Tag: Crossroads

One Wing, One Eye, Chapter 4: Unwelcome Participants

“What the fuck is this?” Marko snapped, lifting his hood as he scuttled into Brill’s backroom infirmary.  He started as the Homunculus turned to face him.

“It may be more efficient,” the Homunculus said to Brill in its unnaturally even, unnervingly human tone, “if you were to gather all of the appropriate audience prior to further discussion.  It will save time on repeated explanations.”

Brill shook their head, beckoning Marko closer and stepping past him to draw the curtain that divided the infirmary from the rest of their shop.

“Now was that sarcasm?” they asked.  The Homunculus looked back to them, moving only its head and neck.  While seated, the construct remained almost perfectly still, save for the limited gestures it used to facilitate its stilted communication.

“Monk’s great at sarcasm,” Naples added.  “Gave us some real zingers on the way here.”

“Fucking wh–”

“Your name is ‘Monk’, then?” Brill asked, cutting off Marko’s outburst.

“I was designated the title ‘Homunculus’,” the construct replied.  “You may call me whatever you find serviceable.  This one has elected the moniker ‘Monk’.”

“Quick-witted as ever, Mr. Naples.”

“Isn’t this the guy you threw out of here two weeks ago?” Marko interjected.

“I did, yes,” Brill sighed.  “But when he arrived with my erstwhile charges, themselves safe from what al’Ver concurs as a harrowing journey to the Reach, I thought it perhaps worth our time to entertain some discussion as to how this discovery relates to the Crossroads.  As to why I sent for you, Marko, I trust you can see what is in plain sight?”

“Quit with the fuckin’ riddles and get to the fuckin’…” Marko trailed off as he scanned the room, his eyes focusing on the parting of Monk’s cloak.  “Motherfucker.  That’s the Keystone, ain’t it?”

“Indeed,” Monk confirmed.

“Ah…” Marko exhaled, somehow giving the impression of smiling and scowling at the same time.  “I don’t suppose you also brought Ehsam back with you, Naple man?”

“It’s, um, it’s Naples, thank you.  And no.  Ty Ehsam is–”

“Skulking about somewhere but not dumb enough to show his face, got it.”

Naples frowned momentarily before he realized the expression only served to confirm Marko’s cold read.

“Calm, Mr. Naples,” Brill said, noting the shape curled on the bed in the back of the infirmary, stirring.  “We are not in a position to turn Mr. Ehsam over to the Blaze at present, as much as we all would like to be rid of that threat.  And I imagine Commander Atra might try to sabotage such an exchange, from what Bleeding Wolf has told us of her goals.”

“So…?” Naples prodded.

“So it’s still best he’s in hiding,” Marko said.  “Us knowin’ about him’s the least of your concerns.  That still don’t answer my first question–” he gestured at Monk, “–the fuck are you?”

“Please explain again…Monk,” Brill added.  “The only person left who ought to hear is Bleeding Wolf, and I cannot say when he will be joining us.”

As Monk recounted its purpose–its scenario, the Alchemist’s plan to avert some prophesied end of the world–Brill idly wondered how credulous they ought to be at it all.  Though popular legend made Excelsis out to be a sort of magical genius–and Monk’s presence in their shop was perhaps even proof of that–they one thing they had never heard of magic having any success with was prophecy.  The histories they had read were dotted with accounts of charlatans who attempted to parlay spurious–though difficult to disprove–half-predictions into political influence.  But these histories all culminated in situations where those regimes with supposed access to magical foresight found ruin by pointedly unforeseen circumstances.

The Bloodfish’s rise completely obliterated the Highlord’s unsuspecting hegemony.  All the Sun Priests of Khet could not, apparently, predict the ascendancy of the Dead Queen.  And even the vaunted prophecy said to have fueled the reign of the Iron Queen of Spar–the sourceless and vaguely-worded “magic will destroy the world”–seemed, in the scope of history, to be little more than post-hoc justification for the Right-Hand Diarch’s consolidation of power.

And putting the conceptual issues with prophecy aside , the particulars of this one invited skepticism.  The Night Sky?  The Old Gods?  They weren’t real.  Sure, there was historical evidence of their worship, but people might worship any old thing.  The forces of Harmony believed Matze Matsua was an incarnation of some godlike spirit, but he died like any other man when he was gored by a roach.  Before the War, the followers of Le Marquains reportedly worshipped bulimia.  Hell, Bleeding Wolf still counted himself part of a cult that worshipped the color green!

The shape on the bed had sat upright, and Brill caught Devlin’s face, shaded by the boy’s tattered hood, staring, lidded with exhaustion but nonetheless fascinated by the construct’s locutions.

“And thus it is of paramount importance that the site of the Night Sky’s awakening be located expediently,” Monk concluded.  “It was Captain al’Ver’s belief that we might investigate that question here.  And Brill recommended we consult you, as you have expertise in creations such as myself.”

Brill nodded in agreement.

“What do you make of it, Marko?” they asked.  Marko shrugged, grimacing.

“What do I make of it?  I don’t sell abominations anymore,” he spat.  “Though…I’ve a few clients who–”

“Abomination?!” Naples exclaimed.

“Technical term,” Marko replied, distractedly calculating what Brill could only assume was a sales offer on their guest.  “Any artifact that seems to be alive.  Messy fuckin’ business, but–”

“Regardless, Monk is not for sale!”

“Indeed, Marko,” Brill interjected.  “My query for you was not regarding commerce.”

“Well then what the fuck was it regarding?  I don’t know shit about the Keystone–and I woulda bet you no one’s interest in it was more’n speculative in the first place.  And if you want my opinion on the end of the world story, it’s horseshit.  If the tinker toy here ain’t a commercial opportunity, I can’t fuckin’ fathom why you want my opinion.”

Brill glanced at Monk, but if the construct was alarmed or offended at Marko’s outburst, it did not show it.

“I was hoping, my friend, that you might consider this development from a different angle.”

“Talk straight or I’m leavin’,” Marko growled.  Brill sighed.

“Self-preservation, Marko,” they said.

“Eh?”

“The Blaze’s momentum toward us is being used to justify meddling in your business that you don’t much appreciate, yes?”

Marko held their gaze for a moment before nodding slowly.

“An’ you think that whatever prophetic interaction this thing has prepped can be used as leverage.”

“I have no idea whether such a thing is feasible, of course,” Brill added.  “But if it is, I would consider you best equipped to determine it.  Ideally before Atra does.”

Brill glanced again at Devlin, still staring from afar, half his face concealed by his hood.  The boy seemed different since his return, they realized.  He was still quite ill, of course, but beneath his labored breathing and evident weakness, a sort of grim determination had overcome his catatonia.  Brill could not imagine Devlin held any stake in the intrigue to which he was listening so intently.  They could only wonder where all that determination was aimed.

“So…who is this ‘Atra’, anyway?” Naples asked.  Before anyone could answer, the creak of Brill’s shop door wheezed from beyond the infirmary curtain, along with the sound of voices.  Brill motioned to Naples, who readily intuited the alarm in the gesture.  He quietly escorted Monk to the corner of the infirmary and draped the construct in a bulky canvas sheet.

“Now you must promise to rest, my dear,” came Lan al’Ver’s voice from the next room, followed by the trudge of approaching footsteps.  “Your journey has been arduous, and it is no weakness to admit it!”

“It seems there was no cause for concern after all, Captain…” Atra’s voice was fainter, trailing off as the door creaked shut again.  Then Orphelia drew the infirmary curtain aside, only to freeze as she beheld the veritable crowd within.

“Mr. Marko…” she said.  It was an almost-gasp, as if she lacked the energy to be properly surprised.  Brill noted with some concern that the aura of mischief she’d had in her brief visit to the shop a few hours ago had given way to a demeanor that seemed practically haunted.

Marko looked from her to Brill.

“Gonna go,” he muttered uncomfortably.  

He slipped past Orphelia and made his way out as Brill approached the girl, wary that she seemed somewhat far from alright.  Like Devlin, she seemed different as well.  Older, they decided.  By several years.  They could have sworn that she was a child when they took her in a few weeks ago, but now she seemed nearly old enough to be married.  That could not have been a lapse in attention, they thought.  There had to be something more…complex affecting the girl.

“What’s wrong, Orphelia?” they asked, setting aside their suspicions for now.  She shook her head, looking up at them vacuously.

“Nothing…” she said.  “You aren’t smiling.  And that’s…good.  Probably.”

