The Heart of the Thief: A Visit to a Brothel in Wine Country

 Previous Chapter: The Sorceress Reminisces

A Visit to a Brothel in Wine Country
After walking the highway for nearly a week’s time, they came upon the village of Hampton, a province of Beaune, a city-state much renowned for its wines. This came as a surprise, for they had not realized how far they had strayed inland after hugging the coast for so long. Fergal’s direction, it seemed, had not been accurate, though the promise of wine country and some respite raised morale. The Thief was eager to check into a tavern and sample the local vintage, but to his dismay, as well as the company’s, they found Hampton to be overrun with refugees. After interrogating a local coiffeuse, they discovered that Beaune had just been attacked by Rheine, its historical enemy, and the invading forces had pushed people out of the surrounding towns. “It is the season of war,” said the woman, who leaned indolently on the railing of her salon. “Sometimes we invade them, other times they invade us.” She moved away to chase off a gang of children who were staring through the windows at her clientele. Others were not so nonchalant. “They’ll kill us all this time,” said a man waiting in line to draw from the communal well. “They’ll take the vineyards and fill them with soldiers, idiot Rheineland boys with peasant palates who won’t be able to tell one vintage from another.”
    They stopped at a tavern, a place with no name, just a tankard painted on the door. It was crowded and cramped with men and women pushed tightly together in a seething mass. A haze filled the room; one could cut through the smoke with a wave of the hand. Fergal pulled himself up to the bar, jostling with another patron for ownership of a seat. The Aiv was just about to be displaced (his opponent, a gangly man with a neck like a rooster, had two feet in height on him) when Josun’s thick arm separated the two, throwing the other back into the sea of persons and securing the seat for his companion. The little Aiv called out at the bartender and ordered drinks for everyone, including the sorceress. When they were served, he and the others retreated to a space by the window front that had recently be abdicated by three large men, soldiers by the looks of them.
    “Way too many people in here. Not my sort of place,” said the Thief, looking sideways at the soldiers as they left.
    “The ratio of guardsmen to whores is off, I’m assuming,” said Cassilda innocently.
    “Too many refugees for harlots to make any money. The desperate will do anything for food and shelter,” commented Josun.
    “The brothel didn’t look to be this crowded. They serve wine at brothels,” said the Thief.
    “Do you wish to reach San-Elza or do you want to squander your coin earning a venereal disease?” asked Cassilda, making a bitter face. The drink Fergal had purchased for her, a cocktail called Burgundy, did not meet her rather lofty standards.
    “Coin spent at the brothel is never squandered. Besides, I’m compiling a list of all the various illnesses one can acquire while making love,” responded the Thief. “Surely you acquired a few of your own while making friends at the Duke’s court? I know the barbarian needs to sate the procreative urge, I can see the frustration in his eyes. I’m sure they’ll have a dwarf or something for you, Fergal, assuming your parts are compatible. Come, Cassilda, every brothel has a gigolo or two. Let us spend the night here, with a roof over our heads before braving the wilderness again. What says the company? Put it to a vote.”
    “No need. We can visit the brothel,” said Cassilda, to everyone’s surprise. “What? It will be quieter, and we could all use time away from one another. If the Thief wants to make another notch on his belt, who am I to stand in his way?”
    They left the bar and went down a block to the brothel, which was called the Silver Cross. The parlor was done in an upscale manner, all red-velvet upholstery and silk curtains, and the madam was a handsome woman, tall and curly-haired, though a little weathered beneath the eyes. A butler served them wine, and they sat down as the madam introduced herself and her establishment, stressing that the Silver Cross had a fine history to uphold as the oldest brothel in all of Beaune, and it was her purpose on this earth, as far as the gods were concerned, to make sure her customers were satisfied to the fullest extent. “You will not find such devotion and service in the alleyways or tavern stalls, sirs and lady,” said the madam, whose name was Claire. “Nor need you worry about complications from your pleasure, for we are a worker-safe establishment that values discretion above all things.”
    “An ethical whorehouse,” said Cassilda. “How comforting.”
    “Ethics change from land to land and city to city. Here in Hampton we have a liberal attitude towards sexuality that may unnerve some from lands with more conservative traditions. Galvania, for instance, outlawed brothels forty years ago, I believe. Well, ma’am, you are not in Galvania now. You are free to enjoy yourself.”
    The madam clapped her hands and the butler vanished only to quickly return with several women and a few men. The Thief immediately picked his companion, opting for a buxom lass with auburn hair and a crooked smile. Josun retreated upstairs with a gracile, ebony-skinned girl. After several minutes of deliberation, Fergal chose a short, stocky woman with large ears and freckles under her eyes. And so Cassilda was left alone, sitting with legs crossed before the remaining prostitutes, wondering what she was doing here. As a courtesan in the Capetian court, she had been flirtatious yet careful enough not to let any relationship become sexual. If Ambierce could only see me now. It was doubtful that he would have approved, though she was sure he had visited whorehouses, especially during his army service. There had been a certain amount of hypocrisy about the man (Do as I say, not as I do), but he had been aware of it and acknowledged it, so she had never held it against him. Anyways, no matter how much she loved him, she had always done whatever she felt like, so now, staring at a line of scantily-clad humans as though they were nothing but pieces of meat, she shrugged and pointed at a lean man with silver in his hair and stubble on his cheeks.
    “Silver-flaked fox,” she said, “show me to my room.” As they passed the butler, Cassilda snatched his bottle of wine. “I’m thirsty,” she said by way of explanation before taking a long swig.
    Most of the room was taken up by a large bed, and it was this bed that Cassilda collapsed on, feeling the weight of weeks of marching easing off her shoulders. This is better than any sex she thought. The prostitute lay down next to her, crossing his arms behind his head while wearing a wry smile. He wore a red vest intricately embroidered with silver swirls that reminded her of patterns in the ocean’s surf.
    “That is a beautiful vest,” she said, examining his form. He was tanned by the sun a warm brown; his stubble looked the right kind of rough.
    “It is from Archaea. I obtained it there several years ago, and now I wear it like a peacock wears its tail.” His voice had a soothing quality, like listening to water pour slowly from a vase.
    “I gather you weren’t traveling for pleasure? Not much of a vacation destination, right?”
    “I was a sailor. No one wanted to stop there—the rocks rise out of the fog like giant’s teeth—but we had no other choice and sought refuge from a squall. We knew better than to land, for Archaea is haunted and plague-ridden. I found this vest on a rock jutting out of the shallows like an offering from the sea. When I saw it, I knew I had to have it, and so I risked wading close to the shore.” He was as content as she to lie and talk. The rise and fall of his chest were small movements that seemed to become slower with every breath.
    “Archaea is my final destination,” said Cassilda, closing her eyes. “It is where the primeval race divided the pieces of Rankar the fallen. I go there to end a world and begin a new one.”
    “Is that right?” said the prostitute, placing his hand on her shoulder. He had a firm grip. A laborer by day she thought, preferring to guess rather than pry.
    “Yes, though I am unsure how it will all turn out. It could go very badly for a great many people.”
    “So you are bad,” he said, his other hand down her thigh.
    “If indifference to the fate of this shitty world makes me bad, then, yes, I suppose I am bad. Evil. Maleficent. Choose your descriptor.”
    “I just see a woman. A very beautiful, tired woman in need of relaxation.”
    “That may be what you see, but that is not what I am,” she said, opening her eyes. The ceiling plaster was riddled with faults. A chunk of it was liable to fall at any second. “If you stare hard at me, you’ll notice certain irregularities. There’s a faint haziness to my visage, as though it were a mirage on a distant desert horizon. My nose may appear a little strange, like someone’s gone and tweaked it, leaving smudges that hint at the original outline. My hair is whatever color you fancy; black, brown, blonde, red, auburn. Even the shape of my form changes to your desire. Maybe you like thicker hips; maybe a large bosom is just a bit too much. Ask someone else what I look like. They’re likely to describe a different woman.”
    The prostitute was silent for a time, but he did not take his hands off her. She tried to think how long it had been. Am I trying to ruin this? Why? She should get her money’s worth.
    “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if what you say is true, then you would be very popular in a venture like this,” he said finally, looking her in the eyes.
    “Surely this business is built on more than just appearances.”
    “Of course the sex has to be good. Also one must be empathetic and comforting, yet maintain a certain level of professional distance. Not everyone can do all that. But appearances matter a lot.”
    “You should hire sorcerers, then. But you’d have to consider the ethical implications,” said Cassilda, rolling over on her stomach. It was refreshing to talk to someone besides a member of the company, and she found herself in a contemplative mood.
    “Ethical implications? Despite what the madam says, we are a whorehouse.”
    “But if you had a whorehouse full of sorcerers, then you’d open up all sorts of possible issues. What is to stop a sorcerer from reading the client’s mind without their permission? What’s to deter a magic user from making the client believe they had sex? What if a conjurer is asked to indulge a taboo fantasy like rape? Magically created images are just images, but at what point has a crime occurred?”
    “Perhaps that’s why there are no whorehouses run by sorcerers,” said the prostitute.
    “As far as you know. The world is vast, and no one has seen all of it. What lies past Zanj or the icy lands of Aldeen, for instance? Maybe there’s a whole country full of sorcerers and their whorehouses.”
    “I have been to Zanj. Only stayed a week. They had a tiger in the market square, a huge creature with massive forelimbs and sabers protruding from its jaws.”
    “See what I mean? I thought tigers were just a myth. But myth is usually based on reality. Do you, in these parts, know of the Heart of Rankar?” asked the sorceress.
    “That is a Capetian legend, if I’m not mistaken,” answered the prostitute. “Rankar is called Rankeer around here, however, though we do not hold him in any particular reverence. Beaune is a rather secular place. I believe the priesthood was run out of town by Count Oudinot, who was peeved that they wouldn’t allow him to divorce his third wife.”
    “Yes, the sanctity of marriage. I’ve never been fond of priests either. But as I was saying, the Heart of Rankar is very real. I’ve seen it and marveled as it beat in rhythm with my own heart. Looking at it, I knew that it was the timepiece of the universe, that the myths, the stories, they were all true. With it I could destroy the world. Or perhaps remake it anew.”
      “How very romantic of you,” said the prostitute, kissing her face. She let him wrap himself around her, his limbs entangled with hers, the bed feeling like a patch of quicksand, enveloping them in fatalistic abandon. The words that she had said were gone, dissolved, vanished from her memory. Why she had said them, she did not know.

