The Grave Snatchers, as a concept, fascinated Xala. Rogue mages rarely agreed on anything, let alone form organized crime syndicates powerful and focused enough to control a region for any extended period of time. Mages like Xala were akin to alley cats, where every published manuscript or manual on the Dark Arts was usually embedded with endless retorts and rebuttals of previous authors and magicians. When it came to the Dark Arts, a large wealth of any literature on the Artform was usually published by the Lich Lords of Illamoor, who have had centuries-long grudges against each other. If Xala was to remove all the ceaseless bitching of the Ruling Scholars from their works, he would likely be able to fill a sleek and slim eight-hundred page tome. Centuries of scholarship reducable to a single book.
Thus, as they sailed toward the border of Northern Fae Town, where the canalworks all found dead ends, Xala tried to imagine what these mages were like. Were they as organized as the Feathered Serpents? How were they organized? Did an authoritative figurehead control their movements like a cult leader? If they were ruled by a cult leader, were they also obsessed with sex magic like the ones Xala encountered in Okra? If none of the above, did they have a council of elders like the People of Mishcharer? He desperately wanted to know every facet of their order. Perhaps, if they impressed him enough, he might consider joining them! It would be nice to live among his own kind. Well, somewhat. They were still against Necromancy, like most of the world.
Gods, he wanted to visit Illamoor. Perhaps when he was done in Feltkan he would take a trip with Colhern.
That thought-bubble popped as he felt Colhern’s knee touch his and he was pulled out of his daydreams. He looked over at Colhern and remembered that he was a Malren. His lineage had engaged in war against Necromancy ever since its conquest at the hands of Xala’s lineage. He placed a hand on Colhern’s thigh, squeezed it for comfort, and lifted his head off of his shoulder.
The buildings of Northside loomed over them. The stone pillars of Fae Town continued, but became more jagged and bowed. Some seemed wholly useless for supporting the ceiling above as their cylindrical structures curled and twisted and even knotted in places. Many of the pillars were featureless save for miniature slot windows — best for archers firing through slits. Those that did have features were conservative. No longer were the terraces and architectural experimentation present from Dimside or Southern Fae Town. Instead, Xala saw rectangular alcoves that served as communal spaces with tunnels leading further into whatever spire it was carved into.
The streets of Northside were a sad sight. He walked up the steps out of the canal and was greeted by a cold breeze and a distant whimpering.
Xala’s nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. His mouth salivated. Blood was everywhere. Hidden, dried on the pavement, carried across the wind from some distant ritual site or crime scene, it made his mind swarm with delight. Even in the empty dystopia of Northside, Xala could see the inherent wonder within the dark realm. Dayrifts were sparse, but no reflective panels or sunlight collectors or groves were present. He tried to see where a beam of sunlight met the ground far off in the distance, but his view was obscured by unmanned, empty markets and stalls.
Colhern cleared his throat. He muttered a curse before he said out loud, “I hate Northside. I haven’t been since I was a kid, but it looks exactly like I remember. You sure you need to contact these freaks?”
Xala nodded, “They are an important part of this place’s ecosystem. The Snatchers may be rogues, but they’re moral enough to not use necromancy. That makes them valuable. Somewhat dependable.”
Colhern scoffed, “Yeah, because everyone who isn’t a necromancer is a good guy.”
“Lilith Oluhm saw it that way,” he paused as he spotted an image etched into a nearby pillar. He got closer and examined a dog who was eating its own tail while a snake coiled around the dog’s stomach. All sorts of lines and dots were present around the image. He saw more images etched into more pillars, each one a different scenario of torture or death. “Hieroglyphs. I wonder,” he pointed toward the dog and snake. The tip of his finger shimmered with a green light before it flew forward as a missile. The ball of light splashed against the hieroglyph, released a rush of liquid light that swirled around the hieroglyph before the light was absorbed into the linework.
“What was that?”
“A test.” Xala closed his eyes and traced the flow of raw arcana he had released. He could visualize the way the light was confined within the etched pattern, how it interacted in the space, and took a deep breath as the light was absorbed into the stone itself and vanished into it. The light flowed and slithered through the unseen network of symbolism that connected the hieroglyphs together. The light was tugged along a web that carried it across its vast expanse at immense speeds. As he was carried across the threads of the web, he could sense more things gathered around the web. They were like branching threads whose ends were bulbs of energy.
He was inside the magical infrastructure of a barrier between reality and some other plane of existence. It was an obscure kind of arcane place that few mages ever got to experience.
“It’s all a test.” Xala grabbed Colhern’s hand, opened his eyes to look down the empty street, raised his hand, and a glowing script lifted off his tattoos. Rings of energy swarmed around his forearm, wrist, and knuckles. He pressed his hand forward and met resistance. It was a Ward. A gigantic Ward. One that could conceal an entire neighborhood from the rest of the world. It was everywhere, a fourth dimensional presence that blanketed the third and intersected it at every point in space-time. Xala pushed his hand further. The air around his hand began to stretch like a transparent surface, the folds caused by pressure granting it tangible shape as the Ward warped around the air and Xala’s hand. As he pushed, Xala’s spell became more complex. The script that floated around his arm became denser as words and letters were shrunken and duplicated into new shapes, multiplied and divided, until he took a deep breath and pressed his very will, his mind, against the barrier.
In doing so, the rings around his arm all slammed forward and released themselves as a ripple across the Ward. A pulse of green light flourished down the street in front of them. The energy then barreled back toward Xala’s hand, slammed into his palm, and shattered the space in front of them to form a doorway.
The doorway led into the enchanted nighttime pocket dimension of Northern Fae Town’s truth. The street inside the doorway was lined with stalls and markets full of merchandise. Xala led Colhern inside with wide-eyed amazement as exotic fashions strolled past them, animals from far off lands squealed, roared, and squawked in their cages, and the stone pillars of the outside reality were now segmented islands that floated in the endless expanse of an astral plane. Gone was the cavern they should have been inside of, for now all that surrounded them was a starry night flooded by auroras and floating isles. Each floating island and sliced pillar was tethered by golden chains that wrapped around their middles. The people who inhabited Northside were of all kinds, but unlike the rest of Fae Town, the Cursed roamed out in the open. People who had felt the other end of a curse or hex were likely to be malfigured and mishapen as a byproduct of the chaotic, entropic, scrambling magicks of the Dark Arts. Xala watched a Tauran with a crow’s head saunter past them, a lion’s tail swishing as he went. A Dawn-Kin with peacock feathers growing out of her skin performed on a tall stage for a crowd of admirers. One artist with five arms rapidly produced paintings and clay sculptures for anyone who came by with the right price.