***

This wasn’t good, Atra thought, reentering the jail.  She stood over the desk, shuffling parchment absentmindedly.  The girl.  Something was not right about the girl.  She could not tell what, and that by itself was perhaps cause for alarm.

Orphelia was indeed a mage, that was certain.  Bleeding Wolf had said as much–though he had deliberately omitted detail–but it was more than that.  Not a concrete observation, not a characteristic Atra could see, but a feeling: like a paranoid delusion that something was just over her shoulder, just out of sight, but only when she was near Orphelia.  That feeling was magic she had never seen before, and she had seen quite a bit.  

Never mind the shock of it, though.  She had researched the deep lore of the Riverlands extensively, and though the complication Orphelia presented was outside her expertise, it was unlikely to be outside her knowledge entirely.

A different angle, then: The girl had been traveling with al’Ver, “retrieved” from the Chateau de Marquains, as he had relayed to Bleeding Wolf.  This meant the girl had made a journey south…a week’s journey to the Reach, a week’s journey back with al’Ver.  The captain had been gone about two weeks, yes.  But so had the girl, according to a conversation Cirque had overheard from Brill.  Had he…chased her down to the Reach?  That was impossible.  No one could elude al’Ver on a river for a whole week.  His “experience” as a boatman aside, the magical forces involved in that proposition made the certainty of him catching her almost categorical.

Which meant he wasn’t chasing her.  He knew she would be at the Reach.  And if he meant to retrieve a teenage girl from the Chateau de Marquains of all places , she had to imagine his hurry would supersede his preference for conventional travel.

Which meant she wasn’t there in the intervening week.  She was merely going to be there at the end of it.

She had left the stream.

And the Chateau de Marquains…the Saraa Sa’een.  Fucking shit.

It was all Atra could do to keep from punching through a corner of the jailer’s desk.  It wasn’t a certainty, no, but if the girl was a locus of the Gyre, it would dwarf every other cause for concern she and Cirque had yet found.  Marko’s scrying attempts, Brill’s political feints, even al’Ver–an incarnate primal storm, albeit one she was pretty sure she could sidestep–all of these were minor distractions compared to the prospect of being warped into the circular story, the Smiling Lie and the Promised Vengeance.  Al’Ver could be convinced to stay out of things.  The Gyre, though, existed almost exclusively to meddle.

Her ears perked up at the telltale sound of skittering in the jail hallway.  Odd.  Cirque was early tonight.  She looked over her shoulder to see him stalk into the room, frustration more apparent than usual on his face.

“Weird stuff going on at the apothecary,” he said.  His tone was quiet but still cuttingly clear.  “Al’Ver came back with a talking construct that’s trying to find the ‘place where the Night Sky will awaken’.  Marko’s trying to use it to keep the mayor away from his toys, and it gets worse.”

“We might be in the Gyre right now,” Atra replied grimly.  Cirque stared at her, his frustration visibly giving way to worry as he slouched back against the wall.

“No shit.”  He paused.  “You sure?  You see the old man or something?”

“No.  Not yet.  But I’m fairly certain there’s a locus in this town.”

“So we might not be in it yet?”

“Right,” she said.  “But I’m not sure we have the luxury of keeping to the background right now.  An’ I hate to run.”  Cirque snarled at nothing in particular.

“Worthless town,” he muttered.  “Rotten scheme.  Can the Gyre be counteracted magically?”

“Hard to say.  Only information we’ve got is that’s ensnared many a powerful mage.  Catherine of Greypass was said to be one of the greatest Blood Knights of Kol.  Jin Gaenyan was supposedly formidable enough to have the Barabadoon on ‘is tail even before he became a monster.  An’ Feathermen records suggest even the bloody Masked Alpha got pulled in before the War.  But there’s ambiguity.”

“Ambiguity?”

“Did they get pulled in?  Or did they enter of their own accord?”

Cirque scowled.

“That’s a greedy fucking question.”

“‘Tis.  But we may never get a chance like this again.  The whole damn horizon’s dyin’, an’ a barren waste just won’t burn.  No fire for me, no feast for ye.”

“I hate this argument.”

“Come now.  Isn’t it exciting there’s a player in this game that might best us?”

“Two,” Cirque spat.  Atra raised an eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

“Two players.  The boy al’Ver brought to town–”

“Not the girl?”

“No, not the girl.  The fucking boy.  He reeks of feathers.”

“…feathers?”

“Feathers, you arrogant musclehead.  Like the Feathermen and the Sadist.  Like Ka’s palace.  Like her.”

One Wing, One Eye, Chapter 3: A Restless Homecoming

“But this has not yet become a story about the knife.“
–Three and Two and Two

“Godshell, I–I don’t even know what to say, Dog Boy.  This is beyond the pale.”

“I don’t either, Gene,” Bleeding Wolf muttered, ducking in through the door to the jail.  “It’s why I came here.  To figure the details.  Sort my thoughts.”

“That ain’t what I mean!” Gene retorted, loudly enough to catch Michel’s attention from behind the warden’s desk.

“Evening gentlemen,” he called.  “What brings you, uh, here tonight?”

“Town business,” Bleeding Wolf replied.

“The shell it is, Dog Boy!” Gene interjected.  “There shouldn’t be nothin’ to figure!”

“What sort of business?” Michel asked, frowning.  “Incidentally, Anita and I did want to thank both of you for helping out as much as you have these last few days.  It’s taken a load off both of our backs.”

“Don’t mention it.”  Bleeding Wolf didn’t much care for effusive thanks, but he was happy to help.  “This place is home for me, even if I’m given to spend time away.  Anyway, Gene, if there’s nothing to figure, then who would you fork over to the whitefrocks?”

“No one!  That ain’t our right!”

“That’s neither an option nor your call,” Bleeding Wolf growled.

“Uh, what’s all this then?” Michel asked, taking a nervous step back as the argument reerupted.  Bleeding Wolf raked his claws through the stubble on his face.

“I’m sure word was gonna reach you soon enough,” he said.  “Meetin’ with Holme went…meh.  Sculptor wants a sacrifice in exchange for the Holmite lives lost.”

“But…didn’t they attack you?”

“Yep.  John wants to keep ‘em happy, though.”

“They don’t get to demand our blood if it was their fault!” Gene objected.

“I mean, right,” Michel agreed.  “They shouldn’t…well…”

“Well, what, son?” Gene spat.  Bleeding Wolf put a hand on the old man’s shoulder as Michel frowned, nervous.

“There is the Masson boy,” he said.  “He’s still here.”  Bleeding Wolf raised an eyebrow as Gene’s face fell.

“Masson?” Bleeding Wolf asked.  “What’d he do?”

“Vince Masson,” Michel clarified.  “Young man set fire to his house a few years ago.  His family was inside, and the fire spread too.  Took out a whole district.  Ten or so died, dozens more were hurt.  Kid was sentenced to hang.”

“But he’s still here?” Bleeding Wolf asked.  Michel shrugged.

“Mayor Bergen commuted all death sentences when he was elected.  There was a vocal portion of the town that thought we were going too far, killing a sixteen-year-old.  So Mayor Bergen changed the sentence to jail and mandatory labor.”

“For how long?”

“Rest of his life, which…”  Michel glanced back toward the hallway which housed the jail cells.  “Which isn’t great logistically.  This place wasn’t made to have permanent tenants.  We’ve had to hire temporary jail guards, put him fully in the care of the caravants he’s working for–not totally humane, those contracts.  They treat him like an animal, and he’s come back a few times with serious injuries that Brill has had to treat.  I’ve wondered a few times if it would’ve been kinder to just follow through in the first place.”

“An’ now it’s convenient to flip-flop, John’s doin’ it,” Gene muttered.  It was a fair point.  Though that didn’t mean it was the wrong answer in this instance.

“Politics, indeed,” Bleeding Wolf growled.  He agreed with Michel, for what it was worth.  It sounded like the kid did a bad thing, probably for bad reasons.  If the town wanted to kill him, they were well within their rights, but this “leniency”, the process, the spectacle of it–bigger pieces of shit marched through the Crossroads every day, and the seriousness with which the mayor pretended at justice here felt like a mockery.  It almost did feel kinder to hand the condemned man over to Holme.  Except Bleeding Wolf knew what the Holmites did with their sacrifices, and he suspected Mayor Bergen did not.

“A town meetin’ in the gaol?” came the twisting syllables of Atra’s accent from the doorway.  “I must’ve missed quite the development today.  Michel, here to relieve ye.”