    Soon after Cassilda had left, the prostitute had another client.
    “You’ll never guess who I just had,” he said, staring out the window. He watched as people melted into the darkness of the street, their outlines a tremulous suggestion in the flickering light of the flames.
    “King Wotan and all his sons,” said the woman, who was tall and homely, with short hair cut rather raggedly, like an urchin boy’s mop.
    “Well no, you know I don’t see men on Wednesdays. I had the pleasure of meeting a Galvanian sorceress who claimed to have seen the Heart of Rankar. I thought you might be interested,” he said, somewhat sullenly. She was always like this: dour, petulant, impossible to please. But he always tried to please her.
    The woman leaned on the bedframe and rapped her fingers against the footboard. She was clad in black, wearing high boots, a long coat whose tails dragged the floor, and a tricorn hat. Her hands were long and thin, suitable for playing piano or garroting a neck. When she moved, you paid attention, partly out of fear and partly out of the simple joy of watching her move.
    “What did this woman look like?” she asked.
    “I’m not sure it would matter if I told you. She admitted to using a spell to make her appearance dependent on the viewer.”
    “Tell me anyway.”
    “Long, flowing auburn hair. Symmetrical, oval face. Green eyes that glow, almost. A very striking woman, not the sort that often finds her way into this lovely establishment.”
    “I hope that was not a dig at my personal appearance. I never had use for that sort of magic, you should know. The brazen dishonesty of it always struck me as… well, rather whorish.”
    “Come sit down, and I’ll do rather whorish things to you.”
    “What else did this woman speak of?”
    The prostitute looked upward and rapped the side of his head with an index finger. He knew that she loathed this gesture, which was why, of course, he did it.
    “Myths, appearances, doom and gloom. Archaea is her final destination. I think she mentioned something about destroying the world.”  
    “Is this woman still here?”
    “No, I don’t believe so, though I saw one of the men she came in with lingering in the foyer. A short fellow with a rather peculiar face. Large ears, big eyes… kind of nervous, like a giant mouse. I’d point him out to you, but that would be against our policy.”
    “That’s a laugh. One of the reasons I come to you is that you have a way of making people confess all sorts of hidden information. You would’ve made an excellent priest.”
    “Celibacy never suited me, though I don’t suppose that stops some people. Hypatia, where are you going?”
    “We will have to do this another time,” she said, pausing with one hand on the door. “There, by the night stand, is your fee.”
    As she left, he couldn’t help feeling as though he had been used. He never felt that way with his other clients.

    Hypatia immediately noticed the man whom the prostitute had described lingering about the foyer. He kept looking up the stairs and twitching his feet impatiently, as though he were prepared to run out the door, and his back was pressed against the wall like it was mortared in place. The madam was nowhere in sight, and other than a bedraggled prostitute snoring in a chair, the room was empty. Her subject looked about as dangerous and competent as a child, not the sort of person you’d expect a sorceress to keep as company. As she approached, she recognized the tell-tale glimmer of an illusion shimmering around the edges of his form. It was not a particularly well-constructed spell; she could break it with a wave of her hand, but she hesitated, not wanting to unleash some monstrosity that would run rampant through the city. At least she knew why he was nervous, even if she had no idea what he was.
    “Good evening, sir. My name is Hypatia. Can I help you with anything?” she asked. She thought it was unlikely that this person was a monster or extra-dimensional entity, but sorcerers occasionally hid such beings behind spells such as this, and the illusion covered the entirety of his body, not just his face, which was a sign that this man may not be human.
    ‘No, no, nothing at all, ma’am. I am not in need of any further service,” he said, glancing at her briefly before turning back to stare at the stairway. His voice was high-pitched, though not quite shrill.
    “You keep looking up those stairs. Are you awaiting a companion?” she asked.
    “Um… yes, I am waiting for two persons of my party. They seem to be taking their time,” he replied with annoyance.
    “There are many fine women and men here, and your companions are surely enjoying their company. Why are you so eager to depart?”
    “I am not at ease in a place such as this, and another of my company has gone missing, and I think it is imperative that we find her. There is a war going on, after all, and this town is full of refugees, many of which, I am sure, would seek some ill-use of her if the opportunity presents itself.”
    “Can she not defend herself? Where do you think she may have gone?”
    The man looked suspicious suddenly, and she saw that she had overplayed her hand.
    “Miss Hypatia, isn’t it? I’m afraid that I must beg your pardon. My business is my own, and I think that it is best if I leave you to yours. Good evening.” Having said his peace, the man turned his back on her and directed his complete attention towards the top of the stairs.
    Hypatia smiled, for she had a good sense of the man’s character now, and she knew that, whatever he was involved in, he was out of his depth. With a brief whisper of words, she placed a tracking spell on him and left the brothel, heading for the police station half a block away. It was a deceptively nondescript building, square and utilitarian, giving one an impression of provincial nonchalance, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. The shire reeve took his job seriously, and his officers were well-trained and more dependable than the Count’s men (the Count had an eye for incompetence). She threw open the door, stared wordlessly at four officers lounging at a table playing cards, pointed a finger outside, and watched as they dropped their hands and grabbed their gear, operating like automatons. They knew who she was—an explanation did not have to be given—and anyways, the preciseness of her gestures brooked no argument. They went straight to the Silver Cross. Inside, the little man who may not have been a man was arguing with a tall black fellow with a scarred face and a robust individual that looked to be Barbarosie by his attire.
    “Those three,” she said. “They are needed alive for questioning.”
    The officers, who were armed with pikes, aimed their weapons at the men. One stepped forward.
    “I am a police officer. You are to remain silent, place your hands behind your head, and come with us.”
    “There, that’s the woman I was telling you about,” said the little man to his companions.
    “What are we being charged with?” asked the scarred one.
    “Comply or you’ll know what a pike in the leg feels like,” said an officer.
    “I do know what that feels like,” said the barbarian, putting his hands behind his head. “But I do not think you’ll ever feel anything again.”
    He had intended to decapitate the man with one fell stroke, yet when he pulled his ax loose, he found that the head was gone and all that he had in his hands was its handle. If he hadn’t been so surprised, things might have proceeded differently. One of the officers, perceiving the barbarian as a threat, stabbed at his leg, inserting the pike into the middle of his right quadriceps, crippling the big man before the fight had even started. The little one was seized and thrown to the ground, the scarred man sent to the floor by one hard swing of a pike against his head. The officers bound their hands with no further complications.
    “Take them back and throw them in a jail cell. You do not have to keep them separate,” said Hypatia.
    “I swear, it was her idea! I never would’ve done it otherwise!” blurted out the little man as he was dragged away.
    “Forget it, Fergal. They don’t care about your sexual misdeeds,” said the black man.
    “I care about a great many things,” said Hypatia, flicking her wrist. “Silence! You will not speak.”
    They found that she was quite right. Not one of them could say another word.

Next Chapter: Arrested

New Old Music: Rock and Roll

An ancient ode to a dead art form, recorded circa 2010 with my battered acoustic and my cheap PRS that has since succumbed to death by tremolo failure. I think this is probably one of the best choruses I've ever written-"I'm an old man out the movies, shooting blanks with a popup gun. You can't memorize the teenage alphabet. You was never born to run." Indeed. 