Blood was also present. The blood of animal sacrifices flooded the streets, carried by miniature aqueducts whose ends led upward to let the blood flow up into the nighttime sky and disappear into the darkness beyond the stars. Blood was the fuel of this place. It was what upheld the structure of it all. Those bulbs along the web Xala had detected earlier were the floating buildings, tethered by their chains, the chains that were the threads of the web and which were fueled by the blood!
Above all, the scent of sorcery lingered in the air. The smell was that of a rainless thunderstorm, one that swarmed above and refused to release a single drop, but shrouded those below from the blistering heat of the sun. Xala could already sense the rites and rituals being performed within the buildings around them, their masonry inspired by Dimside but far more twisted and eccentric. Some buildings were simply hollowed out segments of pillar with a sprinkling of windows. Golems, magical constructs of a moldable material given animation, lingered in the shadows like guardians of the peace. Their watchful gazes were blandly neutral and stoic akin to unhatched gargoyles. Golems were not inherently a part of the Dark Arts, but these were stronger than the typical variety. The spikes and sigils etched into their clay were powerful bindings that harnessed malevolent energies to animate them. Aside from the golems, symbols and glyphs dedicated to the macabre and eldritch blanketed the skin of magic users here, with a fondness for the black ink variety. None were as ornate as Xala’s, but he certainly felt kinship. The mages he observed did not seem to have the same passive ignorance or arrogance toward the nulls of Northside compared to the mages in Southern Fae Town. They all operated cohesively, just like how the Cursed were free to roam and live among the non-Cursed.
Xala could not stop smiling, even as their exit closed behind them. He grabbed hold of Colhern’s hand, “We’re in a Cynosure. An actual Cynosure!” Ever since his friend Diagdosor mentioned such places, he had always dreamt of being inside an arcane pocket dimension like this.
Colhern was much less enthusiastic. He was afraid. Xala could feel it as he held his hand and sensed his heartbeat. He could smell it, past all the delicious blood, as Colhern’s fear crashed like waves across his consciousness and body. Xala squeezed his hand and nudged him. Colhern’s trance abated as he looked down at Xala and swallowed hard. He said, “I,” he closed his mouth as a lupine humanoid crept by on all fours, his wolfish head twisting back to glance at Xala and Colhern with the flexibility of an owl, and continued once the man had gone by, “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
Xala smirked, raised his hand to cup Colhern’s cheek, and caressed it with his thumb. “You’re in a place where I feel safe, comfortable, and calm. A place that I find wondrous beyond measure. I just wish you could see it the way I do.”
Colhern’s jaw tensed as he ground his maulers, his jugular stretched, he watched Xala quizzically, before he finally took a long, deep breath. He held it for a few seconds, kept his eyes trained on Xala, and steadily released. His tensions flattened and his heartbeat began to slow. Colhern asked quietly, “Can I have a kiss?”
Xala chuckled, rolled his eyes, and immediately stood up on his toes to give him a kiss. His lips pulled away just enough to whisper, “Don’t think about what caused this place, what fuels it, but instead, the miracle that these people feel free enough to not hide.” He gave a final quick peck before he faced the street, held Colhern’s hand, and dragged him forward into the urban frontier.
They flitted through the stalls and markets. Xala was enthralled by the trinkets, oddities, a ruby-eyed monkey statue, a chelo made of a deer carcass enchanted to strum the tune of the beast’s last run, tomes on trans-dimensional dynamics, a singer whose double chin opened whenever they needed to hit a high note, dancers whose stages were the open flames of clawed braziers, comedians who performed for children with talking shrunken heads, weaponry with unique and odd enchantments like a dagger that mended wounds when slicing them, until Xala had to stop the moment he heard a tune that practically electrified his body. His foot tapped the ground as he bobbed his head and started to bounce side to side next to Colhern.
It was a jigful tune made by a quickly strummed violin, furiously beaten drums, and breathlessly played flutes. The sound was erratic, thirsty, damned, and lulled Xala through a beaded curtain into a hidden circular tent. Men and women danced to the beat around a bonfire in the center as onlookers clapped and cheered around them, with the musicians situated in the smoke of the fire itself.
They were Fog’Gas, more commonly known as Smogs of War. They were supposedly a sub-species of giants, despite their flesh being made of black smog that billowed around them. They floated above the flames freely, unharmed by them, as their wide, fanged smiles and eyes of orange light egged on the dancers around them.
Colhern stood beside Xala in shock. When confronted with a Fog’Ga, it was standard practice to pray for a Cloud-Folk giant to come and eradicate the vermin. Alas, how could a Cloud-Folk possibly enter this place? How could these monsters be exterminated from the face of the world without them? Colhern’s heartbeat picked up again. His hand twitched as he reached for his glaive. It was wrong to let them exist. They were literal manifestations of war, monsters of smoke and murder, sowers of carnage.
Colhern’s hands were taken into Xala’s. He was pulled deeper into the crowd of onlookers and stood dumbfounded as Xala jumped over a seated man’s head into the ring of dancers. Xala took to it like a duck to water, his body in alignment with the rhythm, his head whipped back and forth, his arms and legs followed the motions of the others, his voice joined the choir, and his clothes flowed around him to make him appear like a whirlwind of black and lavender. Colhern’s mouth was dry, his body stiff as he watched.
Xala became one with the noise. His body blended into the vibrations of the room. His corrupted soul found reason to dance. His mind became liberated as all the other background noises were drowned out. Something about the music, this particular music, made the inferiority of the material world so obvious. The realm of consciousness, the realm that could appreciate the sound, welcomed Xala in its cool embrace.
Colhern could not take his eyes off of Xala. His lip twitched upward. This side of Xala was the same one he had seen that first time, when he had literally dropped out of the sky and into his life. The side that had immediately captured his attention. Even though he was surrounded by people he had been told his whole life were evil, alien, undesirable, untouchable, necessarily forgotten and forbidden, he began to tap his foot and bob his head.
The dance went on and on, endless and permanent, his soul lifted, the whole room in unison, the whole of reality convened to a singular point before it exploded outward again, like the shape of an hourglass put into motion.
When it was over, it ended with a sharp, rough, final strum of the violin, a pounding of the drums, and a last high note of the flute. The room erupted into cheer as the musicians were celebrated and given all manner of tips and payments. Xala stumbled out of the crowd, laughing the whole way as he gave out compliments and accepted them in kind, and fell into Colhern’s chest as he caught his breath.
