The inner sanctum was a place of calm, security, and far more importantly, privacy.

  Sealed away in the highest and deepest reaches of Nerkai’s temple-pyramid, the sanctum had been built with the express purpose of being inaccessible to those uninitiated in the faith. Many of the doors and passages required magical talent to access, or keystones specially prepared for those who did not.

  Here members of the priesthood meditated, experimented and dabbled in arcane affairs deemed too dangerous or too secret for public eyes. It could be reached only by a series of winding, labyrinthine corridors guarded by zealous Spatharii, the servant-soldiers of the priesthood.

  Yet, in spite of all this, Syla had slipped inside, arriving completely unannounced to once more interrupt Aretuza in a moment of reflection. All she could do was sigh.

  “You always time your visits so…curiously,” she added a moment later, remaining sat cross-legged with her hands braced upon her knees and tail coiled upon her lap.

  Syla stood in the doorway behind Aretuza, blocking out the light. The room was a simple box of clean-cut stone, bereft of ornamentation bar the scripture she had brought to study, and the indentations carved into the floor that inferred a ritualistic significance. “Opportunities to encounter you alone are scarce,” Syla replied.

  “Yes, my role is quite the sociable one.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “I had intended to spend these scant few hours of privacy in quiet contemplation and study before retiring for the night.” Aretuza sighed, reverently closing the tome she had been reading. “Be swift regardless.”

  “Aiur is still missing,” Syla stated bluntly, folding her arms and shifting her weight onto the other foot.

  Aretuza paused, as she realised exactly what Syla was after. That would prove difficult. “Yes, he has been absent for some time now.”

  “None of my associates have been able to find him,” Syla added.

  “I wouldn’t expect them to. He’s not the kind to go gallivanting off to other cities. House Zerkash is not a popular one.”

  “You seem to have very little interest in this particular development.” Syla growled, moving to stand in front of the priestess. The half-light glanced across Aretuza’s figure, making freshly washed scales glisten.

  “And you seem altogether far too concerned,” Aretuza said, sliding her tail from her lap and rising to her feet. “It is making you panic.”

  “I am not panicking.” Syla scowled.

  “Stop. Think. Breathe. What do we know?” Aretuza soothed, putting her hands on Syla’s shoulders.

  Syla shrugged her off and stepped back. “Cleonar was encountered by some of those in my employ, crossing the A’at at Ptheka and heading eastwards. Since then, silence.”

  Aretuza nodded, gesturing for her to continue. “What can you infer from that?”

  “He’s not in any of the major cities, he’s likely travelling through open desert, and unless he foresaw us looking for him and has used Cleonar as a decoy, he is likely headed east as well.”

  Aretuza smiled. “Good. A solid conclusion based on what you have, but you want, nay, need more, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “You wish to employ the talents of the priesthood to this end.”

  “I do.” Syla repeated. The look on her face intimated her unease at being read so clearly; Aretuza was likely one of very few to do so successfully.

  “You desire me to perform a reading to reveal the portents of Aiur’s fate,” Aretuza said. Divination was not among the precise magical arts, nor was it a safe one. That alone suggested Syla’s desperation for answers.

  “Yes. I believe that is something you can provide?” Syla snapped, though perhaps not intentionally. She was becoming more defensive as Aretuza read her expressions.

  Aretuza sighed. “I can, but I am no expert. I will require materials, time, and an object with a strong connection to him.”

  “So, something he owns?”

  “Or uses regularly. Ownership is not important, simply that it comes into contact with him, so I may follow the thread more readily.”

  “Good,” Syla said with a nod, reaching for a pouch strapped to her thigh to retrieve a cloth-bound object. She deposited it into Aretuza’s hands. “That should suffice.”

  Aretuza peeled the cloth away fold by fold, pulling out a freshly polished metal bracer with a gaping wound torn in one side. She was no expert, but the way the metal was buckled suggested a particularly vicious blow.

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  “How did you come by this?” she asked, turning it over in her hands.

  “Aiur sent it to be repaired before he left. When he returns, he’ll be receiving a freshly made copy,” Syla said with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “The guild didn’t question that? No talk of pride or reputation stopped them from giving it to you?” Aretuza questioned. “Ordinarily they’re so stubborn and obtuse about such things.”

  “For the priesthood perhaps. But then you always have been the biggest obstacle in the way of their profits. I, on the other hand, have far more…pull.” Syla grinned, putting her hands on her hips. “Regardless, the guild doesn’t know, the armourer was more than happy to hand it over once I had spoken with him a while.”

  “I don’t believe I should ask what that entails,” Aretuza said, keeping her curiosity at bay. Syla was not the most wholesome of their kind, neither in manner nor methods. “But if you are looking to be helpful, I will require some materials for the casting. Some blessed unguents, incense, candles, staves, things of that nature to ensure the ritual is conducted properly. I will gather the more sensitive items, and I’m certain with your talents you can find that little list around the sanctum.”

  “You would have me fetch like some hound?” Syla started, taking a step forward.

  “I would have you save us time!” Aretuza snapped, exasperated. “You must stop seeing veiled insults and threats in everything.”