The Heart of the Thief: The Sorceress Reminisces

Previous Chapter: A Shadow over Dunfermline


The Sorceress Reminisces
“So you have it? Give it to me. It is my burden,” said the Thief, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.
    “You act as though I stole it! Here, here, take your precious Heart. I can see the gleam of madness in your eyes. I was simply keeping it for…”
    “Yourself,” finished the Thief, snatching the Heart out of Fergal’s grasp. They stood at the mouth of the Lis river, the sea before them, the heat of the afternoon beating down upon the sandy shores with a fiery intensity. Cassilda lay upon the bank, dipping her toes into the water. Josun swam in the river, his clothes discarded next to the sorceress.
    “Did you know he had the Heart?” asked the Thief angrily. Cassilda shrugged and yawned. The heat made her sleepy, as did the bickering.
    “Everyone knew I had it. After the incident at Dunfermline, we simply forgot to tell you in the chaos. I took it in the dream, after all. It shouldn’t have been possible,” explained Fergal, his face red-cheeked and aggrieved.
    “Bollocks,” spat the Thief, waving his knife. “He’s been waiting to carve it out of my chest just as you have.”
    “Oh, put it away before I melt it into butter,” said Cassilda. “Fergal is telling the truth. It wasn’t a dream, after all. It was another plane of existence. The Heart is trans-dimensional. As part of the fabric of the universe, it exists in all realities. What you hold in your hands is but a sliver of the infinite aspect of being.”
    The Thief glanced at the sorceress, put the fleshy Heart in his jacket, and stomped off towards the nearby shade of a sugar maple, where he promptly sat down with his back to the others.
    “He is a moody fellow, is he not?” asked Fergal, regaining his composure.
    “He is in love,” said Cassilda, admiring the muscular frame of the barbarian as he glided through the water like a seal, “though his concerns were not without merit. The Heart compels you, Fergal, and you would have sneaked off long ago if not for its presence.”
    “Do you think he will give the Heart to you once we reach the Shimmering Isles?” he asked, ignoring the sorceress’s comment.
    “I could make him give it to me right now, if I wished. But we are a company, and this quest is something we will do together,” said Cassilda, taking her feet from the river. “I would like fish again tonight, wouldn’t you?”
    “That would be splendid. If you could conjure up that lemon sauce like you did last time…”
    “You didn’t have a philosophical problem with it, as the Thief did?”
    “Of course not. The fish was real. Who cares if the sauce wasn’t? It certainly tasted as though it was.”
    “Yes it did, didn’t it? Some wizards become chefs. It is a lucrative field, or so I am told.” She didn’t know why she said this, for she had never spoken to another wizard about becoming a chef. In fact, besides Dazbog, she hadn’t spoken to another wizard in many years, yet Fergal didn’t need to know that. Expertise was earned in the eye of the beholder, and although she didn’t consider herself an expert on much of anything, her innate talents were always enough to sell the illusion of expertise. It wouldn’t be enough to kill Pliny the Black, however. That was why she needed the Heart.
    The mad desire for revenge that had governed her movements and controlled her thoughts for years had suddenly subsided as of late, an occurrence that shocked and alarmed her. After her burnout at Dunfermline, she had found herself drained of the will to do anything autonomous. She marched towards San-Elza with the rest of the company feeling like a cipher. Yet when the scenery changed and the dull tan of the plains gave way to the bright greens of coastal forests, Cassilda found serenity. They walked beneath sunny skies with cool breezes and the smell of salt on the horizon. It was strange to find joy in the company of others, especially with these three persons, who had delayed her purpose and meandered her path. Fergal, she discovered, could entertain with his endless rambling regarding a variety of subjects, though his words scattered like the broken pieces of a sea shell, their meaning ambiguous even to him. Josun’s silent strength was admirable, and she enjoyed walking in his shadow. The Thief, when he wanted to, had the fleet feet and grace of a cat. The machinations of their meeting and the stress of the past few weeks ceased to matter. Lying on the bank of the Lis, watching Josun wade to the shore, his torso muscled like a centaur’s, she realized that it was possible to let go, however momentarily, of the rage built up inside of her.
    Yet she could not let herself forget.
    Josun suddenly pushed back from the shore, collapsing backward into the water. Ambierce had been a tall man, not as muscular, yet dark-haired, with features chiseled out of stone. Wizards, just like sorceresses, altered their appearance, but not Ambierce: his true face was the face she remembered, though she later learned that he was much older than he appeared, leading her to believe that he must have taken tonics on a regular basis. He had been born in Galvania and possessed their characteristic distaste for civility which many mistook for rudeness. She could still see his face staring down at her, a girl in rags, a feeble pickpocket trying to steal a purse. That is not for you he had said, his eyes as blue as a summer sky. She didn’t feel fear then, her hand caught in his, and she never felt afraid in his presence until his death. There was a noise in the background, a gargling sound, as though someone was choking on water. You can drown an aeromancer, did you know? It was such a stupid question. You could drown anyone.
    Feet rushed past her; she was dimly aware of Fergal wading into the water. Ambierce’s powers had been broader than her own. With a snap of his fingers, he could summon a warm breeze or draft; with a command, he could usher in a tempest or a week’s worth of sunshine. He had worked for the Baron for a while, traveling with his forces, making sure the rain and cold stayed away as they marched towards Valice. They had made him a lieutenant commander, though he never spoke of it, and she had only learned of his rank after finding his uniform in an old chest after his death. There was a diary with the uniform, a confessional, really, a list of sins. He had been ashamed of his service during the war, and she discovered that it was his biggest regret. The man described in those pages was not the man she knew. Someone was cursing, just like he had on that terrible day. She had wondered why they had not taken his tongue to protect against curses. She knew now that they had wanted her to hear him drown.
    A hand clamped down on her shoulder, breaking her reverie. Out in the water Josun struggled, his arms thrashing about. A churning whirlpool to drag the dead down. If only she had found the body. There would’ve been a way—she would have discovered a way—to return the departed soul to its mortal remains. Dazbog says that the soul is Rankar’s deceit, a cosmic sleight of hand. She had only met the necromancer once, but his words stuck in her head like a knife. The hand on her shoulder shook her, said something unintelligible. For some reason she was having trouble participating in the present. I’ve become lost in the past.
    The Thief now hurried past, crashing into the water. Fergal was trying to grab Josun’s hand and pull him from the whirlpool. She couldn’t have saved him; she had been telling herself this for years. Pliny the Black, immortal, invulnerable, omniscient. What could a novice like herself have done? Even now, years later, she knew she would be helpless in the same circumstance. That’s why she needed the Heart.
    She pulled Josun from the river like a massive fish reeled in by an invisible line. In seconds he was back on the shore, coughing water out of his lungs, dark hair hanging limply before his eyes. Fergal and the Thief stood in the shallows confused, staring where the whirlpool had been moments before.
    “I’m starving,” she said, which was true. “Let’s find something to eat.”

   

    Ambierce had lived in the ruins of an old country estate that had once belonged to a nobleman named Gerald who had betrayed the Baron of Galvania by supporting a failed coup d’état and subsequently lost his head. The grounds were a mess, overgrown with an invasive vine species from Valice, and the eastern wing of the house was uninhabitable due to a partially collapsed roof and foundational damage, but the remaining portion of the building was spacious and comfortable enough for Ambierce, who was used to traveling on the road and sleeping with nothing but the open sky above him. The day she had attempted to rob him, he had taken her out of the city, telling her only that she had power and that she should trust him. He must have used a spell on her, for orphan pickpockets were not trusting by nature, and she remembered complying with his orders without the slightest thought of suspicion. Once they had arrived, he let her wander about the house while he prepared a test in his study. For a time Cassilda just stood in the main hallway and admired the staircase, which rose high and wide and featured an ornate banister that resembled an elongated dragon. Later she would learn that the old nobleman Gerald’s crest was a dragon, and that he had been rather obsessed with the mythical creatures, littering images of reptilian monsters about his house. No one had taken the paintings and sculptures after his death, likely due to their lack of artistic merit rather than respect for the dead. Most were quite grotesque; in the hallway, at the head of the stairs, was a triptych depicting the slaughter of the dragon Gorgan by King Wotan. The king was the worst of the two—he was nude, his skin a tawny color that does not often occur in healthy individuals, his musculature so bulky that he seemed wearied by his own body’s weight—but the dragon had a disturbing grin on its face, as though it were enjoying the lance piercing its flesh. Cassilda remembered wondering at the time if dragons were masochists, existing only to be slain, their deaths bringing glory to the righteous. She wanted to ask Ambierce about the paintings, particularly the triptych and what he thought of it and why he kept it in his home, yet she never did. It could have been indifference, for he never did a thing to improve the condition of the estate, but her own theory was that he appreciated their grotesqueness, particularly the triptych’s. In the painting Wotan did not enjoy being death’s herald—his expression was dutiful, almost pained—and the dragon’s clear delight in its own demise could be interpreted as a victory of sorts, for in the process of taking its life, the king lost some of his humanity.

    Cassilda had not interpreted the painting that first day. After wandering around the upstairs for a few moments, she had heard Ambierce calling her name, only to realize that no one was speaking. Answer me he commanded, the meaning of the words coming into her mind like an emotion. “Yes?” she said out loud, looking around, feeling foolish and a little bit afraid. She had heard of wizards, of course, had seen petty conjurors producing wisps of flame to dance upon the arms of passersby for coin, yet none of the street magicians could send thoughts through the air without moving their lips. He is a real wizard like those who serve the Baron she concluded. Cassilda felt his amusement, though he said nothing. Is this how you wish for me to answer you she thought. In the following silence, she noticed a dragon statuette staring with malicious intent from across the landing. It was a trollish-looking thing, with stubby limbs and stunted wings and a short, stocky muzzle, yet its eyes shone and moved like those of a living creature’s. Cassilda approached it, curiosity supplanting apprehension. Up close, she saw that it was a dull greyish-green and covered in scutes like the common lizards that crawled about trees and windowsills. Reaching her hand out to touch it, she was shocked when the dragon snapped its jaws together and jumped down from the podium, scurrying away with a hiss. “I want out of here!” she shouted, running down the stairs, her hands not touching the bannister. When she reached the bottom, the doors slammed shut of their own accord. Cassilda stood there clutching herself, feeling afraid. Inside her sleeve was a thin blade—all Galvanian urchins and waifs were armed in a similar manner—yet it seemed foolish to draw it, for what good would a pen knife do against a wizard? You’d be surprised said the voice in her head. Raethegar Meridian was slain by a splinter of wood. Granted, this was after he had been electrocuted, drowned, torn asunder by hurricane winds, and burned by a pyromancer’s fire, yet in the end, he had not protected himself sufficiently from small forms of physical damage. You must think of everything when you’re a wizard. The smallest blade can be as lethal as a pike.