“Have fun?” Colhern mused as he wrapped an arm around Xala and led them both out of the tent and into the fresh air. He sucked in the acrid atmosphere and groaned, “Damn, this place smells.”
Xala chuckled as he stood beside Colhern, rolled his shoulders, and said, “What? Not a fan of blood, gladiator?”
“Not this much,” he winced, frowned, and asked, “Xala, you know what those things were, right?”
“Fog’Gas, clearly. Why?”
Colhern grimaced, “And you’re ok with that?”
Xala smiled softly, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Ajirla, I thought I was the insensitive one?”
“I,” he sighed, “I’m just worried you don’t know how dangerous they are. They’re a real threat.”
He should not have been surprised that the Fog’Gas were still considered evil. It was the same way in his time. Xala shook his head and said, “They’re a sentient race of people. They have the autonomy to choose to be evil or not. Thus, they cannot be all bad.” Now that he said that out loud, how could he believe it? He was a Moor. That idea simply could not be universal. But, he knew for sure, it applied to the Fog’Gas.
“I’d still be careful. We’re in a bad neighborhood.”
“To most of the world.” He spun on his heels and marched toward a nearby alleyway. “Let’s go see the next street over!”
Colhern followed behind, his eyebrows creased and lips drawn as they marched through the alley. It was crowded by the buildings on either side, littered with blood stains from the countless sacrifices made and poured into the aqueducts along the sides of the once-polished now worn and grainy stone. There were no carcasses, only the hue of their remains. It was eerie, but the scent of dried, stale blood did not bother Xala. Nor did it particularly excite his appetite.
On their journey from one street to the next, Xala’s attention snagged on a huddle of four men hidden behind a dumpster. He almost missed them if he had not caught a whiff. He turned to watch their silent, statuesque bodies all positioned toward a golden skull painted on the wall. It was small and insignificant, but they were entranced by it. Colhern stood close to Xala as they both took in the scene and whispered softly, “Are they under a spell? I don’t get it.”
One of the men croaked out a response, or perhaps was just speaking to the skull, “The necropolis is watching.”
Xala cocked his head. A golden skull and the mention of a necropolis? His ignorance of what those two meant was troubling. Beyond troubling. The men wore casual clothes, perhaps outdated and long since washed, but there were no signifying markers of allegiance on them. They were all different species, they had no trace of undead energy about them, and when Xala took another whiff, they just smelled of body odor and grime. He stepped forward and asked, “What are you,”
“Xala Svoboda. Colhern Malren.”
A tall, pale, scarred, gaunt man stood behind them. He wore dark green robes that clung to his body conservatively, held in place by buckles, buttons, and belts. A scarf concealed his forehead, but his face was covered in deep gnashes that took on the shape of thorny vines. The scars continued down his face to his neck and likely across the rest of his body. His ears were pointed, but not as long or sharp as an elf’s, more akin to an orc’s, yet he was not as large as an Alouee, nor as nimble as an Alim. His pale red irises swam in a sea of murky stormy grey.
Colhern immediately stepped in front of Xala, a hand already on his glaive. “Who’s asking?”
“Master Svoboda, your entry into Istahkarn Cynosure has been witnessed and assessed. We invite you into the Heart.”
“The heart of a Cynosure?” Xala could not hide his elation. He fidgeted like a child as he tugged on Colhern’s sleeve and muttered in his ear, “We get to see a Heart!” He let go, stepped forward, and bowed his head respectfully, “I am honored to be invited, and humbly accept.”
“Then be welcome to Istahkarn. My name is Zosimos Rasavidye. Please, follow.” He turned in place, waved a hand over the wall, summoned a flurry of red runes around his knuckles, and stood still as the stone broke apart into crude bricks that all split and separated apart. Nothing was behind the stones, but they continued to break and fall apart to form a staircase downward.
Xala analyzed every single instance of change and transmutation. He knew that the material world within Cynosures was subject to the whims of those who had permission to manipulate it, but to watch solid stone crack and fracture into a staircase in real time was unbelievable!
Colhern pinched Xala’s shirt before he went any further, glanced back at the four men who gave not an ounce of worry to what was happening behind them, and said to Xala, “This could be a trap. Do we even know if this is a guy we’re looking for?”
Zosimos did not respond, completely unconcerned as he descended the staircase and conjured a small, floating ball of light to illuminate the path. Xala stood at the threshold, tapped his middle finger’s and thumb’s nails together, and answered, “What does your intuition say?”
Colhern was taken aback, but immediately reflected. He watched as Zosimos got further down the staircase, and said, “My gut says we shouldn’t be here, but, I don’t,” he shifted on his feet, “I don’t get a bad vibe from this guy.”
Xala smiled, “Then there’s your answer.” He immediately descended the stairs behind Zosimos. Colhern took a beat to follow behind, his hand already gripping the glaive on his back, and tensed when the stones resealed themselves behind him.
The descent took a long time, marred by twists and turns, Zosimos’s light their only guide. Finally, the stones opened up on the side of a hallway. It was dank, crudely chipped at, and lined with eternal torches. They walked down the empty hallway in silence, Xala too preoccupied with his study of his surroundings, and Colhern too absorbed in the precariousness of their predicament.
Xala, satisfied with the hallway, addressed their tour guide, “Zosimos, might I ask what you are?”
“An orc.”
“Ah, but, what of your sub-species?”
Zosimos glanced over his shoulder, already somewhat irritated.
“Oh, is it a cultural thing?”
“Xala,” Colhern whispered, shooting him a confused look.
Zosimos shook his head, “Self-preservation.”
Silence persisted until, finally, they reached the end of the hallway. Zosimos raised his hand to push open a tall, polished, featureless jadeite door. As it opened, the smell of blood blessed Xala’s nostrils, alongside an echo as the door groaned open to reveal a cathedral. The trio stepped out into a massive space with arches that careened high enough that the shadows formed a pitch black abyss, balconies wrapped around each story, walls were covered in jade tablets engraved with a red script, and a central opening full of mania dominated the space. Poisonous flora burst forth from untamed groves illuminated by floating red crystals that cast crimson hues over them. Mages covered in tattoos and scars ran amuck as they held onto jade orbs that had thin, red, translucent threads connecting the orbs to the back of their necks. Each thread burrowed into the flesh and bulged beneath the skin until it disappeared toward the brain — instantaneous information transmission.
Xala very much wanted to grab an acolyte and carve them open to see what was going on behind the eyes. The orbs and threads were new forms of information storage to him, they intrigued, but he did mourn the lack of parchment in such splendid halls.