Bleeding Wolf turned to regard the woman sweeping into the room.  He knew that at this point, Commander Atra enjoyed quite a bit of the Crossroads’ respect, and he could see why.  By all outward appearances, she was a reassuring protector.  Even-tempered, muscled, battle scarred, yet still clearly in her prime.  Bleeding Wolf trusted her about as little as it was possible to trust an ally–and less than many enemies.  When they met, he had caught a glimpse of the magical power she was somehow keeping hidden.  He was certain that she had not accumulated that much death from even-tempered protecting, but what she had told him of her goals–forthrightly, honestly, that she wished to meet the Blaze in battle–made no fucking sense.  And he had a feeling that she was dragging the Crossroads into the fire more than she was shielding it.

“Thank you, Commander,” Michel said with a respectful salute.  “Have a good evening, gentlemen–I’m sure that you and the mayor will come to a reasonable solution.”  Bleeding Wolf waved him a halfhearted goodbye and faced Atra.

“What ‘reasonable solution’ are ye debatin’ then?” she asked.

“You want me to believe you don’t already know?” he growled back.  Her calm smile somehow made him feel both remorse for the sudden aggression and even more anger for the accusation’s little visible effect.

“I’m runnin’ a militia here, Bleeding Wolf, not a spy network.”

“And yet.”

Atra shrugged, walking past them to the warden’s desk.  She lifted a piece of parchment with a convincing veneer of assiduousness.

“Mr. Jens spent his 24 hours here,” she muttered.  “Best be lettin’ him out tonight.”  She looked up.  “Yer deliberation’ on whom to send to Holme, then?”

“You have been spyin’!” Gene snapped, almost shouting.  “And we ain’t sendin’ nobody!”

“Well, Bleeding Wolf’s right, and there’s no point hidin’ it: I do keep informed.  But ye’ll forgive me for takin’ a turn at disbelief, seein’ as the decision of whom to send isn’t yers to make.”

Gene’s face slowly reddened as he grasped the meaning of Atra’s roundabout phrase.

“It isn’t mine, either,” she added, lifting a keyring from a hook behind the desk.  “So there’s little warrant for the blame yer bringin’ to me, Gene.”

And yet.  Bleeding Wolf didn’t need to say it again–the thought hung in the air obviously enough without additional vocalization.  He couldn’t tell if his intuition was being clouded by what he had discovered of Atra’s prowess–by how incredibly intimidated he realized he was–but he couldn’t shake the notion that the particulars of the arrangement with Holme were material to her interests.  It was obvious that she would want an arrangement with the Sculptor’s military, of course, but what made no sense–and yet seemed inexplicably evident–was that an offering of one of the Crossroads’ own to those horrifying statues was exactly how she wanted it to go down.

If she was concerned by Bleeding Wolf’s anxious calculus, though, Atra did not show it.  She simply returned his pensive glare with a pleasant smile and left the room, proceeding down the jail hallway, keyring jingling as she walked.

“I’m startin’ to get damned tired of everyone tellin’ me my opinion don’t matter,” Gene muttered quietly.  Bleeding Wolf listened as the metallic jingle receded to the far end of the hallway.

“It’s a distraction to think of it as an insult, Gene,” he replied in a similarly low voice, though he doubted there was anything they could do to prevent Atra from eavesdropping at this range–even Bleeding Wolf’s magic was capable of augmenting his hearing enough to catch isolated whispers fifty feet away.  “If you look at the big picture right now, you’ll notice that no one’s opinion matters that much.  I don’t know if you realize how much political fuckery it takes to engineer a situation that everyone disagrees with but no one can gainsay.”

Gene raised an eyebrow, evidently rattled, though he didn’t have time to respond.

“Gentlemen!” a voice boomed as the jail door slammed violently open.  “I have need to interject upon your arrangement with Holme!”  Bleeding Wolf whirled, annoyed at what was becoming a stream of interruptions, as Lan al’Ver glided through the doorway, brandishing his umbrella like a showman.

“Where the hell have you been?” Bleeding Wolf spat.

“The Chateau de Marquains, Mr. Wolf, retrieving our dear Orphelia and more–”

“What?!”

“Pay attention!  You are to travel to Holme, and we shall join your caravan.”  Bleeding Wolf blinked.

“To…Holme?” he asked, winded.

“Indeed,” al’Ver continued dismissively.  “To secure the iron you promised the Doctor’s ward.  Have you forgotten your own priorities in this crisis?”

“Crisis?  How do you…?” Bleeding Wolf sputtered.  He shook himself, rapidly reacclimating to al’Ver’s infuriating gift for putting him off balance.  “We aren’t going to Holme!”  Al’Ver rolled his eyes.

“Of course you are,” he said.  “There is no one here you trust to take charge of that exchange.  You will be going there, and as momentous events await beyond that bend, I will be accompanying you.”  There was a moment of silence.

“Did you say Orphelia was at the Chateau de Marquains?” Gene finally asked.

“Now yer to go straight home.  No stops at the tavern–ye worried yer family bad with this last stunt, so don’t ye go worryin’ them more.”  Atra’s voice preceded her entrance from the hallway, escorting a gaunt, disheveled man whom Bleeding Wolf did not recognize but assumed was the “Mr. Jens” mentioned earlier.  “Ah,” she said, looking to the three of them.  “Captain al’Ver, welcome back.”

Al’Ver was silent for about a second longer than the greeting warranted.  Bleeding Wolf glanced back at him and noted that–for perhaps the first time in his memory–Lan al’Ver seemed surprised.

“Atra, my lady,” al’Ver said belatedly, though with recovered composure.  “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“You’ve met?” Gene grunted.

“Had the good fortune of meetin’ the Captain on the way here,” she replied with a smirk.  “As I understand many do.”

“Indeed,” al’Ver corroborated disinterestedly.  “But once again, you have me at a peculiar disadvantage: I did not expect to find you here, and so I am unsure what to make of it. –”

“The mayor here issued a call for fightin’ folk to train a militia while ye were on yer latest voyage, Captain…”

Bleeding Wolf stared at Atra as she explained the situation, Bergen’s nominal concerns, progress in the Blaze’s advance in the weeks al’Ver had been gone, all of it logical and intuitive.  Al’Ver nodded politely, adding his stupid, self-important quips and affirmations as he would, but Bleeding Wolf had heard it: the jolt at the end of his expression of confusion, as Atra offered her explanation just slightly too quickly.  It was impeccably smooth, but she had interrupted him.  Why?

“If you don’t mind,” Bleeding Wolf said, reentering the conversation amidst a somewhat off-topic discussion of Holmite idiosyncrasies, “I would like to hear the end of al’Ver’s question.”  He looked at Atra.  “The one you cut off.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Captain!  Did I interrupt ye?”

“It is Captain al’Ver, Mr. Wolf,” al’Ver rebuked.  “And there is no need to be rude.  The commander’s explanation was perfectly sufficient.

Bleeding Wolf scowled but did not reply.  He was going to have to pry less directly if al’Ver was going to be a pill about it.

“In any case,” al’Ver continued, “this has been a serendipitous reunion, surely, but my work lies elsewhere.  We have our objective, Mr. Wolf!  Now I must determine where Orphelia has gotten to.”

“Oh no,” Gene mumbled.

“Orphelia?” Atra asked.  “I recall mention of the name from Brill when I arrived.  Is the girl prone to trouble, perhaps?”

***

Orphelia had not intended any trouble to come from her visit to the tavern.  She really only wanted some mulled wine by the fire–and to spend the two pieces of silver she had pickpocketed from Mr. Naples before he realized it was gone.  But now that she was there, it was getting difficult to resist.

Part of it was boredom, yes.  She knew it was.  The last several days on the water had not been mentally stimulating, in spite of the cool cave Captain al’Ver had found with Ty and the weird metal man who had joined them.  And she was starting to appreciate that her reactions to boredom were perhaps more of a burden than she really wanted to inflict on herself or others.  Listening to Mr. Ruffles that day she had left the Crossroads had put her and Devlin in danger–far more danger than she had even realized until Ty and Naples’ explained what the Chateau de Marquains was–and she wasn’t eager to do that again.  But she was still bored.

The other part was that the happenings at the tavern tonight were making her really curious.