    “I don’t wish to play games anymore,” said Cassilda. “Show yourself or let me out of this haunted place.”
    It is haunted, of course he said. Gerald, the former owner of this estate, was more than a traitor. As you might have guessed, he was quite interested in dragons. He wanted to become one. I don’t think he was successful, although I cannot be entirely sure. The house is full of spirits he summoned to aid his quest. They linger in strange places, though many are trapped in those awful paintings scattered about. You saw something, didn’t you? What did you see?
    “A little stunted dragon, ugly and vicious,” said Cassilda.
    That is Zmey Gorynych, or at least, that is what it wishes to be called. It is difficult to know whether it is a dragon or just a malevolent spirit masquerading as one.
    “Is he dangerous?” asked Cassilda.
    All spirits are dangerous. They are not dead people, but rather creatures from other planes of existence. Some are parasites, others just enjoy causing mischief. Some are murders. They can change from one extreme to the next in an instant. Necromancers claim they can control spirits as well as talk to human dead, but necromancers are liars, by and large, only interested in perversion and darkness. Sorcerers are a mixed lot in general but beware of necromancers. Their dark art is banned in most cities and for good reason.
    “Oh,” said Cassilda, unsure what else to say. She looked around but did not see the dragon anywhere. The panic she had felt subsided, and she wondered if seeing Zmey Gorynych had been the test.
    Come to my quarters. Go up the stairs, take a left, and continue till you reach the end of the hall.
    “Do I have a choice?” asked Cassilda. She tried the door and discovered that it remained locked. A rustling was heard behind the stairwell, followed by a low, rumbling growl. In an instant she was up the stairs, heading down the hallway, straight into the open chambers of Ambierce. He sat in a sagging old chair behind a red oak desk, the overgrown gardens visible behind him through wide bay windows, dandruff on his shoulders and a stern smile on his face. This was a man who took his jokes seriously, she realized, before looking about the room. It shared the same ruined aesthetic as the rest of the house. A broken bookshelf rested against the wall, its tomes spilling out onto the floor. Wallpaper hung in torn sheets, revealing cracked plaster. There was cigar ash everywhere, as well as a musty, moldy smell that penetrated the nostrils and hung there, demanding attention. It was a hovel, little better than the boarding house she called home. Are the rats big there too he asked, eyes twinkling blue.
    “Is it polite to read one’s mind?” she asked. He had a large nose, though she did not think it homely.
    “Conflict arises from misunderstandings, and seeing how the world is riddled with all manner of disagreements, I think that it is most important that we understand each other. Taking into consideration the vagaries of language and the misguided discretion of men (and women), why would I ask for an opinion when I could access the source? How can I trust you when you do not trust me? Of course, that is unfair, for you cannot read my mind. However, one day you will be able, and then you will see that I am a man who always states exactly what is on my mind, etiquette be damned. I apologize for nothing, Cassilda. Privacy is not a god-given right, after all.”
    She did not quite understand his argument, but Cassilda thought it best to not disagree. His dark hair, unruly and wild, reminded her of the mane of a lion. Without asking, she went over to a pile of books and sat down.
    “There are a great many people with the ability to become wizards,” said Ambierce, turning in his chair towards the window and putting his feet up on the sill. “All they lack is a knowledgeable teacher and the will to let go of such irrelevant concepts as privacy. The baker boy could learn to summon vast extradimensional energies, but he is too scared to leave his apprenticeship and his mother. It’s a terribly common story, I’m afraid, though I don’t think I’ll have that problem with you. Do you know why that is?”
    “Because I don’t have a mother?” asked Cassilda.
    “You have nothing to lose and everything to gain, and you’re well aware of that fact.” His voice was as sharp as a well-honed knife.
    “What exactly will I gain in becoming a wizard, besides the ability to read minds?” asked Cassilda.
    “That depends on your natural talents. There are innumerable branches of magic: pyromancy, alchemical studies, conjuration, astral projection, speculative computation. Elemental talents are very common. I myself am an aeromancer—someone who deals in weather. There are very few of us out there, which is probably a good thing, for tampering with meteorological systems can have dire consequences for the novice as well as the expert. Here, let me see your hand.”
    She placed her right hand on the table, and he seized it immediately in his own. He had the rough callouses of a day laborer. Later she would learn that he spent hours every day practicing with a quarterstaff.
    “Do you feel that?” he asked. Cassilda flinched as a tiny discharge of electricity flowed from her palm across his fingers.
    “As I suspected! A pyromancer, though your potential is diverse.”
    “What will I do with such a power?” she asked, staring at her hand like it belonged to someone else.
    “Kill rats? Immolate strangers in darkened alleys? Power the Mitte Academy’s scientific experiments? I don’t know. That’s up to you. It depends on how hard you are willing to work, and what sort of insight you possess. There are too many wizards out there letting themselves be used as pawns in the schemes of others. Take myself for instance. For a long time, I was the Baron’s personal weatherman, and that was the limit of my ambition. Vivo ut serviam. But a life of servitude isn’t quite a life, is it?” His eyes grew cold suddenly, ice forming on their blue surface. He is much older than I assumed thought Cassilda.
    “Life is hard, and sometimes it eats at us from the inside out,” he said by way of explanation. “Where were you born, girl?”
    “The Rock,” said Cassilda, averting her eyes.
    “And likely torn from your mother’s breast as soon as a week passed. There is no shame with me, Cassilda. What Galvania does with its prisoners is a crime against humanity.”
    “I have no shame,” she said, meeting his gaze. Anger welled up inside her, but she banished it to the cold recesses of her heart. “Her name and her crime do not sully me. I am a new person.”
    “Tabala rasa. A blank slate waiting to be covered with writing.” He sat up from his seat and went over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I accept you as my pupil. Do you accept me as your teacher?”
    “Yes,” she said, without thinking. Behind her something scurried down the hallway, its claws tearing into the wooden floor. She turned just in time to see the stunted tail of Zmey Gorynych disappear around the corner.