As for the Grave Snatchers themselves, their duties paused as they all looked toward Xala. He made eye contact with a few. They were all different — as above, so below — but all of them had a slight crease between their eyebrows that unnerved him. Their gazes were more scattered. Some took one look at him, scoffed, and went back to their work. Most kept their eyes on him like he was an oddity, a foreigner. He made eye contact with a few of them, smiled slightly, and followed behind Zosimos. Colhern was closer than ever, fists balled, and face determined.
One of the Snatchers reached up to grab Xala’s wrist, but was swiftly intercepted by Colhern. The Osha goblin woman reeled back, gave an apologetic look, and craned her neck around to address Xala, “Where did you learn how to do that, Master Svoboda?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How did you learn how to get into Istahkarn?”
He smiled broadly, stepped around Colhern, and answered, “Have you ever heard of Mashjkilil’s Benesayyan Doctrine?” He could tell the answer was no, but he knelt down and explained, “It’s a highly specific criteria to follow when confronted with possible arcane networks, like the Cynosure’s. Instead of using a specific spell to infiltrate, you can imbue a bit of raw magic with your signature and disconnect your mind from your body momentarily to acquire the senses of that raw magic as it gets carried through the network. Feltkan, as a city, is infested with magical infrastructure that can be infiltrated utilizing this doctrine. Thus, when I came to Northern Fae Town, saw no evidence of sorcery, but had heard of an elite group of mages, I knew there had to be a puzzle at play. When it comes to arcane puzzles, Mashjkilil was the most prolific author.”
She stared in awe, but glanced toward Zosimos with some worry, “Why do we not have that author in our records?”
Zosimos was stonefaced as he watched Xala and refused to answer.
Colhern tuned out the moment Xala said ‘doctrine’.
“You likely don’t have them in your records because she was an elf of Okra born in the Second Era, during the Moor occupation. Her Doctrine was shared among the Okran elves via oral tradition.” The Master took great care to teach Xala the value of diagnostics. “Why? How do most people get in?”
“Time and hard work.” Zosimos cut him off and continued his stride through the chamber. Xala hopped to his feet, waved the goblin off as he went, and held his hands behind his back as they marched to the end of the cathedral, where a large hemispherical door waited for them. It thrummed with raw power as the jade was carved and infused with the red script the tablets along the walls had. The letters were calligraphy and flowed into one another. Their connections were the ends of tails where heads started, bodies twisted, and strokes blurred the line between form and blob. The hemisphere folded apart to reveal its dark, hollow inside. Zosimos stepped through, followed by Xala, but Zosimos put his hand up for Colhern. “No nulls.”
Colhern's face twitched, a vibrant rage barely concealed by his attempted stoicism.
Xala looked to Zosimos, “If he stays out here, is he safe to roam and remain undisturbed?”
“I am not his keeper.”
“We are eachother’s. So, promise me his safety.”
“I am not,” Zosimos paused. He studied Xala’s expression. It was void of the curiosity and mirth from earlier. Xala’s words were demand, not request. Zosimos prepared for whatever fury came at his decline, but his pupils twinkled with a red light for a split second. His lips became taut, his expression hardened, and he said, “His safety is promised.”
Xala smiled, “Thank you.” He glanced toward Colhern, who stood on the outside of the threshold with a scowl.
“It’s alright,” Colhern threw up his hands and gestured for them to go on, “I’ll be here.” He stood still, their eyes unmoving from one another as the door slowly shut between them.
When one side closed, the other opened. Xala turned and watched a room full of lit candles reveal itself. The candles were assembled along the walls ontop of mounds of wax. So much wax was melted over the centuries that the latest candles were like trees along mountainsides. In the valley of the room, an altar was guarded by an ancient Dawn-Kin elf. Her wispy hair dangling off her scalp. Her withered body could have crumbled away if someone blew hard enough. Red silks embroidered with golden tortoises covered her body in a modest, simple fashion, akin to a tasteful curtain. Her fingers were connected to the altar in front of her, the digits rubbed into bloody stubs close to the top knuckles as she grinded her flesh against the rough stone. Her blood seeped into the altar’s grooves and worked down into various drains. Her wrinkled, spotted, bumpy face did not rise to greet them as her cloudy eyes stared aimlessly.
Her blood was scented anoydyne.
“Min, please open the way to the Other Side. Master Solon has asked for Master Svoboda’s presence.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
She did not stir. Her bloody stumps just brushed side to side against the grainy stone. Based on the amount of blood and how some of it had dried black, that stone should have been polished by now. Her fingers should have been rubbed down to the knuckles, and then down to the wrists, and perhaps even further. Yet, here she was, as eternal as the texture of the stone she bled upon. She was a feat of magic Xala could not decode, could not deduce, could not dissect.
Min lifted her head. Zosimos was gone. Simply gone.
It was just them now.
Min spoke softly, her voice like springtime, but after each word there was an echo of something far deeper and more sinister; a voice that crept, slunk, slithered, scratched, screamed, and murdered its way out of some bubbling abyss at the bottom of the ocean; she said, “You hide yourself well, Moor.”
Xala’s veins felt cold.
Min smiled warmly, her wrinkly lips revealing their long since hidden folds while they made new, unused ones along her cheeks and chasmic laugh lines, “Do not fret, Moor, you are welcome here. Here, with me, in my chamber of reflection. I welcome you for the killer you are.”
Xala could not move. She knew he was a Moor, and yet had no qualms about it? What sort of creature could welcome a thing like him? What sort of defiled, miscreant, vapid, wretched soul could welcome him? Alas, Xala used every segment of his consciousness to produce speech and said, “I am grateful for your hospitality, Odafij.” An honorary term in Okra for one as ancient as she.
“Mmm, please, call me Flaj. It is the name of my birth, the name my Master gave me.”
Xala bowed his head a few inches forward, “I apologize.”
“For what?”
“For what your Master must have done to you.”
“No, no, I found strength in the kennels. It was thanks to my Master that I was given the chance to feed on my brethren in chains. It was there that I first learned the limitless potential of blood. It was there that I first encountered the resplendent wonders of flesh, and its capacity to adapt. You should understand it well. You sculpt flesh as one does clay.”
She made him sick. He knew her kind. The kind of wretch who turns on her own. She reminded him of the boy he tried to escape The Master with. He had turned on Xala the instant they were caught. Xala killed him right then and there, alongside a slew of The Master’s soldiers. She and her kin were the reason why he had remained in bondage. She offended him beyond measure.
“Something troubles you, Young Master. What is it?”