It wasn’t an especially busy night.  Multiple large caravans had apparently just departed, and the room was spotted with empty tables.  But one patron, a tall, bulky, middle-aged man in ill-fitting clothes, had gotten sloppy drunk and was proclaiming loudly to anyone who would listen that during the War, he had become known as the “Taker of Skulls” for his combat prowess–or his roach body part collection, or just a habit of decapitating any corpse he came upon as an offering to the Blood God.  It wasn’t really clear to Orphelia, but as far as she could tell, it also wasn’t clear to him.  The man seemed confused, and his fit of bravado likely would have guttered quickly had Orphelia not sat down beside him and–to the barkeep’s chagrin–began requesting elaborations on his various boasts.

“I killed a hundred men at Bloodhull!” he roared at one point.

“Oh, so you were fighting for the bad guys?” Orphelia asked.

“What?!  Of course not!  I fought for Harmony!  Matze Matsua was right next to me, he was!”

“Then why’d you kill all those people?  Weren’t the bad guys mostly roaches and those tongue things?”

“Well…”

Orphelia didn’t know whether she was asking after real historical details or simply playing along with this weirdo’s delusions of grandeur–the stories her father had told her about the War of the Roaches always did seem rather fanciful.  But either way, it didn’t seem like this guy would know.  He didn’t look old enough to have actually seen the war, and he seemed too stupid to be a mage like Dog Boy.

Or like her, she supposed.

She was still processing what had happened at the Chateau de Marquains, Mr. Ruffles’ task, what he had said about her abilities.  Could she still call him Mr. Ruffles?  She wanted to, but there was a part of him now that she couldn’t force back into the stuffed animal her father had given her.  The spectral man who had guided her to the Saraa Sa’een.  Romesse of Khet.  Rom, he had called himself.

Captain al’Ver didn’t seem to trust him, but it didn’t seem like Rom had lied: She was able to do magic.  Mr. Ruffles didn’t talk to her the entire trip back, didn’t give her any instructions, but she had tried to do the things he had helped her do before, pushing away Naples’, Ty’s, and the metal Homunculus’ notice while she skulked around the raft, stealing things which she usually gave back.  It worked.  Sort of.  For a while.

It didn’t work on Captain al’Ver at all–he seemed to have an eye on her whenever she was near, whether she was attempting to “channel mana” or not.  And then, after a time or two, Naples caught her trying to lift his notebook.

“When you do that,” he said, gently taking the book from her hands, “people around you can sense the mana that you’re pushing at them.  The reason it works most of the time is because they aren’t paying that much attention–not unless they know someone’s close.  Or trying to steal their stuff.

“But once they’re actively looking for you, it takes a lot more effort to keep them from finding you.  Heck, that’s why Master Faisal taught us to look for shadow-walkers before teaching us to shadow-walk ourselves.”

It turned out that both Naples and Ty knew how to do some of the things Rom had guided her through.  It was a rare school of magic which, Naples explained, originated with a “separatist sect”–or something like that–from the city of Khet.

“Where is Khet, Mr. Naples?” she asked.

“Oh, nowhere anymore.  It used to be way north, in the desert past the Gravestone mountains, but it was destroyed centuries ago by the Blood God.”

“The who?”  Naples laughed at this.

“Do you actually want to learn some history, Orphelia?”

She did not, though she did think that the “Blood God” sounded like a cool name.  Now, though, as the “Taker of Skulls” kept going on about how the powers of the Blood God strengthened him or whatever, she slightly regretted not asking about it when the opportunity was there.

“I even got some proof I was there,” the strange man grunted eventually.  “Ya see, I was in the vanguard at the assault on Roachheart after Bloodhull fell too.  Was the first one in the room where Ka done killed ‘imself.  Stodgy bastards wouldn’t let me take his head, but I did get this!”

The “Taker of Skulls” drew a small knife from a sheath at his belt and embedded it into the bar with a loud THUNK.

“The very knife he cut ‘is throat with!” he proclaimed.

Orphelia wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be impressed with.  The knife was visibly rusting, and the blade appeared to be loosely joined to the handle with twine.  The barkeep was even more unimpressed.

“Alright, I think you’ve had plenty,” she said, glaring at the new notch in her bar.  “Time to go!”

The “Taker of Skulls” slammed his fist against the bar and roared something back, but Orphelia was only dimly aware of it.  She realized with equal parts fascination and concern that despite the knife’s innocuous appearance, she couldn’t take her eyes from it.  And the sounds around her had faded.  It was as if the substantial din of the tavern–of the argument ongoing right beside her–had become background, replaced not by different noise, but by intrusive thought:

Take it, her instinct told her.

Take it.  Take it.

Take it.

TAKE IT.

The part of her that was concerned was now, of course, alarmed, but she had no other reason not to take the knife.  So she did.

The silence and stillness fell so immediately that she felt she had been struck.  But nothing had touched her.  She pried the knife from the bar, considered it, noting that it was indeed a shoddy, unremarkable piece of work.  But then she noticed that the tavern around her had not merely stilled.  It had changed.

The barkeep was staring at her.  No.  No, everyone, the whole tavern was starting at her, but for some reason, as she glanced, panicked, back and forth, she couldn’t seem to focus on their eyes.  All of their faces were…the same.  And every single one of them was smiling, teeth bared.  At the back tables, some of them began to laugh, quiet peals of high-pitched cackling echoing across the room’s high ceiling.  And then a whisper, chime-like, consonants clicking, inches from her ear:

“Awake from your dream, child?”

She sat bolt-upright, suppressing a shiver, and whirled.  No one was there.  Rather, the tavern was there, its warmth and noise suddenly returned, and not a single person was looking at her.  No one was smiling.  At least no one was smiling like that.

Next to her, the barstool where the “Take of Skulls” had been sitting was empty.  The barkeep looked up from the cask of ale she had just finished tapping.

“You alright, sweetheart?” she asked.  “Need more wine?”

Orphelia shook her head, dazed.  Then she looked down at her hands.  She was still holding the knife, and, despite its dubious construction, it felt light and comfortable in her palm.  She glanced at the notch in the bar where the man had plunged the knife moments before.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said to the barkeep, gesturing to the empty stool.  “Do you know where the man who was sitting here went?”  The barkeep frowned.

“You sure you’re okay, hun?  That seat’s been empty all night.”

Orphelia stared at her, feeling a pit in her stomach.  She nodded slowly, tucked the knife into a pocket inside her dress, and slid down from her stool.  Saying nothing to the barkeep, she placed Naples’ two pieces of silver on the bar and made her way to the door as quickly as she could without sprinting.

The air was cool and wet outside.  Calming.  Traffic was light, but the street was far from empty, which was good: What happened in the tavern had left her unsettled, somehow, by both crowds and solitude.  She took a deep, nervous breath.

What was that?  Did it have to do with that weird Skull guy?  With the knife?  And where did he go?  And why did she keep the knife?  Ooh.  She had no answer she could frame in words, but even the thought of discarding the knife struck her with overpowering dread.  The voice…the knife, for some reason it was all settling, familiar, in her mind.  She didn’t like that.  She knew it wasn’t familiar.  She knew she had never seen it before.

“Orphelia, my dear!”

The voice calling from the busy end of the street was familiar too.  But it was the right kind of familiar.

“Captain al’Ver…?” she muttered, turning, dazed, toward its source.

“Orphelia, what’s the matter?” Captain al’Ver asked, drawing closer.  Behind him, she saw old Gene and Dog Boy approaching as well, along with a tall woman she had never seen before.

Orphelia didn’t reply.  She just shook her head, the air in her lungs feeling fuzzy amidst the comedown from the panic.  Gene exchanged a glance with Bleeding Wolf, who ducked quickly through the tavern door, only to reemerge a few seconds later with a shrug.

“Seems normal in there,” he said.  “What’s gotcha spooked, girl?”  Once again, Orphelia had no words.  What could she say?  How would she even begin to describe it?  Captain al’Ver frowned, looking down at her empty hands.

“Where is your stuffed bear, Orphelia?” he asked quietly.

“Left him at Brill’s,” she replied.  The world’s resolution was coming back.  She could breathe normally again.

Still, she thought, better not tell Captain al’Ver about the knife.  Better to save it for a surprise.

Oh no.

That thought had not been hers, but try as she could to contradict it, she could not.

