Perspective
Odd story post. Comes after
this one, yadda yadda yadda.
Do you know what's happening in it?
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The alley cat lazily made its way across the lawn, hopping up onto a windowsill. It climbed up the wall, leaping and clawing to reach each new ledge. It reached the roof, yowled, and melted away into darkness.
The crow perched atop a gargoyle ornamenting the
Flamedancer's high roof. It gave a loud caw, flapped its wings, and dove off the side of the building, vanishing into the night.
The mouse scurried down the hall haphazardly, running to and fro. It darted past Rabith's door, but he gave it no mind. If Elyse chose to let pests run free in her home, such was her prerogative. The rodent came to a sudden stop against a door at the far end of the hall, scrambling against the door ferociously before finally slipping under it and disappearing into the walls.
Elspeth was miserable in her cramped room, but she knew she had little choice. The
Brimminhg Tankard had closed after the innkeep's death, and, though she desperately wished to, she could not leave Graymere. The city had been closed off. Quarantined. For all she knew, she had already contracted the terrible plague sweeping the city. She could be dead in mere days, yet she could do nothing but sit in this ugly, tiny little room. She knew it was too small to be a proper room at the
Flamedancer; it had to be a closet-turned-room, now that so many trapped visitors were finding themselves in need of a place to spend the night.
She missed her friend, Matthias, but she wouldn't be able to see him again for a long while yet. Who knew how long?
She heard a door open in the hall, and morbid curiosity made her peer through her keyhole to see the source of it. She stifled a gasp when she saw a strange little man step out. His dark clothes were stained darker, and drying, brownish-red blood was spattered across his hands and arms. His greasy hair was disheveled, but he moved with such nonchalance that Elspeth knew whatever conflict he had been involved in had seen him the victor. The blood was certainly not his own.
His whore's, then.
Elspeth couldn't fathom where that thought had come from. Whoever the man had harmed was the victim, even if she was a courtesan. Elspeth knew she had to do something to help.
But what could she do? He terrified her, and she was in enough danger as it was. She watched as he got smaller and smaller, receding down the hallway, finally disappearing through a far door.
She knew she shouldn't do it. She should just stay in her room. The man was clearly violent, and more than likely would not balk at striking a woman. At killing a woman. For all Elspeth knew, the blood showed he had already done just that.
But, frightened though she was, Elspeth had to know what had went on. She couldn't stand idly by, whiling away what could be her last days. Someone was hurt, or dead. She had to get involved.
She opened her door and crept down the hall, quiet as she could in her rustling skirts. She reached the door the man had came from, and, hesitantly, reached out to try the handle.
Unlocked, the handle turned. Unlatched, the door swung open.
Elspeth could not stifle the squeak of horror she made at the sight. A woman lay, stark naked, on a bed. She was bruised and bleeding in dozens of places, The sheets of the bed were smeared with drying blood, as was most of her body. She looked dead.
But at Elspeth's cry, the woman smiled, and her eyes fluttered open.
"Love, back so s—" she began, but when she saw Elspeth standing in the door way, she fell silent, her eyes widening.
"Who are you!? What are you doing here!?" she screeched.
Elspeth bowed her head immediately. "I'm sorry!" she blurted out. "I... saw a man, covered in blood, and I was afr—"
"Get out!" The naked woman cried. "Go!"
Elspeth nodded frantically and shut the door, stumbling back a few paces. Whatever horrible acts had been done to the woman, Elspeth's help was obviously not wanted. She looked back to the direction the man had gone, conflicted. He was so terrifying, yet he had obviously hurt the poor woman, and badly. Elspeth had seen him in the common room, moving through with unnerving insouciance, as if all he surveyed belonged to him.
Maybe it did.
Against her better judgment, Elspeth found herself creeping down the hall after him. She moved slowly, keeping to the walls in an amateur attempt at stealth.
So silly. Clinging so close to the wall made her clothes rustle louder. Even a third rate footpad would know th—
Elspeth moved off the wall.
She reached a fork at the end of the corridor. One end, she knew, led to the labyrinthine corridors that made up the
Flamedancer's boarding rooms, as well as to the common. The other corridor went for a short distance before ending into a thick, oaken door, adorned with a massive iron padlock.
Shivering nervously, Elspeth went for the door. She stopped when she reached it, her right hand nervously fidgeting in a pocket of her skirt. She gently reached out to the lock, but as she touched it, she felt a sudden lightheadedness overcome her.