“What was your Master’s reaction when you fed on his property?”
“She loved it. She made love to me for many nights, never permitting me to wash the blood off my body.” Flaj’s fingers moved slower as she remembered. Her whole body savored the memory. “Her name was,” the candles in the room flickered as a black breeze rumbled through the chamber, “Xagaj Serevol.” The name had power to it, like the beginning of a chant to summon some eldritch god from beyond. When the last syllable was uttered, the candles’ flames took a few seconds to recuperate and stabilize. “She was the Witch Queen of Osmadais, Terror Incarnate, Chain-Maker, and Jakal-Tamer. Heh, I wonder, if you dug deep enough into your own blood,” her breath rattled in her throat, laced with hope, “would you find her?”
Like most Moor names, she meant nothing to him. Just another mix of sounds that were similar to his own. His name was given to him by the dead. “I’m unsure. I do not know my parents.”
Flaj’s face contorted into concern. Most elders, the ones who had even deeper wrinkles than she, made Xala feel safe. He revered them. He idolized them. They were examples for him, especially those of keen mind. But she was a mongrel. She was a monster of a prehistoric age that those who walk the merces now had evolved to feel rage and fear toward. If he killed her, if he listened to his blood, he would become a hero to all those countless souls she had betrayed in her long life. Her concern, her face, it disgusted him. She said in a sing-songy voice, “Where oh where did you first open your eyes?”
“In Irdalan, Okra.”
Flaj squealed a bubbly noise as her hands splayed out and the folds of skin around her eyes peeled back to reveal her cloudy spheres that sat in their sockets awkwardly. She threw her head back and laughed, the folds of flesh pulled by that mocking force of gravity that forced her skull to poke and scrape against the underside of her skin, begging to be unleashed once and for all. She laughed so hard it dislodged something in her throat, forcing her to fling her head forward and expel a red, chunky slurry onto the floor between her and the altar. She did not bother to wipe the droplets from her lips as she sang, “Oh, blessed Xa, in my dark penance I find salvation! In your bastard, I find hope! In your child, I seek redemption! Glorious Xa! Forgive me for abandoning you! Forgive me!”
Xala’s consciousness bristled. The Lost God of Undeath. The creator of his ancestors. It made his body tense and release, starved and nourished, blessed and damned all at once. He hated it. He hated her. He hated this feeling. He hated, hated, hated, loved, hate, hate, love, hate, hate, Hate, Love, Hate, HATE, LOVE, HATE!
“Let the darkness saturate you, my love.” No more did she sing. “Marinate in the Maker’s shadow. Let it wash over you.”
Hatred and love. Xala hated much of the world, almost as much as he loved. When he was young, he only felt hatred. Then, he met Morl. Morl showed him the ruins of long forgotten peoples, the sculptures whose noses were broken and hands severed, the temporary sand patterns of enlightened monks, and replicated the way lovers’ bodies liquidated in the paintings of the Sensual Movement. All these things gave Xala the will to live.
Flaj was Anathema to all that Xala loved. She was among the kin who sold out the peoples of those ruins and opened the gates to whatever pillagers burned it all down.
Xa was Art, all that Xala loved.
Xa was Anathema, all that Xala hated.
Xala’s mind quieted. He took deep breaths through his nose. He could feel the love enter, and the hatred leave, or whatever those emotions were he could not describe any better. He opened his eyes, unaware they had even been shut, and stared Flaj in the face with a scowl, “You are a sick dog. The only future for you is a bag of rocks tossed off the side of a bridge.”
Flaj’s serenity halted. It was as if he had rended her from a paradisic trance. Her fury began to deepen the lines of her face wherever the muscles pulled against bone and hissed out, “Excuse me?”
“Your Master, your mistress, did not love you. She saw you as I do now. A thing to abuse, rip apart, build back together, and turn into a weapon for our amusement. I know for a fact she saw you this way, as a traitorous thing. The difference is, she delighted in your treachery while I am repulsed by it. You, your kind, you are naught but spectacles for mine to turn into sculptures of torment.”
Flaj’s fingers pressed into the stone, drawing more blood than ever, until her top knuckles broke the opposite direction and screamed, “You are a disgrace! A filthy mockery of your own kin! How dare you speak to one of the High Priestesses of Xa in such a way! I was the one who got your parents out of Trymora!” At that, she realized she had misspoke. Her eyes were wide and her mouth agape.
Xala stepped forward. The cruor in the room began to liquify, siphoned the oxygen in the room, and ran a bright red as the humidity was given back to it. Flaj’s blood became Xala’s to control. Rings of crimson, dripping runes levitated around the back of his head to form a gruesome halo. His feet lifted off the ground. He rose until he was a few heads higher than Flaj, stared down at her, and said, “Is that so?”
Blood slithered into Flaj’s eyes against her will. She could not scream as her throat was constricted. The blood that welled behind her sclera invaded her vessels until they got too big and popped. Her cloudy eyes became a crystalline red as a vortex formed where her pupils once were. It became pitch black as it descended into her nervous system, and returned sight to her.
Her mouth opened as wide as it could to screech, terror etched into every line in her face, but she was silent as she gazed upon Xala’s Moorish form. His claws clicked together in their black lethality, his silvery and dark grey hair flowed around him as though he were underwater, his serpentine eyes stared down at her, his bottom jaw unhinged into their two halves and reveal all his fangs, and a miasma swarmed around him. The miasma was an oily green and purple and sizzled as it made contact with the blood in the room, which lifted off the ground in globs and hovered around him like a solar system of many small planets. He reached out toward one of those globs and captured it between his talons, their sharpened tips causing the shallowest ripples possible as he held it. He rubbed his thumb’s talon across its surface and watched as Flaj’s back bent backwards, forced her face to stare at the ceiling, and made her hands move with increasing fervor across the altar’s slab. More bones fractured. Her flesh was his to control. Her soul was his to consume. Her entire being was his to enslave. She was meat. A mongrel. She was less than the dirt beneath his feet, the grime fungus thrived in, the gruel pigs slopped, a stain upon the world.
“NINEVAH! ZLO! THEY MADE ME REMOVE THEIR FACES FROM MY MIND! THEY FORBID ME SPEECH TO ANY BUT THEIR FIRST BORN! THEY STATIONED ME HERE! HERE I HAVE SERVED SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE THIRD ERA! FEAR THEIR NAMES FOR THEY ARE STRICKEN FROM THE TEMPLES OF MAN, ELF, AND ORC! ONLY THE ARACHINADS KNOW THE FACES OF YOUR PROGENITORS!”