     Ostensibly, she was Ambierce’s apprentice. They meditated together in the morning from eight to nine, and then practiced fundamental magical skills from nine thirty to noon. After that, however, he gave her a comprehensive list of “duties” (chores, really) to perform the rest of the day in any order she saw fit. These duties consisted of menial tasks like dusting the hallway (why the hallway needed dusted, Cassilda couldn’t fathom, for Ambierce didn’t seem to care much about cleanliness and rarely entertained visitors) or washing the infinite number of dishes he sullied to obscure devoirs such as placing a marble on a pedestal upstairs for exactly twenty seconds without using one’s hands or counting the number of dragons depicted throughout the house. The stranger assignments she would ask about, yet he never gave a straight answer and only reiterated the importance of adhering to his list. Cassilda had the sense that if she failed to perform one of her duties, he would know about it, so she never left anything undone, no matter how ridiculous the task. From the start, she had a great will to please him. She wanted desperately to become a magician, to walk among the people with a secret power, to know their thoughts and yet feel as though she were not one of them, separate and free. Wizards didn’t need to pick pockets, nor did they stoop to rifling through trash for their meals. She also gathered that they didn’t run from the voices of drunken men or surrender their purses when accosted by thieves. To be a wizard, she imagined, was to know no fear of anything nor anyone.
    One day in the garden, after successfully levitating a statue the size of a man for the duration of five minutes, she asked Ambierce whether a wizard had anything to be afraid of in the entirety of the known universe.
    “Of course,” he said dismissively, “a wizard is just as much of a man or woman as any other person. I have taught you spells to steel yourself against the blade of a sword or the blow of a hammer, yet they do not protect against a knife in the back or a cup of poison before bed. Magic takes concentration, and no spell can be cast for an infinite duration. Besides, there are sorcerers that can strip you of your barriers and wards in an instant. They can kill you with a glance or crush your heart with a gesture. Most wizards are trained at schools that teach ethics and restraint, while a few are taught independently, like yourself, by teachers who attempt to replicate their own education without reproducing the creatively stifling conditions so commonly found in academia. Sorcerers, however, have no concern for morality or discipline, nor do they express any curiosity toward any skill or school that does not further their lust for violence and power. In the healing arts, they are usually deficient, and they often have an easier time breaking wards than casting their own. Recognizing no governing body and possessing no license or certification, they operate independent of oversight and so are considered outcasts by wizards, magicians, and the governments they serve. Do not make the mistake of underestimating a sorcerer, if you should meet one. They will view you as either a rival or prey. Retreat and avoidance are your best strategies.”
    “Is it not cowardice to retreat?” asked Cassilda brazenly. Sparks crackled between her fingertips. She was feeling rather invincible at that moment.
    “Let me tell you something about cowardice,” said Ambierce quietly, the sky darkening as he spoke. Thunder was heard in the distance, and a strong wind ripped through the garden, toppling the statue that Cassilda had been levitating and carrying it down the road like a stone skipping across water. “Everyone is a coward. Almost everyone wishes to live. Those that retreat live to fight another day. Those that do not die and vanish from the earth. Do not be so eager to drive towards death. Do you not enjoy sitting with me in this garden? Just a moment ago the sun was shining, and birds were chirping, and you were reveling in your nascent mastery of telekinesis. Now it is dark, and a tempest brews, and you realize that there is nothing you could do if I chose to level this house and everything in the general vicinity. Remember, no matter how powerful you feel, you are never totally in control. If you wish to become a battlemage, then go to Dortmund, though I will warn you, they are prejudiced against female wizards learning the martial arts. I will not train a mercenary, however. The world needs no more mercenaries.”
    He was sullen for some time after that and sequestered himself in his study, refusing to teach her while still expecting Cassilda to perform her duties. She complied and did not worry about Ambierce’s moodiness, sensing that his melancholy was brought on by more than just her questions. Her training did not recommence until a curious encounter with Zmey Gorynych sent Cassilda running to his study.
    She had made her quarters on the second floor in a room a short distance from Ambierce’s own. It was a decently-sized room, with a large, comfortable bed, and an armoire in the corner that remained mostly empty until she learned to sew. Her favorite feature was the floor to ceiling windows and the small balcony beyond them where she often mediated in a rocking chair overlooking the garden. On the day in question, Cassilda was sitting in the chair, facing the garden, eyes shut, the cool breeze and warm sun hitting her face, when she was jarred from reverie by the distinct clickety-clack of claws walking on wood. She could sense that it was the dragon—other spirits may have moved about the house, but none except Zmey Gorynych was brazen enough to roam during the daylight—yet instead of turning around quickly, she decided to be patient and wait. Other than their initial encounter, she had only seen glimpses of the mysterious creature, though it frequently made its presence known through its noisiness and general indiscretion. Listening intently, Cassilda heard it snuffling around the corners of her room, its utterances sounding like a dog or even a pig. It had a peculiar odor—part wild onion, part rain-soaked earth—that was not altogether unpleasant, for it recalled a pastoral prehistory that Cassilda had not known she was nostalgic for. Eventually it wandered to her left and sat down in the shadows a few paces behind her shoulder. For a while it simply sat and wheezed, pausing every so often to let out a long, cat-like yawn. It didn’t want her to look at it, so she didn’t.
    “What a pleasant day,” said Cassilda suddenly. She heard a pause in its breathing, but it soon recommenced. “It is nice to share it with somebody,” she continued, trying hard not to stare at the dragon out of the corner of her eye. At her comment, it let out a snort. So it understands me. Would it answer if asked a question? She decided to find out.
    “What kind of name is Zmey Gorynych?” She felt silly saying its name. It gave no response, so she waited awhile before speaking again. In the garden, two blue and black butterflies fluttered in circles, performing a dance of ellipses.
    “It is okay if you do not wish to answer. Maybe you are not aware that I am a wizard now. Perhaps you are more inclined to speak with wizards? Ambierce said that you may be an evil spirit. I prefer to believe that you are a dragon.” Again, it uttered something akin to a snicker.
    “Well, alright, I am not quite a wizard yet, if that is what you are laughing about. Do dragons know much about magic? Spirits do, I’d imagine, though it likely isn’t the sort of magic one should learn. Frankly, I don’t care if you are an evil spirit. You can’t be that bad. I’ve lived in this house for nearly two months and had no trouble with you.” The butterflies suddenly ceased their circle-making and fell from the sky as if struck dead by an invisible force. Cassilda felt a strong wave of nausea rolling through her stomach. The gaze of Zmey Gorynych bored into her side like a heated blade.
    “You didn’t do that, did you?” she whispered. This time she clearly heard it laugh, a dead sound like something old and dry catching fire.
    “I’ll drive you from this house,” she said, anger rising. Why should she be afraid of such an evil, stunted thing when she could summon fire from her fingertips? With sparks crackling between her hands, she turned confidently towards Zmey Gorynych, ready to turn it into a pile of ash if need be.
    The cavernous, eyeless face of a dead man stared emptily back at her, its mouth full of pointy, brown teeth.
    Cassilda fell from her chair with a scream, sparks flying impotently from her fingers. She didn’t wait and see if any damage was done—as quickly as possible, she leapt up from the balcony and hurried through the door, not stopping until she’d reached Ambierce’s quarters. The door was locked when she tried it, so she beat on the door and howled until it finally opened and she fell into his chambers, a stuttering, wailing wreck. He took her into his arms and calmed her almost instantly, his weathered hands around her shoulders. He seemed to know what had happened before she spoke. His voice was soothing and apologetic, yet once her fear left, she was angry and tore herself away from him.
    “Why do you let something like that live in this house?” she demanded.
    “You can’t run away from evil. You must learn to live with it,” he explained.
    “But what could it have done to me?”
    “It can’t hurt you unless you let it. Don’t humor spirits, Cassilda.”
    At the time she had thought that his explanation was inadequate. Why must one live with evil? Why not banish it, eradicate it, vaporize it into dust? It was many years later before she realized that he had not been referring to Zmey Gorynych.

    Valice was a coastal city, renowned for its cuisine and dark, curly-haired women. She had walked along the ruined walls, staring out at the blue sea crashing against the rocks, seeing the seals leap from their perches and vanish in the seething foam. The people were copper-colored and distrustful, eyes always turning downward in the presence of a Galvanian, shoulders perpetually slumped, their frames sagging with the weight of the Occupation. Misery hung in the alleyways like the morning fog. Even the appetizing aromas steaming from the restaurants on Bourbon were not enough to erase the suffocating sense of despair she felt from every passerby. Eventually she stopped and asked an old man with sad eyes where she could find the site of the Calamity. He sighed and pointed a finger towards the center of town.
    At first she saw only a typical market square—peddlers hawking produce, performers juggling fire, pedestrians browsing at their leisure—but as she walked closer, she realized that the street ended rather abruptly just past the stalls and disappeared into nothingness for several hundred feet. Cassilda walked right up to the edge of the chasm and peered down into its depths. Vapors rose from its bowels, their source concealed in darkness. Suddenly an emerald light flashed far below, and a guttural bellow belched forth, bringing with it the reek of sulfur. Past the pit lay another city, its edifices crumbling, its streets filled with ghosts, their shadows burned onto brick. One city divided into two, life severed from death. Was there life among the ruins? It looked like a city of bones.
    “Makes you ashamed to be a wizard, doesn’t it?” asked a voice. She turned to see a wrinkled old woman sitting a few feet to the right, legs dangling into the abyss.
    “Excuse me?” said Cassilda. The old woman wore a tattered blue robe streaked with filth.
    “Never thought I’d see magic used in such a manner. ‘Course it wasn’t the first time, and it shan’t be the last. They never did figure out who gave the order. The Baron claimed the Calamity wasn’t even an option, that the wizards never discussed it with him. The wizards blamed it on Zakariyah Pentos, who disappeared after the war. There was talk of trials and executions, but far as I know, no heads rolled for the Calamity. They were all a part of it, truth be told. No wizard walked away from Valice with clean hands.”
    The old woman rolled back her head and spat into the void. Cassilda took a step back as so not to lose her balance because of vertigo.
    “See that yonder peak?” The old woman pointed at a rock jutting up from the sea. “That’s where they stood, the lot of them, while the army battered at the gates. A light shot up from them and flew into the sky, a light of an unnatural color, though you won’t find much agreement on what shade it was. Some say it was green like the bowels of the pit. Others claim it was crimson, like the color of dried blood. I’ve heard people say it was an unholy blue like flesh left too long in ice. When it reached the sky there was a terrible thunder like the earth being split open. A great beam of hellfire rushed downward, obliterating the heart of the city and splitting the remainder into two halves. The only ones that survived were people hiding indoors. The city guard was melted in their very armor. Many of the Baron’s troops perished as the walls plummeted.”
    “Valice fell after that. There wasn’t even much pillaging and raping, for everyone was shocked and appalled at the vulgar display. The Galvanians rebuilt half of the city but they couldn’t get rid of the pit. They say that it goes all the way down to the heart of the world. Wouldn’t you figure that if wizards created it, then they’d be able to erase it? Suppose it don’t work that way. Seems wizards are better at destroying things than fixing them.”
    “Who are you?” asked Cassilda. The old woman looked her hard in the eyes before turning back to look into the Calamity.
    “You are young. An apprentice. You do not guard your thoughts. Where is your master? Has he drowned in the deep blue sea? Do the gulls pick at his carcass or do the fishes? He didn’t want to do it, but he did it all the same. Mourn for him as you would for me.” With those words the old woman plunged into the pit.
     Cassilda stared for a while at the place where she had sat. She left without looking again into the Calamity.

