, he reached out psychically and encountered a sorcerous blockage encompassing all of Adhrilanka, though he managed through his philosophy to finally reach Finndo, who was imprisoned in a strange and wondrous place by Calcitrant the night he had met the Dragon lord.

“Selador,” Finndo utters in relief. “I am in prison. I am amazed you broke through.”

He admitted he had been trying to reach Selador for days but had failed to do so.

“I will bring you to me,” Selador pronounced, and he fulfilled his vow by creating a portal, by what means I know not, allowing Finndo to join us. Finndo appears bedraggled from his bondage. “We have finally found our enemy,” Selador announces. “It is the Dragon Lord Calcitrant.”

He calls for me to fetch tailor and supper for Finndo, as well as an armourer and, despite my worries about killers lurking, I resolve to do so.


So, beloved Airith, these are my experiences since coming to Adhrilanka. I cannot tell you what awaits me next, though danger must lurk through every door and window. Until I can write you again, I send you with all fervor my passionate kisses and loving embraces,

Ash

Asher's words transcribed by R. Perry