Xala hated this feeling. Why? Why did he not enjoy her torment? What made her special as opposed to Vulcan or Frederick or Halifax? He consumed them happily.
He could not let this continue. He needed to end it.
The moment he came to that realization, there she was; an elderly Dawn-Kin elf inhabited by centuries of regret. Perhaps the regret she felt was not the kind he wanted her to feel — that regret of lost faith rather than regret of betrayal — but she was a living creature. A living, breathing, thinking creature.
That never stopped him before. So too were all the others he had killed without mercy or regret. Why was she different? What made him want to stop?
Regardless of what it was, he found himself on the ground in his Dawn-Kin flesh once more. The blood in the room returned to dried coagulate. Flaj’s body became her own. The moment she was released, she bent forward and wept against the table. Her sight was removed, the blood giving way to the cloudy paleness that haunted her visage for an untold time. She wept and twitched, and quietly whispered, “I am yours, Master.”
A primordial fear and joy welled inside of him. Those were the words first scrawled across his back by The Master before his flesh was whipped enough times that it was sliced off of him. He swallowed hard, a tear having already escaped his left eye, and regained his composure. He said with a partial tonal shake, “How can you possibly serve me, after what I, and my kin, have done to you?”
“I was safe in the kennels. I was protected. I was guided. It was where I felt most secure and happy. I long for a master who has no other servants, where I am the only one they command. I am dutiful. I have been free for so long, and for all that time, I have hated it. I hate this place, this feeling, and I long to have a collar around my neck, a real one, once more.”
Her answer was dutiful in its tone. She had spoken as if by order. Xala frowned as he watched her and said, “I desire no such servants.”
“Do you not have zombies, ghouls, or skeletons to call your own?”
“I do.”
“Then you do. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is only natural for you to desire servants, as the Apex Species. The one born to rule. The rest of us, we clawed and scratched our way out of the primordial mud, evolved in some crude sequence of mutations, and had to find the truth ourselves. You were formed from nothing, save for the need to conquer and acquire. It is what makes you so wonderful.”
“My undead are not slaves.”
“Then you delude yourself, Master. All necromancers are slavers.”
“No, my undead exist to redeem themselves. They are transgressors, murderers, monsters who have been given a second chance.”
“Do they have the choice to disobey?”
Xala frowned. “No.”
“Then their redemption is not done freely. They do not choose their own redemption. It has been chosen for them. Just as I and my brethren required redemption through service for our lack of substance, our natural inferiority.”
Xala gulped as he flexed his fingers. They felt so stiff, and it hurt to move them, but it hurt just as much to let them stay still. “They cannot obey in the same way a man cannot disobey his boss without losing his job.”
“When they lose their jobs, they die, love. Don’t they?”
“One is of sound mind, and knows that if he dies he will end up somewhere worse. An Alouee orc who knows where he will go. The other is a mindless corpse, risen to serve without any inkling of consciousness. How can they be slaves if one is merely animated flesh lacking sentience, while the other, though caught in limbo, is working to change his fate?”
“Is he working to change his fate, or are you?”
“Both.”
Flaj smiled gently. She shook her head and said, “If you must debate whether or not someone is a slave, then they likely are.”
Xala sighed. Vulcan chose undeath. He chose to become Xala’s conscious minion. There were only two choices for Vulcan. Though, there were only two choices because Xala killed him.
Vulcan was selected as prey because he was a predator himself. Xala was removing a predator from the world, and replaced him with something, someone, that could help people. Vulcan had helped Xala kill Halifax, whose operation of trafficking was being transformed and reconfigured at that very moment. Vulcan was destined to do more, to help more, to…to serve more. Xala’s lips twitched as he looked at Flaj and said, “When his service is complete, he will be Awakened, given his payment, and bid to do as he pleases. By then, he will have done enough good deeds to change his fate should he wish to die. By then, he will choose to live a better life. By then, thanks to him, many will live better lives. The ends will justify the means.”
Flaj bowed her head with a mocking smile, “As you say, Master.”
“As for you, how might I release you?”
“Why do you want to, when it is my choice to serve? Choice seems to be important to you, so why not respect mine?”
“Let me pay you, so that you are not doing something for nothing.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes a great difference to me. What do you want? What do you desire above all else? If it is in my power, I will work to get it for you.”
Flaj chuckled, “How sweet. Very well. Perhaps, I shall ask for a grand and opulent mansion in the tallest tower of Feltkan! Ho, perhaps an Empire to call my own? Oh, oh, how about a pet dragon? Then, I will ask for a small cottage on a cliffside in the Alegwan plains…I’ll want to feel the wind against my face on a porch,” she blinked as she went on, surprising herself as she continued, “And, the sound of a Miru’s herd as they pass by below each morning…I would like to be safe from all enemies, and remain undisturbed in my sanctuary for all eternity.”
Xala smiled, “Work with me, not for me, and it will be yours.”
She was quiet and solemn for a long while before she sucked in some air and said, “What is the work, Master?”
“First, my name is Xala. Second, liberation. The politics and segregation of this city are detestable to me. The government of the surface must be torn down and replaced with something more hospitable.”
“Agreed, and, what for? What use is the liberation of this dingy little underground town to you?”
“I know my ancestors were nourished by the conquest and enslavement of others. I am the opposite, intellectually. Instinctually,” he swallowed as he searched for the words, “I am in constant conflict.”
“How odd.” Flaj said with a bit of intrigue in her tone, but she waved her hand dismissively and said, “So be it. Let us follow your intellect, then.”
“Ninevah and Zlo Svoboda. I’ve never heard those names.”
“Because you are from Okra. In Trymora, they are legends. Alas, you ought not hear their tales from me. Our time alone is soon to end. Solon is expecting you. Be warned, he is an impatient child and despises necromancy. He will likely support your cause, as a supporter of mage-null equality, but he is a terrified little boy. He will hem and haw, so you must tame him. This place, all of Istahkarn, is his sanctuary from the rest of the world. If you cannot convince him,” her lips peeled back into a cryptic smile, “just kill him, and take charge over his people yourself. Such is the simplest method, one I doubt you’ll enjoy.”
When her advice was given, Zosimos returned and Min’s head bowed. The wax-covered door behind her unsealed itself with a sheen of red. Zosimos nodded and said, “Very good, Min.” He continued past her. Xala slowly trailed behind. His eyes followed Min as he passed her now docile form.