…

    Cassilda was warming herself by the fire when Fergal came out of the night with three rabbits and a pheasant. He waved his bounty cheerfully and sat down next to her to skin the conies, humming as he worked. The poor Aiv nearly cut his finger when he noticed the pheasant he had slain over an hour before sitting on his shoulder, head cocked quizzically, as though it were about to ask him to explain the finer points of game preparation.
    “That was quite unfunny, Cassilda. I almost lost a finger,” he said, grabbing the bird by its neck.  “Why don’t you put your talents to good use? I provided this meal. You can prepare it.”
    “You are making the same mistake as most people who come to depend on magic. You expect it to solve all your problems. Wizards are asked to fix things with a snap of the fingers or a wave of the hand.”
    “Isn’t that what most wizards do?” asked Fergal earnestly.
    “No. Wizards are resolved as a body to do as little as possible to aid their fellow man. They are all selfish at heart. Not that I am any better, being a sorceress.”
    “What’s the difference?” asked Fergal, tossing rabbit guts behind him.
    “I am not in the service of any government or academic institution, and therefore do not possess a license to conduct magic. I am a “rogue actor” according to the terminology of the Conventum. If one is caught performing magic without certification, then the offender is extradited to Bilbao, where the Conventum will determine the proper course of action.” Cassilda leaned back against a rock and sighed. “‘Sorceress’ is frequently used as a pejorative to refer to rogue actors who possess agendas different from the Conventum’s. It has negative connotations that are not entirely inaccurate, for the most part.”
    “I’ve never heard of such a thing! When I was a wanderer, I encountered many mages and never heard once about the Conventum.”
    “When was this? Hundreds of years ago? Governments feared wizards, so wizards had to make concessions. The Conventum was formed eighty years ago in response to some crisis or another—I can’t remember. It’s not important.”
    “If you say so,” said Fergal. Josun and the Thief stepped up to the fire and sat down some distance away from each other. Cassilda could tell that they had been arguing.
    “How goes your reconnaissance? Spot any blopkins or gumbelsnatches?” she asked.
    “There is nothing for miles that we can see,” replied Josun. “Though that does not mean we should not be vigilant.”
    “I would like to have a full night’s sleep for once. It is hard to rest when there is always someone blustering about,” said the Thief.
    “The dead sleep for all eternity,” replied Josun.
    “You’ll wake them with your snorting and spitting. Must you breathe so loudly? You chuff like a horse.”
    “Another word from you, and I’ll cut off your tongue,” said Josun quietly.
    “Let us eat,” interrupted Fergal, passing out the plates. He had grown skilled at diffusing the tension between the Thief and the barbarian by diverting their attention from one another to unifying necessities such as food or watch duty, though he grew tired of playing the role of peacemaker (if you could really call it that).
    “Cassilda, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems likely that we may have pursuers eager to recover the Heart,” asked Fergal. “Who are these people?”
    “The whole of Capetia, in all likelihood, travels in our footsteps, going from door to door, searching after a courtesan capable of magic and a black balladeer named Robert Zimmers,” said the Thief, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What could they know? We left the mountain without a trace. We were on the sea in no time. Our vessel was stolen by raiders. The barbarians scattered and fled into the forest. We have encountered nothing but monsters on our way towards San-Elza. That is why I see no reason for keeping a watch. What are we watching for? No one hunts us. Were it not for the fact that I do not trust the lot of you, I would be able to relax. I should think that the difficult part of our journey is over. From here onward, it is just a long walk to get paid.”
    “An extended constitutional, is what you’re saying,” offered Fergal.
    “I do not think that it will be that easy,” said Cassilda, standing up and stretching before the fire. “But I agree with you that our tracks have been well-covered.”
    She settled down, her thoughts turning back to Ambierce. Was he not worthy of being avenged? It didn’t matter what he had done in the service of the Baron or in the company of power-mad wizards. He gave me a home, a purpose, an understanding. Without his kindness, she’d be fleecing pockets or working in a harlot’s den. At best you’d be cleaning house for a tottering old merchant who probably couldn’t keep his hands to himself. She listened to the sound of their voices, the deep bassetto of Josun, the guttural mutter of the Thief, and realized that their conversation was easing her to sleep. Ambierce’s voice could do the same thing. The more she remembered, the more the pain stung. You can’t heal. Not until you’ve had your revenge.
    She went to sleep thinking of Pliny the Black’s ghoulish skull and how it would look on a spike.

Next Chapter: A Visit to a Brothel in Wine Country

The Heart of the Thief: A Shadow over Dunfermline

 Previous Chapter: On the Road

Beware of places in the wilderness, for they are full of wild things.
 Armand Goodeman, Collected Folks Wisdom of the Haliurunnae, Vol. I

There are other realms beside our own; some exist in a parallel continuity, while others have their own bizarre sense of time. What methods we have of reaching out to the beings that inhabit these planes are primitive and unsatisfactory. In fact, there may be no way of communicating with them, so different they are from us. For no art of sorcery can let us speak with beasts, plants, or rocks; so how can we hope to talk with creatures that defy explanation?
   Anonymous letter to the head of the Department of Philosophy and Natural Science,
Mitte Academy

         