  “It has kept me alive this far.” Syla sneered. Even now, she seemed uncertain; she had little belief this would work. “…but I shall gather these mundanities. For your little ceremony.”

  ***

  Candles were set about the ritual engravings upon the floor, their incense filling the room with its fragrant smoke. Four staves had been slid into place, each equidistant from one another and each clutching a carefully carved crystal, aligned inwards toward the centre of a circle carved into the floor.

  Aretuza, anointed with the sacred unguents upon her cheeks and fingers and wearing a golden torc engraved with eldritch runes, approached the circle.

  The door had been sealed, leaving the flickering candles as the only light in the room. This suited Syla, who lurked in silence and stillness just beyond the light’s meagre reach.

  Aretuza reached the circle’s centre, lowering herself onto her knees. Gripping the torc around her neck in both hands, she began to chant. Her voice was slow and steady, a lengthy refrain repeated over and over as it built in intensity.

  The words were in no language Syla understood, and while at first her scepticism was rising at this seemingly ineffectual chanting, soon it was clear this was no empty ceremony.

  Tiny motes of light, in strange colours, only some of which Syla could name, coalesced from nothingness and began to gather around the crystals. The runes engraved in the torc became luminous, pulsing and throbbing to the rhythm of the chant.

  One by one, the swirling motes were absorbed by the crystals, trapping their luminosity to add to the crystal’s own rapidly growing radiance. Soon they too had joined the chant, their light ebbing and flowing with the priestess’ words.

  Soon the chant reached its apex, the words adopting an otherworldly tone as though twinned with some being that existed on a separate plane. The cut faces of the crystals began to direct their light inwards as Aretuza continued chanting, leaning her head back to stare skyward as the light gathered around her torc, suffusing the air with a keening whistle.

  A crack akin to the snapping of bone resonated through the room, as the chant reached its crescendo. Aretuza shouted in pain as in one sudden rush of air and energy, every iota of light in the room pierced through her scales.

  The light seemed to have burnt itself out and the room was left in darkness. Even the candles had not been spared. Syla had the vague impression of Aretuza, kneeling stock still, her muscles tensed, eyes rolled back in her head as the spell did its work.

  Soon even that impression faded, and the room was enveloped in absolute darkness. The temperature plummeted. The cold sent shivers down Syla’s spine, and she daren’t move for fear of disturbing the ritual. Had it worked? Seeing magic of this kind up-close was a rarity, and this was nothing like she had expected.

  Syla reached for her belt, the cool steel underneath her fingertips providing the reassurance it always did.

  There was a shuffling. A slow, lurching scratch as clawed feet dragged across the stone floor. Syla waited, ready to draw her weapon in a flash, her breath misting in the air before her, but the darkness was so complete she was blind to it.

  A tiny metallic tap. More scratched steps. Moving closer toward her now.

  Syla stepped back. “Aretuza?” she called, finally breaking the stillness of the air.

  A final pair of scratching steps were coupled with ragged, heavy breathing. Syla found herself blinded by a sudden burst of light.

  As her eyes adjusted, she realised she was face-to-face with Aretuza. The priestess was inches from her, scales drained of colour, giving her a pale, drawn aspect. Her eyes were rimmed with blood and as Syla watched several crimson tears slid down her cheeks. She still clutched a crystal, radiating the only light and warmth in the room.

  Syla’s lips tightened for a moment but the grip on her blade slackened. “Is that…normal?” she asked.

  “…No,” Aretuza breathed in a shaking voice, fingers trembling as they gripped the pulsing crystal. “Your concern…is well founded,” she managed to mumble, lowering herself down to her knees and beckoning Syla to do the same.

  Syla did not. She squatted down in front of the priestess, tail flicking from side to side as she kept one hand on the hilt of her blade. “What did you see?”

  Aretuza drew in a deep lungful of air, composing herself to make coherence from her scattered visions. “Saw? Bloodied scales, rent flesh, a village aflame…and a face.”

  “One you recognise?”

  “No, yet it was unmistakable. It was so…serpentine in aspect, so cruel, and stooped in depthless malice. A Naga hunts the Consul.” Aretuza said, though her tone was strange.

  “You speak as though that is the least of our problems,” Syla mumbled, feeling both intrigued and concerned.

  “The mere presence of a Naga would not cause the spell to react so violently,” Aretuza mumbled, eyes darting back and forth in suspicion, thought or perhaps, rather uncharacteristically, fear. Syla didn’t know which would concern her more. “Someone…Something else had its hand in this, something is twisting fate,” Aretuza finally said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Divination magic observes the threads of fate, in all their fickle irreliability,” Aretuza explained, the shift to an academic thought somewhat easing the shaking in her fingers. “Viewing the past is always easier than the future or the now. You simply…follow the thread back. But this…something is tugging the threads. Moving them.”

  Syla sighed. “Could a powerful magus do this?” she proposed.

  Aretuza shook her head, and closed her eyes. “Nobody in our history has that power, to manipulate fate and time so delicately, yet integrally in one fell swoop. Something beyond our comprehension desires Aiur to be wherever he is, desires him to encounter a beast which he cannot kill.”