The next chamber was pitch black. Only one light blossomed in the center of whatever void Solon floated in. From the darkness, hundreds of red tethers, like the ones connecting the Grave Snatchers to their jade orbs, all convened behind one humanoid head. His silhouette was bathed in red as the light reflected off of his jade shoulders and scalp. His face, invisible to Zosimos and Xala, was obscured further by the platinum white hair that floated aimlessly around his shoulders. The tangible atmosphere of raw consciousness, pure and undiluted, flowed all around him. The magic in the room thrummed like an endless gong, with subtle variations to indicate some sort of great and thunderous rhythm too deep for Xala to perceive properly.
His eyes emitted a faint red glow as they opened, darted around the room as if it were his first time in a while, and eventually settled on Xala.
Zosimos slipped out of the chamber and shut the door behind Xala.
Master Solon’s voice did not echo in the empty chamber. It was like an arrow fired from an expert marksman as it penetrated Xala’s ears and spoke directly into his eardrums. Yet, it was felt-tipped and soft. It fluttered lazily about his mind like honey-dipped butterflies.
“Welcome to the Heart of Istahkarn, Master Svoboda. I had wondered when you would reveal yourself.”
Xala stepped forward. His posture, his movements, they were well trained in the noble motions of the Okran upper class. His feet were perfectly straight as he stepped with a muffled, obsequious pitter patter, his shoulders were set in place and parallel, and his hips swished with each step. When he had crossed half the distance, Xala placed his hands together, one fist pressed against his palm and the other hand’s fingers pointed forward, and bowed low before he rose again. If Solon was a child, then flattery would be his weakness. “Your invitation honors me greatly, Master Solon, Cynosire of Istahkarn.”
His giggle confirmed Xala’s suspicion. Amusement heightened his tone as he said, “Ah, Master Svoboda, what a gentleman! Hee, the honor is all mine to host such an experienced wizard! You know, I had expected you much later. I was worried the Grave Snatchers’ reputation would have kept us far from your gaze for some time. Alas, not even the Dajilominim works as fast as you do!”
Xala raised himself from his bow and stood at attention before the Cynosire. His lips pulled apart into a grin as he said, “Are you a fellow traveler of the Parallels?”
“I am. Though, I can only imagine how many more you have been through and seen. Have you been taught by some of its residents personally?”
“A few. However, my greatest insights came from a mortal whom I will be forever grateful for.”
“Hee! How splendid! No wonder you cracked my puzzle so quickly. I expect nothing less from you.”
“Is that so? My my, the ears of Istahkarn must be vast and obscured. I could not detect your informants, if they were ever near me.”
Now Solon was just bashful as he tilted his head side to side and said, “Aw, stop. Worry not, the ears of Istahkarn are not so magically inclined as its inhabitants. We enjoy gossip, and work tirelessly to sift through the truth from the lies. But,” he held up a jade finger, “you must take care, Master Svoboda. Our ears are vast, but our sources are varied and diverse. Meaning that they are being listened to by others. We welcome you with open arms, in all your esteem, but I worry that others do not view you in this way. There is but one thing missing from all observations of you; your specialty. What is your most proficient Artform?”
“Apparently, I am a Universalist.”
“Is that so?! Goodness me, I’ve only come across a handful, and have only ever dealt with one.” Solon audibly licked his lips, sucked on his teeth, and quickly added, “Well, please, Master Svoboda, what is it you have come to me for? I simply must know!”
Xala smiled. What formation of words would work on this one? Already, he had established a bond of personality and interests. Whatever Solon had heard of him, it painted a nice picture. Though, it likely did not include Xala’s plans for revolution if Flaj knew Solon would fear the idea. Xala needed to play a game. It was what worked best with man-children.
Xala placed a hand to his chin and a hand at the small of his back. He shifted his body from one leg to the other, and muttered, “What did I want?”
“Have you forgotten?”
Xala shook his head, “Not completely. Traces of what I wanted are there, but I fear I want to make my offer interesting.”
“Really now? How so?”
“I worry my offer will,” he feigned a sigh of discomfort and hesitation, “offend you.”
“There is no way you could offend me, Master Svoboda! Please, say it, anything!”
Xala tisked, shrugged, placed his hands together behind his back, and angled his body playfully, “The situation in Fae Town, in Feltkan, it troubles me. I saw your Cynosure, the mixed and mingling splendor, and I dreamt of that for all of Feltkan. The Cursed, Nulls, Mages, all in cohesion. All in aligned, equal, joyous, chaotic order. But,” he raised his hand and clutched his fingers next to his head, squeezing at the thoughts within, “it is so difficult to make people see what I dream of. Moreover, it is difficult to help them want to strive towards that dream. There is so much fear, so much sadness, and,” he shook his head, “people must find a way to achieve it. And each day, I find myself believing that persuasion is not strong enough. The masses require a heavy hand toward enlightenment. Perhaps you could help me?”
Solon bit his lip as he shifted side to side. His body swayed in the darkness as he considered the meaning behind Xala’s words, and said, “How do you suppose we can achieve this dream?!”
“Agh, that is what I am trying to wrap my mind around. I want this dream to be met peacefully, and swiftly, to prevent the most harm, but every day I am in Feltkan, I am terrified that this dream can only be met violently. It sickens me to my core, and I wonder if you might know another way?”
Solon chewed on those words for a longer time. His body did not sway, but his head bowed as the sound of polished gemstone clicking against gemstone echoed. The energetic flow of consciousness pulsated through the room, visible by the bulbs that pumped their way up and down the red tethers behind Solon. “Well, we could,” he paused, “no, no, that wouldn’t work. Ah, how about,” again, he stopped himself. He wracked his brain figuratively and literally, his hair getting knots as it floated around him as representation of his frustration. Finally, Solon lifted his head and reached out toward Xala, waving his hand as he demanded, “The parameters are too vague! It will take too long. Where would we start? There are so many different ways to start, and so many more places we would end if it went wrong.”
He displayed concern and serious contemplation, and now, added a sprinkling of bitterness, “In my own calculations, I have always landed on one conclusion. We must free ourselves, and rise up. For too long, the nulls of the surface have pushed us down here, and I do not believe they can be appealed to. Their leader, our jailor, must be torn down and replaced with something better.”
As Xala planned, Solon immediately reeled back and released a breathy sigh of protest. He did not like the idea. Solon’s demeanor immediately became almost fetal as he curled his body up and mumbled to himself. He denied the idea at first, but as he looked at it more, his body slowly opened up. He was receptive, but not sold. Solon grumbled a few more objections before he raised his head and said, “There are so many ways that this could go wrong and end in disaster. How can I preserve my people, the people of Fae Town, and so many more lives? Regime change, revolution, it creates a vacuum, a vacuum I worry we will not survive as an order of enlightened mages. In the end, when all the dust is settled, we may become the next targets of the surface’s hatred. Your dream of making the rest of Feltkan understand our way of life and adopt it is wondrous, but how can the hearts and minds be swayed toward the Cursed and foreign?”