She was still for a moment, concentrating on calming her nerves, forcing the dizziness to pass. When she opened her eyes, to her bewilderment, the padlock fell to the ground.
Perhaps the unnerving little man had forgotten to lock it behind him. She absentmindedly slipped her hand back inside her pocket, then pushed the door open.
A foreboding staircase stood before her, twisting down into the bowels of the inn. A single torch was ensconced on the wall to her right, and no light shone up from the bottom of the stairs. Taking a deep breath and gathering her wits about her, she began walking down the stairs.
When she reached the bottom, she was faced with a long, narrow corridor. In the distance of the hall, she perceived a dim, flickering light. To Elspeth, it felt as though the darkness was encroaching upon her, stifling her. Strangling her.
Keeping her hidden.
Elspeth crept on, desperately trying to stay silent. As she came nearer to the light, two human forms began to take shape in the shadowy illumination.
Elspeth fell into a crouch, trying to make herself as hidden as possible. She took a slow step forward, then another. As she neared, she saw that the men wore pale blue cloaks, and their faces were stony and impassive. She saw sword hilts protruding from beneath their clothes. Guards.
She crept a few meager feet closer, and soon saw that beyond the two men was not a door, but more empty corridor. She saw a few open thresholds, and dim lights shining out of them.
But how could she get past them? It was impossible. Men like that would kill her as soon as look at her. She knew her adventuresome exploration was at its end. She would get out of this place, before she found herself in real danger.
She turned and crept away down the hall, back toward the stairs. She felt the darkness closing in around her again; going
away from the light unsettled her deeply. As she sneaked, unease slowly built in the pit of her stomach, until, suddenly, it possessed her, and she abandoned all pretense of stealth, running towards the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her.
"What was that?" said one guard to the other.
"Ho! Who's there?" called out the other.
The only answer they received was the sound of footsteps receding up the staircase.
Their blades slid out from under their cloaks, and they both ran toward the stairs. An intruder here would not receive a warning; they would receive only a swift, merciless death.
They charged through the corridor, running heedlessly past the spider. As they hurried up the stairs, the spider slowly unfolded its limbs and unhooked its claws from the ceiling. It slid down to the floor, and moved down the hall with dark, beautiful grace. Its many eyes watched for prey. It passed open doorways, and the inhabitants within, unnoticed. It was master of this land, it's domain. A silent, deadly hunter.
The spider reached the end of the corridor and crept up the wall, coming to rest nestled in the corner where the ceiling met the wall, directly above a massive, iron-bound door.
It saw prey trundling along the wall nearby giving away its position with every step. It was plump and slow, with a soft shell. It would make a good meal.
The spider's finely tuned senses heard echoes of human speech through the door. Though the words meant nothing to the arachnid, they washed over it nonetheless.
"The infant has apologized enough," spoke a deep, gravelly voice. "Words have no meaning, no worth. Al'Naer do not traffic in words. Al'Naer traffic in deeds. What deeds has the infant seen through? Petty bickering. Idle fornication. These are not the deeds of the Al'Naer."
"This infant knows this, Father. But this infant's talents are limited. The enemy is cowardly and elusive. Without his brother, Lerell, to aide him, this infant has no hope of finding them to mete out vengeance befitting the Al'Naer," said another voice. It did not carry the reverberating distortions the first voice did. It seemed more... human.
"The other infant would be no help. Not even the Father can see the Eagle through its ensorcelled haze," replied the first voice. "And the Father finds not even a haze when seeking the 'Golden Man' the infant spoke of. The Father wonders if the Golden Man exists at all."
"He exists!" hissed the softer voice. "His power and majesty was terrible for this infant to behold. This infant fears that only the Father could stand before him."
"Then the Father shall," said the inhuman voice. "They will come. Soon. They lie in hiding. They prepare for the confrontation. But soon, they will come to the Father."
"Then they come to die," the other said. "The strength that flows to the Father is a blinding maelstrom; this infant cannot even bear to look upon it."
"Strength lacking direction is without worth. The infant should know this. The Eagle is wise; the Father must be as well."
A short silence followed, but then the deep voice spoke again.
"Three of their days," it said. "In three of their days, the Father will have gorged himself on all the life he requires. He will emerge from this place of quiet, and reveal himself to the world in all his glory. All infants shall cower before him, and he shall feast."