A Shadow Over Dunfermline
They reached the town of Dunfermline in a week’s time. Built around the ruins of an old fortress constructed ages ago on a hillside overlooking the veldt, the village was otherwise composed of shoddy dwellings pieced together with mud, thatch, and what little timber one could find in the Wotan Veldt. The inhabitants were pale-skinned, filthy people who appeared gaunt and malnourished, and who seemed to lack industry; indeed, Fergal theorized that their only occupation was huddling in alcoves to stare menacingly at newcomers. “I know something about this town, but for the life of me, I cannot remember it,” he said as they walked the thoroughfare searching for a tavern to rest their wearied feet. “It’s like something out of dream, though I admit that I have trouble separating delusion from reality.” No one replied to his admission, for they had all been in a somber mood since the encounter with the wraith. Josun had spoken but a handful of words after regaining conscience, his experience having caused a withdrawal into himself. Fergal had attempted to engage the taciturn barbarian in conversation many times only to be rebuffed again and again. Josun had no desire to ask for help with the psychological scars of whatever it was he was dealing with, unlike the Aiv, who had broken down in tears after sharing his horror with Cassilda, who lent a surprising sympathetic ear. The Thief remained much the same, his temperament cynical and sarcastic, though he had kept his remarks to a minimum as of late. The fragility of their company was obvious to all, yet the sorceress prodded them along, and they followed, quietly feeding off the presence of one another, unaware of their silent dependence.
    They finally found a poorly-marked tavern, the only indication of its function as a bar a crudely illustrated sign featuring an amorphous wench balancing a tankard on her deformed bosom. Through the windows one could see a faint yellow glow and hear the mixed chatter of men, and despite the general unease they felt, by all appearances the place seemed normal, so they entered. Immediately, all conversation ceased; they were greeted by leering eyes and contorted expressions plain in their unfriendliness. Alongside the far wall sat several disheveled men, their hairy hands on their mugs, which were half-full of a dark blood-colored liquid. “Howdy,” said the Thief as they moved together to the bar. The patrons collectively grimaced; all were ugly, their faces pockmarked, noses bulbous and red like swelled ticks. Fergal kicked the Thief in the shin as Josun waved towards the barkeep, a tall, skeletal man with only a few long strands of hair hanging from the center of his bald head. “A round of ale,” said the barbarian, removing a few sovereigns from his coin purse and placing them on the bar. Cassilda shook her head, but Josun did not remove any money. The barkeep swept up their gold in one large mitt and stared at it for some time, as though he didn’t recognize its purpose, before finally placing the money in an empty jar. Coming to life, he placed four tankards filled with claret-colored fluid before them and then shuffled towards the other end of the bar, where he began polishing glasses with an obsessive fervor. The company examined their drinks suspiciously. Fergal gave his a good sniff before picking up the mug with two hands and quaffing half of it down. The others stared at him, waiting to see if he would turn green or keel over clutching his stomach, but the Aiv took another hearty gulp with no discernible ill-effect, which gave them enough courage to partake from their own glasses.
    “This is not ale,” said Josun, sipping his tankard.
    “It is likely poison or some foul concoction,” whispered the sorceress. “There is something queer about these locals. I do not trust them.”
    “And I do not trust your judgment regarding booze,” said the Thief. “This is not ale but a peculiar type of wine, similar in some respects to Cabernet Sauvignon from the Okanagan Valley. High tannins and notable acidity. Pretty good, actually.”
    “To think he gave me a pint of it. I should be quite drunk in a minute,” said Fergal.
    “Who serves wine in a tankard? Why give us wine when we asked for ale?” asked Cassilda.
    “Perhaps they do not speak Capetian,” said Josun.
    “That’s it. Surely this place provides food and lodging. I will sleep in a bed tonight, mark my words,” said the Thief.
    “How can you suggest such a thing while they glower at us?” whispered Cassilda. “We should move on and put distance between ourselves and this place before nightfall.”
    “And you chide me for my supposed suspicions. We need rest and sleep, witch, peaceful sleep without the fear of beast or phantom rudely interrupting our slumbers. So these people are not friendly. Look at us: a scarred black man; a hulking, armed brute; a dwarf with a giant head and bug-eyes; and an impossibly beautiful woman. We’re a motley crew, to be sure, and these people, with their limited notions and prejudiced views regarding outsiders, likely see us as a carnival troupe. They can stare if they want if it means I get a bed and a decent night’s sleep,” said the Thief. “If they want to throw us out of town, so be it, but I’ll wait till they ask rather than assuming I’m not wanted. They served us wine when we asked for ale. How is that a bad thing?”
    “It’s not what we asked for,” said Cassilda.
    “The wine really is quite delicious. You should try it” said Fergal, pointing to her glass. The sorceress grimaced and sat down on a stool. She was tired, as they all were. At a certain point, protest became impossible, even when the circumstance demanded it, and Cassilda consoled herself with the thought that if anything malicious were to occur, she at least had her powers to defend them. The wine, however, did not look appetizing, and as a rule, she never imbibed anything from a place where she was not wanted. When Fergal’s hand reached up and seized her tankard, she said nothing. Let the little fool drink himself senseless she thought. Perhaps drunkenness will lead to solemnity and silence.
    Drunkenness did not lead to solemnity and silence.
    The loosening of inhibitions happened rather quickly and all at once, which didn’t make much sense, since Fergal was much smaller than the Thief, who had an alcoholic’s tolerance, and Josun was nearly larger than the two of them combined, and he was no teetotaler, barbarians being overly fond of intoxicating beverages. Together they became quite boisterous, Fergal talking a mile a minute, the Thief interrupting to tell stories of conquests both amorous and material, Josun grunting, slapping their backs heartily, and even cracking a smile from time to time. They were in stark contrast to the rest of the room, which began thinning out as the denizens of Dunfermline skulked off to their homes. Through their revelry, Cassilda sat silent, watching the villagers watch the company, observing the way they carried themselves, how they dragged their feet, how they craned their necks and scowled their faces as they walked out the door. There was something hiding under their exterior, something strange and shy and suspicious, something more than just provincial mistrust of outsiders. Not one of the locals had approached the company to engage them in conversation; not one had even asked them to keep their voices down, despite the shrill, piercing laughter of Fergal or the loud ramblings of the Thief. Certainly none of them had ever seen anything like Fergal before—so why were they not curious? She knew from experience that entering a bar was always a hazard, for men propositioned her without fail, no matter how many enchantments or wards she cast to prevent them from doing so. Where were her suitors? Was Dunfermline a town of eunuchs? She then realized that she had not seen a woman in the village. Perhaps they shut their women away like prisoners in a dungeon. The practice was not altogether uncommon in rural villages. Let us see what the bartender knows she thought. Telepathy was always a risk in a new environment—to read someone’s mind without them being aware of it, you had to know them well, or at least be familiar with their personality—but she was bothered enough by the villagers’ behavior to take that risk. She gave the bartender as sideways glance and noticed that he was scowling at her companions, hands dangling at his sides like meat hooks. Focusing her energy, she sent a single, concentrated thought-wave at his skull as an echo-request packet, a low-intensity probe to communicate with his subconscious mind. Ideally, his subconscious would return the thought-wave, opening the doors to a telepathic exchange. She would ask questions and the subconscious would provide answers in the form of words, images, perhaps even memories, although the more one requested, the greater the chance of the subject becoming aware that something was not quite right in their head. On occasion, the subconscious mind was not communicative, either due to protective barriers enacted by a fellow magic user, or a natural resistance to mental probing. In any case, it was unlikely that a simple thought-wave would be detected even by a wizard, since the subconscious was just that—subconscious.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cassilda watched as the bartender turned his scowl her way. Immediately she felt the intensity of his gaze—an uncomfortable feeling, as though she knew something terrible was hovering over her shoulder, causing her flesh to crawl—and she had to struggle to not leap from her seat and leave the horrid bar. She glanced at her companions, who were still laughing and drinking from never-ending cups, and wondered how they could be so oblivious. They’ve drugged the wine she realized. Something had to be done, quickly, before whatever the villagers were planning could come to pass. She could attempt to take control of the minds of her companions, yet four minds were too many, and they would never trust her again, and she would have to take the Heart by force. A spell of persuasion, then. Subtle, delicate magics had never been her strong suit—she preferred hard-hitting displays of power—but there was no other option, other than to immolate the bartender and his denizens, and that was a step she was not yet ready to take.
    “Josun,” she said, placing her hand on the barbarian’s shoulder. “Let us leave this place.”
    “But you haven’t had a drop!” said Fergal, spilling wine all over himself in the process of offering his glass.
    “I think they’ve put something in the wine. There is a camaraderie between you all that did not exist an hour ago, and I think it strange that you all are so blind to the malevolent feelings directed at us.”
    “Again with your suspicions! Are you jealous of us, witch? Drink with us, and I will forgive you,” said the Thief.
    It’s not working. Either the effects of the wine are too strong, or someone is opposing my efforts thought Cassilda.
    “She is right. The time for revelry has passed. We should find a place to sleep,” said Josun, putting down his tankard.
     “Barkeep! Are there rooms upstairs? What is your rate for a night?” yelled the Thief down the bar. The man, who had never taken his eyes off Cassilda since she had tried to read his mind, approached at a dead man’s pace. He’s like a walking corpse realized the sorceress. The lank strands of hair, the unhealthy pallor, the rigor mortis step—the barkeep was like something out a necromancer’s laboratory, yet his eyes were vivid and alive. They did not blink, however, as he stared at the Thief, who repeated his questions at the same loud volume. For a moment Cassilda thought he would answer; the hairs on the back of her neck bristled in horrible anticipation of seeing those purple, worm-colored lips move. Yet instead of speaking, the bartender pointed behind him towards a doorway where a set of stairs was visible.
    “The rate?” asked the Thief, impatience clear in his voice. The barkeep kept glowering at Cassilda, who returned his stare calmly, despite the waves churning in her stomach.
    “Perhaps after four drinks, room and board are free?” suggested Fergal. “Is that a human custom?”
    “Not anywhere that I know of,” said the Thief. “Let’s go check it out.”
    They walked up the stairs to find a common room furnished with eight beds that looked ancient and dust-covered, sheets yellowed with age and neglect. A simple nightstand sat by the wall in between the middle beds, a single candle casting a weak, flickering light. The air was stale, so Cassilda opened a window, which let in the humidity along with the faintest of breezes. No one complained; everyone but the sorceress claimed a bed and laid down immediately, weariness and drunkenness overtaking them. I’ll cast a circle of protection thought Cassilda, leaning against the window and staring at the doorway. She could hear nothing downstairs. For all she knew, everything and everyone down there had ceased to exist as soon as they had left the bar. She found no comfort in this thought.

…

    When Fergal awoke, he knew he was in a dream. There was a black film covering everything, and an orange, sun-lit glow came from the window, while the smell of ambergris inexplicably floated in the air. He breathed out and watched as bits of gray ash rose to the ceiling. His companions were still sleeping in their beds, yet Cassilda was missing, though he could hear someone walking about, their invisible feet creaking floorboards. The sense of something watching came over him suddenly like a cold breeze on the back of the neck. Dread swelled up in his throat; he turned behind him to see a shadow standing against the wall, human-sized, its face a churning vortex of darkness. A thought came from the ether, freezing, blind, and barren. He didn’t know what it meant; he wasn’t even sure if the shadow was trying to communicate with him. Stumbling out of the bed, he ran to Josun and tried shaking the barbarian awake to no avail. “Thief!” he called out, the word sounding weak and strange. As soon as he spoke, he felt the shadow’s attention, felt it call out in its prehensile manner. A thought, this one almost intelligible, reverberated through his mind. It wanted them to leave, that much was plain. Detaching itself from the wall, the shadow extended an impossibly long arm towards Fergal, a low drone emitting from the swirling vortex. Another thought came into his head. It wanted him to run. It wanted him to run so that it could have the pleasure of chasing him.
    Fergal ran.
    The stairs he descended were not the stairs he’d climbed earlier. They were dark and twisting and covered in a strange black vine that expanded and contracted in a respiratory manner. He barely touched them as he flew down the tunnel, moving as fast as his feet would carry him. This is not real he told himself, yet he wasn’t certain that he believed his own words. He could feel the steps beneath his feet; he could smell the saccharine scent of the place, taste the ash on his tongue. Perception was often preserved to some degree in dreams, but he’d never had a nightmare quite like this, in which his senses confirmed every image he witnessed. Fergal could recall nothing relevant from his memory that might aid his present circumstances, though it was possible that he’d stumbled into a similar situation in the past and simply forgotten about it. His recollection had never been that great, and it hadn’t helped that he’d lived for so long in the Mawlden Forest instead of wandering as he had in his youth. The world has changed and so it had, but just how, exactly, Fergal had trouble articulating. For so long his world had been composed of giant oaks and green thicket. All the years meant nothing when so many of them were the same.
    What had been the bar was now a dark cavern of writhing black vines and giant mushroom-like growths. White toadstools sprouted from the cave floor, billowing in an invisible wind. He took cover beneath one of the massive fungi and waited. Behind him was presumably the exit—a doorway glowing with bright orange light. Yet Fergal did not rush through the portal, for instinct made him wary. He decided to do what he had always done in dangerous circumstances, which was to become quiet, observant, and infinitely patient. Soon the shadow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. As it glided through the cavern, he saw that it seemed to have a corporeal body beneath the immaterial coating that swirled around it like a swarm of insects. On his belt was his blade. Would a dream knife kill a dream monster? He did not yearn to find out. The shadow moved slowly as though it were listening for any movement, yet its head stayed static. Little black puddles like droplets of oil were left in its wake. With much care and dexterity, Fergal turned his body towards the closest fungus and waited till the shadow passed. It can’t see he realized suddenly. What brought about this epiphany, he did not know, but he trusted it implicitly, for he’d had such instantaneous insights before. Moving silently, he made his way back towards the stairs. If the orange doorway was the way out, he couldn’t leave his comrades. Cassilda had been right—there was some element to the wine that facilitated their being in this dream world, if it really was that. Perhaps they had crossed dimensional barriers and emerged in another universe, one with its own elements and sentient inhabitants. If they brought us here, they want to use us for some purpose. Maybe they want to use our bodies to traverse our world he speculated. Up the stairs he went, ignoring the breathing black vines that slithered along the walls, his mind bent on its purpose, fear buried in his chest along with any shreds of doubt. The wraith had been a failure of control, and Fergal was not one to forget such a lapse. You don’t live several hundred years without learning to empty yourself of anxiety he mused. Though he did not understand what had happened to them, he knew that dwelling on the horror of the situation would not be beneficial. He hoped his companions would view circumstances in a similar light.
    Josun and the Thief were lying in bed just as he had left them. He went to the barbarian first, gathered the man’s giant hand in his own and gave it several squeezes, to no discernible effect. After several pulls of his arm and multiple blows to the face, Fergal acquiesced to the realization that there was no waking Josun. He then devoted his efforts to aiding the Thief in regaining consciousness but met with the same result. Why did I awake while they remain sleeping? Differences between the physiology of my people and humans? He didn’t have much time to contemplate, for the shadow appeared again, the swirling vortex pointed in his direction, a buzzing drone cutting through the air like the hum of an angry hive. A thought coursed through his head, its message like a hammer to the skull. It wanted him to give up now; the chase had been monotonous, and it really would like to get on with its business. Fergal did not know what to do. He could try to sneak past it again, but he would be abandoning his companions, and though he did not particularly hold them in high regard, common decency and etiquette prevented his fleeing without them. The Heart suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye. He reached into the Thief’s jacket beneath his chest and found it. It was warm like a small animal in his hands; its pulsating beat as comforting as the ticking of an old timepiece. Perhaps the thing had powers beyond its cultural significance, but he was no sorcerer and had no idea how to use it. Holding it before him like a fetish, Fergal was about to start mumbling gibberish and praying to Rankar when he saw that the shadow had taken notice of the Heart and was now heading straight for him. “I want this to end,” he said, staring down at the twitching organ. “I want us to leave this place.” How had he learned so little of magic during all his years? It did not seem possible. The shadow stretched out its hooks and sent another thought his way, the emotion behind it recognizable as greed. A cloud of insectile noise filled the air; Fergal had the sense that other shadow creatures had been alerted to his presence and were now coming to give assistance. Clutching the Heart and staring at it like the lost possession of a lover, he found that his fear vanished. It wanted to help him, he could feel it, he could sense the reflection of his own desires in its every throb, in its every beat. Automatically, he placed the Heart in his shirt and reached for his companions. As soon as he grasped their hands, he felt the world falling away, as though someone were dragging him out of semi-consciousness and back to the land of the living. Every dream is a death he heard someone say. It was the only thing he did not remember.
  