One Wing, One Eye, Chapter 2: The Homunculus

Lan al’Ver awoke with an uncharacteristic jolt.  It was becoming more frequent.  Sleep.  Dreams.  The writhing and resonance of the Night Sky’s mind was intruding ever more upon the world’s substance.  Structure was beginning to decalcify, mana ran rich with dreamsilt, and even beings such as Lan, who had long since dispensed with the biological necessity of somnolence, were having it thrust upon them.  Unimpeded, the end would be here soon.  Perhaps in weeks, perhaps in years, but when He woke up, reality would melt into dream, and dream would melt into nothing.  Only the Dark would remain, and that was lovely for the Dark, but Lan was beginning to view the prospect of nonexistence with a new apprehension of late.  Perhaps the Alchemist had been right.  It was fortunate the man had been so persuasive during his crossing.

Lan surveyed his crowded raft.  Dawn had not quite arrived, and the sky was still a deep, whorled grey.  The others were still asleep: Orphelia and Devlin huddled inside the raft’s small cabin, Ty Ehsam the scavenger crouched against its outer wall, and Naples the scholar lounged, snoring, atop a pallet of linen bolts.  None, apparently, had noticed his lapse in vigilance.  And he had woken before they had come upon their intermediary destination, so it seemed no evidence remained for them to find.  All was still in hand so far, though the uncertainty of it chilled him.

A soft breeze blew through the reeds, the minutes passed, the sky lightened, and as his companions began to stir, Lan maneuvered the raft to the bank, just as it began to widen before them.

Seek the Keystone, and bring it to the shrine where once you ruled, Excelsis had said.  Though he was still unaware of the purpose of this errand, Ty had the Keystone now.  They had gone to some lengths to extricate it from Les Marquains’ clutches.  He would certainly be disappointed to learn he would not be handing the stone over to the Blaze, but the stakes were higher than he could know.  Even if he saved himself from the fire, taking any other course would end him–and everything–all the same.

“The shrine” where once Lan “ruled” was a flattering reference, even if it was based in historical inaccuracy.  Lan’s erstwhile incarnation, the “Turtle on the River’s Surface”, as the remaining stories recalled him, had never been a political entity, much less a ruler.  But nonetheless, for a time, there were some humans who claimed him as a guardian.  Those humans, the ones who charted and spread across the Riverlands, who became, in fact, the first Riverlanders, maintained among their disparate tribes a place of confluence here, at the fork between the Lifeline and the Artery.  Over time, its permanence in culture became permanence in edifice, and as the Turtle–the creature–faded into the background, the turtle as a symbol rose in the form of the Godshell Palace at the center of the floating city of Thago, capital of the Revián Federation.

It had been many centuries now since Thago had been destroyed, torn apart by social unrest and an opportune attack by the Diarchy of Spar, their rival to the east.  Though Lan had felt the loss of Thago keenly at the time, he had grown to understand that by then, the age of the Old Gods had long since ended.  Thago had all but forgotten him, palaces notwithstanding, and Spar had almost certainly forgotten Brother.  It had become a world of men, of their creation, and Lan’s role from then on was merely to live in it.  There were worse fates.  Though now it seemed had one last debt to pay the world he no longer guarded.

Now at the fork in the river where Thago once floated, there was nothing left, not even ruins, save perhaps some disintegrated hull fragments long stuck in mud and shielded from the eroding currents.  But Lan was reasonably sure it was the place which was symbolic in the Alchemist’s gesture and not the literal architecture.  No, he presumed–and his presumptions were generally apt–that what he was looking for here would be the Alchemist’s creation.

“Did you stop to rest, al’Ver?” Ty asked.  He had stirred, it seemed, awakened by their cessation of movement.

“Captain al’Ver,” Lan corrected, though not disdainfully.  Ty was attempting well enough to blunt his own discomfort at their decreased pace.

“Yes, of course.  Captain.  But–”

“No, Mr. Ehsam.  We have stopped because there is something the two of us need to see.”

“The…two of us?”  The question was punctuated by a moist thud as Naples toppled to the deck.


“Wha–what’s all this?” the scholar asked blearily.

“No need to worry,” Lan assured.  “Please keep watch over the children.  We will not be away long.”

With that, he stepped out onto the bank, Ty bewildered but in tow.  The reeds were thick where he had moored the raft, and if there were anything hiding in the mud near them, it would be all but impossible to find.  But Lan doubted it would be so close to the river’s churn.  Excelsis, whose life’s work had been toward the preservation of the world, would have been particularly wary of erosive influences.  Up ahead, there was an outcropping of rocks which would certainly be a more fruitful ground for their search.  Lan drifted up the uneven terrain on footholds he suspected were too slight for Ty to notice as Ty, accordingly, ignored them, clambering up the rocks with impressive agility but no small effort.

“Al’Ver.  Captain,” he said, about three quarters of the way up.  He was trying to disguise his heavy breathing, only mostly successfully.  “What are we doing here?”

“We are looking for something the Alchemist left us, Mr. Ehsam.”  Ty’s frown deepened to incredulity.

“What?  No!  Absolutely not!”

Lan peered between a gap in two boulders, spotting the telltale contours of stairs hewn into the rock.

“Right here, I believe,” he said.  Ty looked through the gap.

“Oh, gods, there’s actually something here,” he muttered.  Then, more dedicatedly: “No!  I’m done with this, al’Ver!  I finally have my freedom in hand, and I’m not going to risk it for a payday on whatever manse or lair this is.  I need to get back up north!”  He turned to leave, but Lan called after him:

“It is precisely because you have the Keystone that we are here.”  Ty stopped, looking back at Lan with sudden suspicion.  “Did you think your quest was merely coincident to my journey to the Reach?”

“I did,” Ty said slowly, eyes widening with something approaching recognition.  “What does this have to do with the Keystone?”

“Some time ago, the Alchemist asked me to find it and bring it here.  I have done so.  Now we must see what that was meant to accomplish.”  Ty stared.

“The Alchemist died nearly a century ago,” he said.  “Who–what are you?”  Lan held his gaze for a moment and then turned back to the occluded staircase.  He began making his way downward.  Ty would follow in a moment.  He was resistant, but the stream had him now.

At the bottom of the staircase, surrounded on all sides by rocky walls made more of intentionally-placed stone bricks than the random boulders above, Lan paused before a metallic door.  It was peculiar–dark, almost black, not iron or steel, nor any other metal with which he was familiar, though metal was hardly a domain over which he claimed expertise.  He waited to hear Ty’s dampened footsteps behind him before opening it, stepping out of the way of the corpse that fell into the doorway.

“Fuck!” Ty hissed.

The corpse was practically mummified, its skin taut and pale-brown over its bones, though its chest had been flattened, with a large, square crater of pulverized flesh and bone in the center of its otherwise-preserved torso.  It meant they weren’t the first to find this place, though they were likely the first in some time.  It also meant something else, though Lan trusted Ty’s instincts were sharp enough for him to discern it on his own.  He stepped around the corpse and into the large, rectangular room beyond.

As he did, a number of crevices at the base of each wall came to life with a green glow, illuminating a dizzying array of symbols etched into nearly every inch of the stone walls, floor, and ceiling inside.  Lan was no metamage.  These symbols were neither within his command nor comprehension, but he was not blind to the ways that humans interacted with the residual dream and death they called “mana”.  Even if he did not know what they meant, he knew what they were: mathematics, epistemological declarations alien to his own experiential nature, memos to reality as to the specifics of the transmutations the mana was meant to invoke.  The entire room was an artifact, then, but on the off chance an entrant knew the language the Alchemist used to document his enchantment, they might glean some idea of his intent.  Fortunately–or unfortunately, as may have been the case for their semi-embalmed forerunner–it seemed Excelsis had left a separate message in a more universally understood language, and that message began to rumble to life, separating itself from the wall as Ty tiptoed in, and the door behind them squealed shut.

It was a golem, a magical constructed wielded by earth mages the world over, its anatomy sculpted to a crude humanoid shape in the same cubic bricks that made up the rest of the room’s surfaces.  This one was unique, however, in that the evocation of a golem was a somewhat demanding allocation of mana, and this one seemed to be persisting in the absence of a mage.

“Ready the Keystone, Mr. Ehsam,” Lan said.  The golem braced to charge, its intent–to the extent an unthinking construct’s will to violence might be considered intent–eminently clear.

“Ready it for wha–gah!”  Ty threw himself sideways as the golem lurched into the spot where head had been standing, coming to a halt with the force of a rockslide but far more grace than its unwieldy form might have implied possible.  Lan swatted at its “head”–a gesture which had little hope of impeding it but which might acquire its attention.  The ploy was partially successful: The construct’s torso spit around the axis of its waist, causing its arms to whip outward at the men on either side of it, stretching–in such a way that the bricks in its arms separated from each other slightly, held together by nothing but pure mana–and clipping Ty, sending him reeling back into the wall.