The spider had grown weary of its stalking place; prey was scarce, here. It descended to the ground and scurried, silently, down the hall.
The body that had once housed the spirit of Hathas, son of Nether, closed its eyes. Even under its veils of black silk and wispy shadow, Rabith saw when the eyes snapped open. The burning crimson orbs shining out from beneath the cowl were unmistakable.
"It did not strike," Hathas' mouth formed the words, but the voice was that of the Pestilent.
"Father?" Rabith asked tenuously.
"The spider's prey was within reach, and it did not strike. Driven to distraction by our words."
Rabith was silent. He was vaguely aware of the arachnid's presence outside the door; not as acutely as his master was, nor as much as Lerell would have been, but he felt its existence. What did a spider have to do with anything?
"Go, infant. Trust naught but what can be seen. Find the spider. Bring it to me."
"Father, I don't under—" he began, losing the awkward formality of the Pestilent's ancient tongue.
"
Go!" The Pestilent's words echoed through the cold stone walls, and shook Rabith down to his marrow. He leaped to attention.
"As the Father commands," Rabith whispered reverently. He turned on his heel, his cloaks whirling about him, and strode from the room. Though confused, he was determined to do as his master wished. He was determined to find this 'spider'.
But when he sensed his two guards fall a moment later, slain by thrown blades, he felt his confusion fade away with their lives.
Um
Been waiting to post this to see if more would come; didn't want to jinx it.
But, fuck that.
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He watched the magic.
Two forces, one a blazing effigy of concentrated power, centered, of course, at Devon's heart. The other was not half so bright, yet it permeated everything. The magic of Graymere. Immeasurable, beyond age, and, yes, tainted with the Pestilent's influence.
But to Parry's supernatural sight, the strangest part of the phenomena was not in Devon or the city, but the interaction between the two.
Devon floated across Graymere like oil on water. Until now, Parry had thought the magic of Graymere blanketed everything. And not long ago, he knew, it had. Yet now Devon's presence was a void in Graymere's energy. Parry watched him take a step, and as his foot came down the magic swirled out from underfoot, like leaves upset by a gust of wind.
Parry knew, or, thought he knew, that it was not a change in the magic of Graymere that did this, but in the power of bloodfire. Devon's bloodfire would not, perhaps could not, mingle with the magic of the city.
And, witnessing this, Parry began to realize how Devon had slain Lerell.
It had not simply been Devon's power, for even the power of bloodfire was not irresistible; Parry had thwarted his lover fairly easily when Devon had been trapped in the grips of madness. Lerell had to have been close to Jason's level of skill... no, superior, for hadn't the Eye said that Jason was the weakest of the Al'Naer? But then, if that were true, Devon's manifestation of bloodfire should have been a nuisance at worst.
Yet Devon's power had been far more than a nuisance. From what Devon said, when he touched his magic his mind had been freed in an instant. He had shed the barriers Lerell had layered upon him, and the magic Lerell hurled at him had been turned away without effort on Devon's part. Devon was untouched.
And now, seeing the way the ambient force of Graymere shied away from Devon's step, Parry knew why.
Bloodfire was not simply a vast personal reserve of energy. If it were, it would not bear its own name; after all, the disparity in power between himself and Simon was simply accepted as natural variation. Devon had more than twice again Parry's reserves, but if they were still just that, then why the substantial differences? Why call it bloodfire? Because it was. Devon's bloodfire was not simply his reserve, it was his life, his blood. Parry had seen the way Devon clawed at his arm, ripping open a vein, spilling blood, and with it, power.
Parry could scarcely dare to put these realizations to voice. He studied Devon more intently, boring deep into Devon's essence, striving to see what he could not hope to see.
And there it was. A flickering core of magic, completely separate from the bloodfire. A wellspring, greater than Simon's, though not by much, Parry estimated. Not remarkable in the slightest. Except in its very existence. For now there was no denying it: Bloodfire was not Devon's wellspring, not his reserve. It was wholly separate.
And Parry knew, now, why Devon's description of finding his core had sounded strangely familiar. Not because it was what Parry experienced when he touched his core; it wasn't. Rather, it was what he experienced when he tapped the essence of Graymere.
Devon truly carried with him a lake of power identical, in nature if not intensity, to Graymere. A completely separate source of power, a font of magic greater than any living man possessed, ready to yield to his call.
"Parry?" Devon whispered, opening his eyes. "You're not listening."