Cassilda was very grateful for having cast a protective ward around the room, for when she awakened, having nodded off while standing guard (finer control over one’s subconscious being a perk of sorcery), she found a crowd huddled in the doorway, staring at her with dead eyes and sagging faces. Surely they are reanimated corpses she thought with horror, for they continued to try to enter the room even after she immolated four of their number with a fire trap. More and more of them pushed into the doorway; she felt the strength of the ward sag beneath the sheer weight of bodies pressed against it. She yelled at her companions, but they did not stir, confirming her worst fears regarding the wine. “I can’t keep this up forever!” she screamed, after pushing the mob back with a telekinetic blast. Every spell took something from her, exhausting future reserves, and unless the sleeping trio leapt to her defense soon, she would either lose consciousness or be reduced to shooting sparks from her fingertips like a petty conjuror performing for a street crowd. Racking her brain for sleeping curse remedies, she came up with nothing that did not require a laboratory and an alchemist. She was just beginning to feel lightheaded when Fergal flung himself out of bed like a man on fire.
    “Thank heavens! I thought it had me! Why does it smell like something is burning?” he asked. She pointed him in the direction of the doorway, and the Aiv was taken aback.
    “It’s the Heart,” he explained, reaching into his shirt and pressing upon his chest. “They know we have it and they want it, for god knows what reason.”
    “Why don’t you try waking the more martial members of our company before I collapse in a pool of blood?” asked Cassilda.
    “Barbarian, awake! It is time to do battle!” yelled Fergal, who experienced déjà vu as he prodded the sleeping man.
    “Why is the troll talking so loudly?” complained the Thief, rubbing his eyes. “Hangovers must be slept off and not interrupted.”
    “Arm yourself, we are being attacked!” shouted Fergal hysterically.
    “Attacked by what?” asked the Thief, blinking and turning towards the direction of the doorway.
    “The possessed people of the town! They wish to take our bodies and steal the Heart!”
    Josun suddenly sat up in bed and clutched his head. He let out a moan before collapsing back down like a felled tree.
    “Come and help me wake the barbarian, Thief! He can likely deal with the lot of them if he’s anything like the rest of his kinsmen,” said Fergal.
    “The ward won’t hold them for much longer, and I’m spent,” said Cassilda, falling to the floor. She was breathing heavily with her eyes closed, and a stream of blood leaked from her nostrils. The horde congregating in the doorway began a terrible moaning, their vocal chords dry and guttural from disuse.
    “Get up, you bastard,” said the Thief to Josun, seizing his shoulder and rolling him out of bed. The barbarian landed on his face and immediately began to yell obscenities, including several choice slurs regarding the Thief’s mother, a few of which he had never heard before. Fergal tried to help him, but Josun shoved him away and swayed back and forth on his hands and knees for a moment, as though he were trying to summon up the will to stand. Suddenly they heard a deafening explosion, and the townspeople streamed through the doorway, stumbling over one another, feet dragging on the floor. One took Fergal by the arm and tried to tear the shirt from his back, but the Aiv twisted out of its grasp and scurried beneath a bed. The Thief had his knife out and stabbed a man brandishing a rolling pin, but the former baker kept coming, even after suffering further lacerations. Cassilda managed to knock several of the townspeople off their feet with telekinetic blasts before her eyes rolled up towards her skull and she lost consciousness. It wasn’t until Josun obtained his ax that the company’s fortunes reversed. Drawing the weapon from beneath his bed, the barbarian began his assault by screaming incoherently, his eyes wild and streaked with red, spittle flying from his lips like rain pouring from a storm. He took the closest man’s head off with one fell swoop, and soon extremities were soaring through the air as though they possessed a life of their own. Fergal had an entire arm land right in front of his hiding place with a sickening thud, blood squirting out of the shoulder joint, painting his face red. Two strapping farmhands held the Thief down until Josun’s blade cleaved through their necks and sent both heads tumbling like stones across the uneven floor. The townspeople realized their error too late; they might have had a chance to overwhelm the barbarian before he had reduced their number by half. Ten unarmed men, no matter their dispositions, stood no chance against Josun in a berserker frenzy. Fergal and the Thief watched in amazement as he dispatched the remaining townspeople with a series of florid movements. “It’s a violent dance,” said Fergal, having crawled out from his hiding place. The Thief nodded numbly. He had not imagined Josun able of moving with such speed, nor had he thought him capable of sowing such carnage so quickly.
    They approached him like a wild beast, giving a wide berth, hands held up to show no arms. He lay in the center of the room, surrounded by the dismembered bodies of the slain, panting hard and covered in blood, his ax surrendered and resting a few feet away. The rage, they could see, was subsiding. They didn’t know what to say, so he spoke first.
    “It is all right. I am myself again,” he said, picking up his ax and wiping the blood from its blade on a dispatched villager.
     “You’re an animal,” said the Thief.
    “We’re all animals,” responded the barbarian. He pointed to Cassilda lying in the corner. “How is the witch?”
    “Unconscious, but still breathing,” said Fergal, who had hobbled over to Cassilda to check her pulse. “I do not think she is well. She feels feverish, and blood still leaks from her nose. She must have overexerted herself in our defense. One of you must carry her. I am not able, and we cannot tarry here much longer. The whole of Dunfermline is most certainly under the control of these creatures. There are likely more lying in wait, and they will not take kindly to the slaughter of their kin.”
    “I will carry her,” volunteered Josun.
    “No, it must be the Thief, for you can defend us,” said Fergal. The Thief had a remark on his tongue, but he lost it suddenly as he walked over to the sorceress. Even with blood dripping from her nose, she was beautiful, her hair auburn, her oval face perfectly symmetrical. He had seen her wear many faces, but this was his favorite, the face of the courtesan, mad and shimmering with beauty like a sea-blown sky threatening to darken over. It’s an illusion he thought as he bent down to take her in his arms. She was lighter than he expected, and he wondered odd things, such as whether sorceresses had hollow bones like birds. The resentment, the jealousy, the fear, it all vanished as he carried her down the stairs. I thought about murdering her a week ago he thought. It had to be enchantment—perhaps any man who touched her became so bewildered—but the thought was banished in an instant, for he found that he didn’t care.
    They left Dunfermline a lifeless place. The creatures that had possessed its inhabitants fled after Josun’s massacre, for the company found freshly abandoned corpses in the street. Fergal wondered out loud how the possessions had started, hypothesizing that a portal had been opened by some naive sorcerer, inadvertently giving the shadow creatures access to their world. The Thief suggested that maybe Dunfermline had always been possessed and had always existed as an illusion on the outskirts of the wilderness, sustained by weary travelers such as themselves. Josun thought that it didn’t matter. The world was chaotic and nonsensical, and the strange fate of the townspeople did not demand an answer. No one asked the sorceress what she thought, for she remained sleeping, and they let her rest, making camp some distance from the village. They slept in the cold air, open to the elements, with the noises of the night echoing all around them. It was the best sleep they ever had.

Next Chapter: The Sorceress Reminisces