“The Keystone was to be brought here,” Lan said, keeping most signs of concern from his voice as he leaned out of the way of the golem’s whirling strike.  “We must find what it was to be brought to.”

“Oh, must we?!” Ty snarled, pushing himself upright and dashing away from the golem.  Amidst the chaos, it seemed he had, in fact, followed Lan’s instructions: The marbled blue medallion was dangling by its chain from his fingertips.  

Lan regripped his umbrella and drove it more dedicatedly into the construct’s cranium, with force that likely would have broken a human’s skull.  Almost surprisingly, the surface gave slightly against the blow.  Reasonable, he supposed: So mobile a configuration of stones might not be the most stable one.  Either way, it seemed he had its attention.

The golem shifted its strategy, squaring up toward Lan and seeming almost to widen.  It had learned quickly, he realized.  It had gathered that its sudden movements were not sufficient to surprise him, so now it meant to corner him instead.  Slowly, it began to stretch an arm toward him.  Excellent.  He had been hoping to see whether this would work.  As the stones in its arm once again began to separate, he jammed his umbrella into one of the gaps and levered it hard.

Golems, in his experience, were not difficult to partially destroy.  All one had to do was overpower the local mana the mage was channeling to hold a particular piece together, which, for the joints, was generally not very much.  This was only so useful in the normal case, though, since a mage would be able to regather whatever was destroyed in seconds.  Lan was curious, though, whether Excelsis’ guardian possessed the wherewithal to repair itself.  Sure enough, its arm shattered at the elbow, the stones falling uselessly at Lan’s feet, but the construct did not give him the pleasure of confusion at its sudden disarmament.  It simply rushed him.

He opened his reinforced umbrella in an attempt to blunt the impact, though he doubted how much it would matter in preventing his imminent flattening against the wall.  In the end, though, he did not find out.  Nor did he answer his question regarding the construct’s regenerative talents.  As it impacted his umbrella, the golem’s entire body disintegrated into rubble, which washed over him uncomfortably but harmlessly.  Simultaneously, every inscrutable symbol on every wall lit up with the same green glow that lined the floor.  Lan looked to Ty, standing at the opposite end of the room before a large, stone slab.  At the center of the slab, slotted into an indentation and glowing a brilliant blow, was the Keystone.  The door they had entered by swung open.

“Ah, so there is something he–ah, Captain!  There you are!”

Naples poked his head into the room, flanked by Orphelia’s diminutive form.  Lan fixed him with a disapproving glare.

“I instructed you to keep watch over my vessel, Mr. Naples,” he said, picking pebbles from his glove.

“I’m afraid you merely instructed me to keep watch over the children,” Naples replied, attention suddenly overtaken by the glowing room.  “And they are, uh, here, of course.”

“Ooh, what’s this place, Captain?” Orphelia asked, following him in, dragging Devlin, semiconscious, by the wrist.

“A place of not trivial danger, my dear,” Lan said.  He turned his attention to Ty, who was trying to make sense of the slab which now bore the Keystone–and from which, to his mounting frustration, he seemed unable to extricate it.

“Danger is fun,” Orphelia probed, picking up one of the golem’s fragments, not entirely convinced.

“Is this one of the Alchemist’s laboratories?” Naples asked, breathless.

“You call this a laboratory?” Ty shouted over his shoulder, trying to get a grip on the Keystone, to no avail.

“I suppose not, but…these are most certainly his runes.  I’m sure of it.”

“You can read the Alchemist’s language, Mr. Naples?” Lan asked, bemused.

“Not well, not well, but Master Jabez taught me a little.  Like–” he gestured to the indentation where the golem had separated from the wall.  “This seems to be describing a ‘doorman’ who turns away anyone without an…’opener’.  Or, yes, a key!  So it would…”  He glanced from the slab and Ty over to the pile of rubble.  “Perhaps you’ve already gotten that far.”

“You wanna make yourself useful?” Ty snapped.  “Come tell me what all this shit means!”  Cautiously, Naples approached with Orphelia in tow as Devlin took a seat amidst the scattered stones.

“So this is less verb-y…lots of relative and reflexive particles I don’t really follow, but the two biggest pieces are here–” he tapped a series of large runes at the bottom of the slab, “–which is a compound of ‘fire’ and ‘gathering’ and ‘place’.  I’d maybe translate it as ‘hearth’ or ‘campfire’, not sure about the context.”  He pointed up at a similarly-sized inscription at the top of the slab.  “And that’s…that’s weird.  The rune in the middle means ‘within’, but the ones on either side aren’t really standard as far as I’m aware.  That one on the left looks sort of like ‘dream’, but also like ‘night’, or even ‘mage’, which is itself a known modification of ‘death’, just with an indicator to denote it is being wielded.”

Ty exhaled, clearly apathetic to the nuance, but he held his tongue.  Lan, for his part, was intrigued.  It was a rare occurrence that he should encounter something he was so thoroughly unaware of, and he was happy for Naples’ aid in the discovery.  Moreover, he had heard the name Jabez Faisal before, upon tertiary currents.  Perhaps he would need to make a point of meeting this individual.

“And the one on the right appears to be a fusion also.  I see the distinctive marks of ‘human’ and ‘tool’ and ‘small creature’ and…’asleep’?”

“What does it mean?” Ty blurted, his frustration finally boiling over.

“I, uh,” Naples stammered.  “It means ‘dream-night-mage within asleep-small-human-tool’.  Beyond that, your interpretation is as good as mine.”  Ty grunted, punching the wall with his palm.

“All that fucking knowledge, and even you don’t know what to do with this?  Dammit!”

Lan laughed.

“Mr. Ehsam!” he said.  “That was your question?  I’d thought you might spare the moment for a fascinating lesson in linguistics, the way forward being as obvious as it is.”

“Obvious, al’Ver?” Ty asked through his teeth.

“But of course!  You brought the Keystone to the door.  All that’s left is to open it!”

With that, Lan grasped the right side of the slab and pulled.  With some resistance, it swung open, the Keystone receding into the indentation where Ty had placed it.

Inside, half-embedded into the wall, was something that looked like a man but was not.  Rather, Lan noted with interest, it had a man’s face, cast meticulously and realistically in silver.  Its limbs, he supposed, while anatomically correct enough, were far too runed, metallic, interspersed with filigree and empty space for any observer to realistically mistake them for human flesh.  It was, all told, a beautiful sculpture, but more pertinently, it seemed that the Keystone, through the door, had connected with a slot on its chest, where it now rested, pulsing a soft blue.  Then, as if in answer to all of their questions, the sculpture opened its black eyes.

“I am awake,” it said.  Its voice was human enough, vaguely male, though it sounded as if it were echoing through a hallway made of tin.  “Please confirm the status of the scenario.”

“…what?” Ty breathed, incredulous.  The sculpture’s head turned very slightly to face him, though the rest of it remained perfectly still.

“Very well,” it replied.  “I will clarify the scenario subpoints: Is Excelsis dead?”

“Yes?” Ty said skeptically, taking a reflexive step back.

“Thank you.  Is the Night Sky’s awakening imminent?”

“What?” Ty muttered, but Lan supplied the appropriate response.

“It is.”  All eyes turned to him, including the sculpture’s.

“Thank you,” it repeated.  “Is the place of His awakening known to you?” Lan frowned.

“I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Very well.  Is the Great Fire nearby?”  Ty squinted.

“The Great Fire?” he asked.  “The Blaze?”

“It is not,” Lan clarified.  “Though it approaches from afar.”

“Thank you,” the sculpture replied.  “The status of the scenario is currently viable, provided the Great Fire remains ambulatory.  It is my recommendation that the place of awakening be located immediately.  I will aid you in this effort, to the best of my ability.”

With this, the sculpture’s limbs came to life, and it began to climb down from the wall.  Its motions were not graceful.  It stumbled slightly upon touching the floor, but it righted itself quickly enough.

“No, no, no, no,” Ty sputtered, moving to intercept it.  “This isn’t–fuck!”  As if struck by an unseen force, he reeled backward, clutching his temples.  “This wasn’t the deal!”  The motions of Ty’s mouth in the following sentence were slurred with hisses and grunts of pain, but Lan caught the quiet, whispered response that he knew was not really from Ty:

“This was exactly the deal,” he said.

“Are you alright?” Naples shouted, running over to Ty while keeping a wary eye on the sculpture, who merely watched impassively.