Parry blinked, and he let the grin that had formed inside him come to the surface. "We
will prevail," he whispered.
Katterine and Simon looked at him sharply, and Devon seemed utterly confused. "I wasn't asking about that..." he said hesitantly.
"I know," Parry said briskly. "I'll answer your questions, love, of course. But not just yet. Listen to me, all of you. Katterine, Elander, look at him!
Look at him, with your
other eyes. Carefully, and you'll see it."
Katterine's eyes went slightly out of focus, and Parry knew she was examining Devon's core. Simon grudgingly closed his eyes, took a deep breath of concentration, and did the same.
Parry waited impatiently, and he took one of Devon's hands into his. "Don't worry, love. They're not looking for faults or flaws. This is
good news. Touching your core was the best thing you could have done. The
only thing."
Devon nodded, though obviously confused, and gently tightened his grasp on Parry's hand. Parry squeezed back.
Katterine came out of her trance sooner than Simon. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks drained of color. She met Parry's gaze, and he saw the question in her golden eyes. He nodded breathlessly, still grinning and clutching Devon's hand.
Simon let out a gasp of air and his eyes snapped open. He glared at Devon with fear and contempt. "I told you," he hissed. "He's not bloody hu—"
Parry raised his free hand, giving Simon all the caution he deserved, and the old man wilted. Still, defiantly, his lips finished the word: Human.
"What's going on?" Devon asked tremulously. "What are you all seeing?"
"Devon, you understand what you're going to have to do, with the Tevair's magic, aye?" Parry asked quickly.
Devon nodded. "But what has that got to do—"
Parry put his fingers to Devon's lips, gently cutting off the younger man's question. "You will have to channel it. That's what makes this haphazard training," Parry motioned broadly around the room. "So fruitless. Or such was my fear."
"Even if I manage to control my bloodfire, I still have yet to learn how to harness other magic. To channel. Something that can't be learned in a few days," Devon said. Parry hadn't put the worries out in explicit words, but Devon knew what was required of him, and he knew how long it had taken to make what progress he had.
Parry nodded. But then, suddenly, his smile returned. "You have already learned to channel," he said breathlessly. "You learn every moment.
That is what we were truly practicing moments ago."
Devon's brow furrowed in confusion. Parry saw mild hurt in his eyes. "Then why did you tell me otherwise...?" he murmured.
Parry gripped Devon's shoulders, looking his lover in the eye. "I didn't know until this instant," he said. "That's why I wasn't listening. I was... examining you."
"Like you told them to do," Devon said. It wasn't a question.
Parry nodded mutely.
"And what did you see?" Devon asked, his voice betraying the dread he felt. Simon's epithets and curses meant nothing to Parry, but he realized that Devon was not so thick-skinned. He was terrified of what he was. What he had become.
"You possess, within you, a wellspring," Parry said. At Devon's confused look, Parry pushed on. "A wellspring,
and you have the power of bloodfire. Bloodfire isn't just a word for the phenomenal power within the depths of your essence, Devon. It's a font of its
own, a second wellspring."
"A lake," Devon whispered.
Parry nodded. "And every time you tap your bloodfire, every time you draw from that lake, you are channeling."
Devon was taken aback, and Parry could see understanding dawn on Katterine as well. Simon just stared at Devon with mute, restrained rage.
"You siphon power from your bloodfire the same way I, and the Al'Naer, draw upon the energies of Graymere. The same way you will have to channel the magic of the Tevair."
Devon's eyes betrayed the deep fear he felt for himself. For this new aspect of himself. Yet at the same time, his countenance lit up. Devon wanted desperately to fight the Pestilent, and now, for the first time since agreeing to teach him, Parry thought perhaps it would be possible to prepare his young lover soon enough. Not soon enough to aid the insane assault planned by the Guard... Parry shunted that thought from his mind. If they found success, brought down the
Flamedancer and slew some or all of the Al'Naer, all the better, but there was no purpose in dwelling on their inevitable failure.
"I'm... channeling?" Devon said, stunned. "I didn't expect it to be... quite like this. I mean, it's so..." he floundered, striving for the right word.
"Natural," Parry finished. Devon nodded. "Aye, it is. And that's what makes it so bloody dangerous, though more for me than for you. Channeling Graymere feels natural. Wonderful. But with the Pestilent's taint, it's dangerous. More than dangerous. Deadly."