Xala nodded along. A child, but a clever one. His fear was justified. “You’re right. Our kind is not loved.” Xala slowly levitated into the air. Soon, he was level with Solon. In the darkness, their eyes met. His golden depths saw his glowing reds with perfect clarity, all while the void persisted around them. “And yet, we remain. We have been hunted for all time, and yet we remain. Our enlightenment is their fear, and rightly so. In these dark corridors, I do not see the College of Mystics as our savior. They have abandoned all the mages here, not just us. Small chapters, private schools, and parental teachers can only do so much to train a population as big as this one. Someone must light the way. Someone must teach the ignorant. You have the knowledge. You have knowledge of good and evil, or at least, whatever they consider to be such things. So, teach them what they know to be good. Teach them to defend themselves, and conquer the true evils of this world. The Grave Snatchers have a sour reputation because of their fear and ignorance. So, show them the way. Teach them what you know. Anonymously flood the streets with as much knowledge as you can, freely, and in doing so, you will sow chaos, yes. But, who better to teach the defense against the Dark Arts than you and yours? Give the people darkness, so that you may show them the light, as only you can. Arm them to the teeth in hexes and witchcraft, all while teaching them the proper wards, shields, and protective charms. Many neighbors, children, and parents will become Cursed. The Cursed will be seen as family dealt a bad hand, not monsters to shun. They shall have the weapons required to defeat the surface, and know how to defend themselves if such weapons are turned against them. By taking ownership of the latter, by having your Cursed teach the rest how to defend themselves from the same fate, by being a beacon of self defense, they will love you. When the dust is settled, and leaders are to be chosen, how could they not count you among the candidates?”
Solon was speechless. He held his head as he muttered to himself. He said quietly, like a field mouse, “Give away our knowledge? Allow more people to become Cursed? Such would be reckless…”
“Yes,” Xala was now closer, their eyes even more visible. They could count the threads within eachother’s irises. His presence exuded warmth and safety. An ambient aura of induced courage flowed around the raw consciousness of the void. It infected the tethers and gave them a greenish shimmer as the whispers of love and legacy and glory entered Solon’s grand, vast consciousness. “If done on a whim. But, a freed mind like you, how could you not know how to do it right? I see so much potential in you. So much,” he giggled, “passion. Who better to show the world what we know? Who better to guide them through the shadows? Who better to give them the power to see in the dark?”
Solon’s own heartbeat, a metallic pulsing, thudded within his chest. Solon swallowed hard and said, “You believe in me?”
Xala’s hand came up to touch and caress Solon’s cheek. “I have faith in magic, in its ability to bring people together. If you do too, how could I not believe in you? Look at what you have done here. This place makes me proud to be a sorcerer. Let others feel that pride. Do it carefully, do it right. The people of Fae Town know how to walk, you shall let them learn how to run, so that we might teach them how to dance.”
Solon took a deep breath, rested his head into Xala’s hand, and said, “You have given me much to think about, Master Svoboda.”
Xala was back where he once stood, halfway between Solon and the exit. Solon was surprised, but Xala smiled. An invisible mark and recall spell was far too underestimated, even better if it could be obscured by the amount of raw arcana in a space. “Take your time, Master Solon.” Xala’s courage spell persisted. Psionic courage dripped into his stream of consciousness. The more it did, the more it amplified the connection between him and his disciples. His courage was becoming theirs. His faltering doubt was faltering theirs. Whispers upon whispers that spawned from their own unconsciousness. Eventually, that drip ceased, the seeds were planted, and Xala would have to come back later to reap his harvest.
“Help yourself to our archives, you are welcome within Istahkarn.”
“A most gracious host,” Xala bowed his head and stepped backwards toward the door. The door opened behind him, allowing light through, but it was scant and barely penetrated the void. Once outside, in Min’s chamber, Zosimos closed the door and let Min reseal it without a single movement.
Zosimos turned to Xala. There was a strange light in his eye. He was introspective about something, his true mind burried deep within itself. Despite this, he stood tall and said, “Master Solon has granted you access to our archives. You are free to explore the main hall,” he guided Xala past Min without a single glance in her direction.
The twitch of her finger acknowledged Xala as he passed. A whisper rattled around his mind,
Tell me, was it your intellect or your instincts who won in that room?
Xala did not turn his head nor his gaze. He kept up pace behind Zosimos as he responded,
An inability to use both at the same time is the folly of many would-be diplomats and soothsayers. I have no such inhibitions.
Once they returned to the main hall, the entire cathedral was abuzz. People ran back and forth, their orbs covered in red lights and orbiting sigils. The jade tablets on the walls had temporary red lights drawn on them by frantic fingers as they accessed older records and combined them to assess new situations. Zosimos walked into the madness without a trace, not even a farewell.
Colhern walked up to Xala’s side, sighed loudly and dramatically, and said, “This all you?” He scrunched up his face as he saw someone start screaming at the top of their lungs, summoning a whole herd of scholars to check out what they found. “They just started going crazy out of nowhere.”
Xala nodded, “Their leader is thinking about my offer. Trust the process. The more eclectic and eccentric the wizard and his methods, the more fruitful they shall be.”
Colhern flinched as a flash of light appeared a few balconies above them, followed by excited laughter. He gulped and gently pinched Xala’s shawl so he had something to hold. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”
Xala nodded, turned toward an unused corner, pointed at it with two fingers, and fired a projectile of geometric light that splashed across the space. The spell created a web of green threads in the corner that slowly lost their hue and became invisible. “There, a quick way back whenever I want. Hold on tight,” he grabbed Colhern’s forearm, stood close to him, and before he teleported them away, he had to pause and smile at the view. Places of knowledge fulfilled him. They made him feel at ease and at peace. The scholars around him, frantically digging into their resources and self-assessing, analyzing, piecing together puzzles, it thrilled him beyond measure. A whole organization of people all dedicated toward one goal — the use of words to create something real. They were about to engage in something bigger than they could ever imagine, all because they stuck their noses in books, or in this case, gemstones. Of all the things Xala was willing to sacrifice to see his vision come to fruition, this place was not one of them. Not yet.
With a snap of his fingers, Xala and Colhern warped out of the Istahkarn Cynosure.