“That was my out!” Ty shouted.  “That stone was gonna save my life!”  He sank to his knees, in defiance of Naples’ efforts to help him up.

“Quit your whining,” Lan said, adopting a haughty sternness.  “Now it will save everyone’s life.  Ideally including your own.  Now construct–what may we call you?”  Once again turning to face Lan with an uncanny minimum of movement, the sculpture replied:

“I…was designated the title Homunculus.”

“Very well, Homunculus, are you able to explain the remaining steps of this ‘scenario’?  Excelsis declined to provide the particulars.”

“Yes,” the Homunculus replied.  “The objective is to bring the Great Fire into confluence with the Night Sky’s awakening, for it is fire which wards off the night.”

“Yes, yes, the business with the scarab and the broken nose,” Lan said.  “Are we to get our noses broken too?  Then off to sleep with Father again?”

“What?”  The response came asynchronously from Ty, Naples, and Orphelia, though the Homunculus’ was much the same:

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” it said.  “But to the broader context, I cannot say what the precise impact of accomplishing our task will be, merely that it should forestall the erosion of reality.  To that end, it is ideal that the confluence with the Great Fire should be both spatial and temporal, though I am equipped to correct for errors on either side, provided we locate the place of the awakening.”  Lan nodded, planting his umbrella on the floor, satisfied.

“Excellent, then.  Please join us, Mr. Homunculus.  We have a lengthy journey yet.”

“Al’Ver!” Ty hissed, climbing to his feet.  “Enough with the sweeping us all off to adventure.  What the hell is going on?”

“Put simply, Mr. Ehsam, the substance of the very world has been on the brink of dispersion for some time.  This world was created, its creator is not inclined to keep it that way, and it was the Alchemist’s last wish that something be done about all that.”

“Do you have an idea where this ‘place of awakening’ is then, Captain?” Naples asked, playing along reticently but admirably.

“Not even the faintest,” Lan replied.  “But I’m sure we’ll find it by some road.  And around here, all roads lead to the same place.”

One Wing, One Eye, Chapter 1: Diplomacy in a Lawless Land

Crossroads is finally starting back up here! For those of you just joining, this is the first (unedited) chapter of the sequel to Three and Two and Two. Similar to the way the story has appeared on the blog up until now, this is neither formatted as it will be in the final version (e.g. prologues and interludes may be absent or presented out of order) nor is it necessarily even what this chapter will look like in the end. I’m excited to be continuing this journey with you all–if you would like to catch up on the story so far, check out Three and Two and Two here!

“We believe that you speak the truth,” the white-gowned man said.  “The Sculptor will surely see that no aggression was intended.”

Bleeding Wolf leaned back in his creaky wooden chair and met the speaker’s gaze across the table.  The man, Elder Stephen per the introductions, had a familiar sort of face–the type on which Bleeding Wolf could see glints of the arithmetic the man perceived in every relationship, every exchange.  The kind of face that belonged to shrewd merchants.  Or connivers.  

The meeting was nominally to discuss the breach of diplomacy that had occurred a little over a week ago, on a job Bleeding Wolf had undertaken upon making it to town.  His group had encountered a rival group of Holmite scavengers in the Bloodwood, and they had killed three of them.  Apparently, no survivors had made it back, and the mayor had anticipated that concessions would need to be made to unwind the tensions.  But despite Stephen’s assurance that the offense to the Crossroads’ largest trading partner had not been grave, Bleeding Wolf did not think the negotiation had yet begun.

“That is good to hear,” Mayor Bergen replied, acknowledging the opening salvo.  “We nonetheless regret that this bloodshed occurred, and we would like to send along an apology in the form of goods, perhaps including whatever you may require from our artifact dealer during this visit.”  Stephen smiled and shook his head.  Gracious, condescending, characteristically Holmite, Bleeding Wolf thought.  A counteroffer was coming.

“That will not be necessary.  We have already visited Marko.  His prices were very accommodating, given the circumstances.”

The two acolytes sitting beside Stephen nodded their affirmation of this detail.  They, Bleeding Wolf had decided, were definitely not connivers.  They were zealous idiots, eyes practically sparkling with their dearth of questions.

“The spirit of the apology is appreciated,” Stephen continued.  “But I would propose a more even exchange.  Rumors run upon the wind of danger approaching the Crossroads.  Holme, of course, would also be affected by the Blaze’s southern encroachment, even incidentally, but we also do not believe Holme’s involvement to be incidental.”

“Oh?” Bleeding Wolf interjected, breaking his silence.  “What do you mean?”

“The members of our flock whom you…encountered in the Bloodwood were contracted by an itinerant dealer, one Salaad of hazan.  Salaad’s remains were discovered a little under a week ago in one of our field communes, scorched.  Two dead dragonlings were found nearby.  It does not stretch the imagination to suggest that his death may be connected to the survivors you mentioned failing to return to us.  And–” Stephen gestured toward the mayor, “–it is known that attacks upon the dealers are growing more common of late.”

Bleeding Wolf grunted at this.  The logic was absurd: The Ben Gan Shui’s probing attack on Marko’s office certainly had nothing to do with the Blaze killing Salaad of Hazan.  Even the reasons behind the attacks probably had nothing in common.  But Stephen’s overture had little to do with logic.  It was rhetoric that appealed to the mayor’s priorities.  Stephen knew it, Bleeding Wolf knew it–hell, Bergen probably knew it, even as he was eating it up.  But it worked:

“That is certainly the case,” Bergen said.  “And we would welcome closer ties with Holme in the face of these new developments.”

“Excellent,” Stephen replied, smiling just a little too serenely before launching into the details of his proposal.  Bleeding Wolf stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the honey, the saccharine eloquence spritzed like perfume over the duplicity.  Fucking politics.

He glanced at the empty chair on his side of the table.  Funny, he thought, that the most distracting political gesture of the meeting was actually that empty chair.  It should have been occupied by Atra, the newly-appointed commander of the Crossroads’ militia, but she had a matter come up which, she claimed, urgently required her attention.  Bleeding Wolf was sure the excuse was bullshit.  For one, it seemed highly unlikely that any such matter could not have been overseen by Anita or Michel, the Crossroads’ long-standing peacekeepers.  But even beyond that, Bleeding Wolf harbored doubts that Atra even experienced the feeling of surprise.  This was a woman who calculated every decision, every step, and so far, it seemed her only slip had been the arc of mana she had exchanged with Bleeding Wolf when they shook hands a few days ago.  All he knew for certain was that she was a mage, one of the most terrifying he had ever encountered, but by the same token, he was sure that her missing this meeting meant that she had very purposefully wanted to miss it.  He wondered why, and he wished that Mayor Bergen–who certainly noticed but didn’t seem to care–would put a little more effort into wondering himself.

“…then we shall await your delegation in the coming weeks,” Stephen was saying as Bleeding Wolf tuned back in.  “There remains one symbolic request, though.  It is the Sculptor’s teaching that conflicts should be resolved through mutual sacrifice, of the kind which begat the dispute.  Given that our disagreement began in bloodshed, the Sculptor requests that agreeable blood be shed to close the cycle.”  Bleeding Wolf inhaled sharply.  Uh oh.

“Do you mean an agreement sealed by a drop of blood?” Bergen asked.  “Or something more substantial?”  Stephen shook his head with a theatrically solemn frown.

“My apologies.  The blood itself is metaphorical.  The Sculptor requests a life.”  Mayor Bergen drummed his fingers on the table, showing entirely too little shock at the request for Bleeding Wolf’s liking.

“Must the sacrifice be willing?” he asked after a moment.  “Or simply willingly provided by the Crossroads?”

“The latter will suffice.”

Bleeding Wolf shook his head.  Gene wasn’t going to like this.

***

Looking over his shoulder at the busy town square, Gene paused before Marko’s theater-office.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he realized.  He wasn’t actually concerned that he had been followed, and it wasn’t as if he were doing anything forbidden.  Marko’s office just made him uncomfortable.  It had made him uncomfortable ever since the time Marko had almost shot him with a crossbow when he’d come by unannounced, and the furtive look behind, he supposed, was just an expression of that discomfort.  Grimacing, he swallowed it and rapped on the door.

“Appointments only!” came the muffled response.  Gene glanced about once more before half-shouting at the door:

“It’s Gene!”

There was a moment of silence before the door creaked open, revealing a wizened, androgynous figure in a brown habit.  It was Brill, the apothecary.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Gene began.  “I wanted to–”

“Not here, Gene.  Let’s discuss inside.”

Brill receded quickly into the shadows of the entryway as Gene raised a hand to object.

“It’s nothin’ secretive…” he said, though it was clear that Brill wasn’t listening–or at least didn’t care.  He sighed, following them in.

He noted with disappointment that he had to tilt the door on its hinges in order to close it.  His apprentice, Jeremy, had built it about a week ago to replace the one that had been destroyed during the Ben Gan Shui’s “visit”, but this was terrible craftsmanship.  Gene would need to send the boy to Frank and Erik, he decided.  He could teach smithing well enough, but his carpentry was beginning to slip.

Inside, standing over a table set up in the theater’s cleared-out audience floor, Gene found both Brill and Marko, the Crossroads’ prickly, paranoid artifact dealer.

“Speak of the fuckin’ devil,” Marko muttered, looking up.  Gene blinked.

“You were…speakin’ about me?”

“You had better see this, Gene,” Brill added, beckoning him to the table.  Shuffling over, Gene saw that they were considering a piece of parchment with a detailed sketch upon it.

The sketch depicted a scene at a long table where five men engaged in some sort of negotiation.  The man in the foreground was leaning back from the table, some degree of dismay flashing across his face.  He looked familiar, Gene realized.

“Is that…Dog Boy?”  And then he noticed the caption scrawled at the bottom of the page, where Bleeding Wolf’s sketched torso faded into the margins: Gene wasn’t going to like this.  He looked at Marko, alarm bubbling up in his chest.  “What in the shell is this?”

“The most artistic invasion of privacy you ever did see,” Marko replied with a sour grin.  “Really gotta give whichever mage that thought of it some credit.”

“It’s a scrying artifact, of a sort,” Brill explained.  “You ‘tell’ it someone you want to see, and it sketches their context in that moment.”

“Got it on the sly from an old contact in the Westwood,” Marko said.  “Needed a way to follow along with whatever Atra’s tryin’ to do.  But Brill’n I got curious as to what was goin’ on in Dog Boy’s meetin’ with the Holmites.”

“What does it mean that ‘Gene won’t like this’?”  Marko shrugged.

“You should ask Dog Boy.  But I reckon you ain’t gonna like it.”

“Guess I’ll have to,” Gene said, shaking his head resignedly.  “I came here for you, though, Brill.  Had folks wanderin’ by the shop wantin’ to know when you’d be back.”

“My apologies, Gene,” Brill replied, a twitch of frustration nonetheless crossing their face.  “Dull moments are seeming more and more a distant memory these days, and I’m trying to stay abreast of the…political situation.  Between Marko’s read and Bleeding Wolf’s warning, I am concerned about Atra.”  Gene nodded.

“You ain’t the only one.  John’s playin’ with fire.”

“He is.  I agree.  But his read on the landscape is sensible.  The Crossroads is growing less safe, and Mayor Bergen is right to respond.  Moreover, the town’s opinion of Atra so far is quite high.  Anita is quite enamored with her, and the relationship between the merchants and the militia has remained entirely amicable.  They do not interfere, and people feel safer when they’re around.”

“Sure it’s easy to seem decent when you ain’t doin’ nothin’,” Marko spat.

“Of course,” Brill agreed.  “But we must be careful, lest our attention to detail be mistaken for common xenophobia.”

“Hmph,” Marko grunted.  “Wanna let ‘im in on the latest?”  Brill looked back, pausing a moment before recognition set in.

“Yes, that’s right.  There are two updates: The first is that Atra has an accomplice in town.  We only have what this–” they gestured to the parchment, “–can tell us, but we understand that the accomplice looks like a child.”

“A kid?  Godshell.”

“They are probably not actually a child, but I will admit, I am out of my depth as far as magic may be concerned here.  The second update, well.  Marko, would you show Gene our picture of Atra right now?”

Marko nodded.  He placed his hand on the parchment and closed his eyes momentarily.  The scene of Bleeding Wolf and the Holmites faded, and new strokes of ink began to line the page.  But these did not seem to form any coherent picture, instead just massing in blots and nests of chickenscratch.

“Been getting this more often in the last day and a half,” he said.  “My money’s on her figurin’ out she’s bein’ watched.  Dunno how she’s counteractin’ it, but she’s figured out how to hide when she needs to.”

“And apparently, she wants to be hidden right now,” Brill added.

***

A few miles outside of town, Atra sat upon a boulder, contemplating the trickle of the river through the reed-crowded shallows stretching before her.  She knew the river, knew what it encoded, though it continued to surprise her how many lifelong Riverlanders regarded it as a solely physical phenomenon.  There was old magic in the river, magic that even she could barely parse.  But she was only listening for a specific piece.

No.  Not yet.  It was the loosest end so far: What was Lan al’Ver doing down south?

She felt a sudden intrusion of mana, troublingly familiar of late, as an enchantment began to weave itself in the aether around her.  Fortunately, she was prepared: The strands had eroded somewhat in their travel from the Crossroads, and she needed merely to nudge one out of place to disrupt the weave.  Instead of an oculus, the enchantment resolved to a tangled mass and began to dissipate.

“What the fuck was that?” Cirque asked, suddenly perched on the boulder beside her.  She side-eyed him, this ragged, piranha-eyed not-child with rats scurrying off him, into the swamp below.  It was enough to make her laugh: She could glean temporal portent from the river’s flow, she could parry a metamagical scrying attempt, mid-formation, but even she couldn’t keep track of Cirque.  He was a valuable ally, and she was glad that the relationship had little risk of inverting.

“Marko, most likely,” she replied.  “Been noticin’ oculi formin’ about me ‘round town.  Integrity falls off hard with distance, though, means it’s probably an artifact powerin’ it.”

“So town isn’t safe to talk anymore?  You might’ve warned me explicitly.”

“Yer a sharp one.  Ye caught on just fine.”  Cirque growled, a sound which might have come off as a pathetic mewl if not for the ominous chittering that reverberated through the boulder with it.

“We’re encountering an awful lot of resistance for what this town is,” he spat.  “Are you sure it will be worthwhile?”

“Ye tell me: Is the meetin’ with Holme done?”

“Yes.”

“And they took note of Salaad?”

“Are you second-guessing my work?”  Atra shook her head.

“Hardly.  I merely question the Holmites’ vigilance.  It seems ye got their attention, though.”

“At some cost,” Cirque muttered bitterly.  “You should try biting into a dragonling sometime.”

“An incandescent pleasure, I’m sure,” Atra said, considering the idea of napalm on her tongue with more curiosity than revulsion.  “They are amicable to reconciliation, then?”

“Yes.  On the condition that the Crossroads supply a sacrifice for one of the Sculptor’s insipid harvest rituals.”  Atra smirked.  It was almost too perfect: an alliance of rivals against the Blaze’s overwhelming threat of annihilation, with each harboring a tinge of toxic distrust for the other’s murder of their countrymen.  The makings of the tinderbox were there.  Now, it was simply a matter of preventing it from igniting too soon.  To which end, the political backlash from this would be Mayor Bergen’s to shoulder.  That, after all, was why she had not attended the meeting.

The mayor, she had to admit, was in an interesting position.  Laughably out of his depth, of course, but he wasn’t dumb.  He had seen her own ulterior motive plain as day.  But though he had the intellect and guts necessary for realpolitik in the lawless age of the scav trade, Atra doubted he had the skill, the wherewithal to deflect blame, or the instinct to predict when his allies would become his enemies.  More than likely, he would provide everything she needed from him, and then he would die.

The real problem was the folk who would never trust her.  Marko, to an extent, though he carried so little of the town’s favor that he might not matter.  But Gene and Brill–tradition was a potent defense against the brainfever she hoped to instill–and, of course, Bleeding Wolf.  She would need to be careful with those ones.

“I still think we should kill him,” Cirque said, as if reading her thoughts.  “The beastman.  He knows what you’re up to.”  Atra groaned.

“Not all of it.  Not yet,” she said.  “And like I told ye before, there are others watchin’.”

“Apparently,” Cirque replied, with a significant look at Marko’s withered enchantment.  “And I think it’s time we took some countermeasures.”

“Fine.  If it please ye.  But no assassinations yet–all the pieces are still too important.”

“What, then?”

“Keep an eye on Marko.  If he finds another toy to use against us, it’d be better we find out before and not after.  The apothecary too: That one holds more of the strings than they let on.”

“And–”

“Leave Bleeding Wolf to me.”