Katterine nodded gravely. "When I found you on the streets, you had nearly died of it," she observed.
Devon looked at Parry sharply, and Parry met him with an embarrassed smile. With all that had happened, his battle with Jason and the Al'Naer cultists seemed years ago. More important matters had risen. "I was waylaid. By one called Jason, and by a group of perhaps thirty Al'Naer slaves. They almost had me. Would have, if I hadn't drawn on Graymere's power. And would have even still, if this fine woman hadn't found me and healed my lungs and helped to purge my body," Parry explained, motioning vaguely to Katterine.
Devon's quizzical expression turned to one of awe. "Thirty?"
Parry shrugged. "I'd happily fight thirty of them again if I could avoid fighting their leader, Jason. He was my match, or close to it." The words chilled Parry's audience, and rightfully so.
Devon was an incredible asset; his very existence gave them more of a fighting chance every time they plumbed his secrets. Yet even so, their task was nigh impossible. Katterine had told them, briefly, of how she fought Rabith, how she'd used all her power just to bluff him into retreating. It was obvious she was not his match. Jason was Parry's equal in skill at swordplay; an uncommon trait amongst a sorcerer, and yet it was clear too that his mastery of magic was formidable.
As for fighting the Pestilent itself, that hardly bore consideration. Parry needed all the shreds of courage he had left. With Devon, and the magic of the Tevair, he would have a chance. That was enough.
"Before we return to training," Parry said. "There's more I want you to know."
"Aye?" Devon prompted, meeting Parry's gaze.
Parry smiled again. "I know how you slew Lerell, now. It was not simply through sheer power. Lerell was skilled, and raw power is rarely enough to overcome skill," he said.
Devon nodded, a memory flickering across his fire-marked eyes. Parry suspected he was remembering the bolt of red fire he had hurled when in the grips of his mindless rage, and the ease with which Parry had, not absorbed the blow, but instead simply turned it aside.
"I'm not completely sure of this," Parry said. "Because only bloodfire could create this situation, and bloodfire, as I've said many times, has been unknown for centuries. But... all the evidence points to it. The Al'Naer have wellsprings, true enough, but they draw most of their power from the city. Because of their devotion to the Pestilent's evil, their bodies are immune to the blight that such channeling would normally cause."
"You told me that," Devon observed, somewhat impatiently.
Parry nodded. "Lerell was drawing from the city. From the Pestilent. And you were drawing from bloodfire. From what I have seen... as far as your bloodfire is concerned, the magic of Graymere does not exist."
Devon blinked, uncomprehending.
"Ambient magic, whether as powerful as Graymere's or as weak as that of Eastern Wastes, permeates everything. It blankets me, Katterine, Simon, and every other living thing. Except you."
"What do you mean?" Devon asked quietly.
"I can see, with my other sense, the magic touching Katterine. And when I look at you, I see that same magic, hovering around you. It does not touch you. When you move, it shies away from where you go and rushes to fill the gaps you leave. Although as a whole it far exceeds your power, the bloodfire is so concentrated that it repels even Graymere's ambience. And judging from your description of Lerell's death..."
"Magic borne of bloodfire cuts through magic borne of Graymere," Katterine finished.
Parry nodded. Again he saw Devon torn between elation and revulsion. He brushed his hand against Devon's chin.
"This isn't something to be ashamed of, love," he said quietly. "You are unique, yes, but that does
not make you inhuman. Truly, every man is unique. It's only our good fortune that your uniqueness might bring us the victory nothing else could."
Devon swallowed hard. "If the Pestilent has— tainted, Graymere, then that would mean he, it, uses Graymere's magic, wouldn't it?"
Parry nodded, smiling. It was obvious he hadn't assuaged Devon's fears, yet his young lover was not letting his worry complicate his training. He was wise beyond his years.
"So... does bloodfire 'cut through' the Pestilent's magic too?" Devon asked hesitantly.
Katterine shook her head before Parry had the chance, though Parry followed suit quickly.
"The Pestilent doesn't channel the city's magic," Katterine said. "This much, I read from the texts the Archduke gave me."
Parry smiled. "Pages torn from the Book of the Tevair. No, Devon, the Pestilent is unique. It is not a
creature, but a formless entity. It appropriates the life of our world for its own ends, congealing them together to form its own wellspring. Its first human victim was the Al'Naer leader, Hathas; you saw that over my shoulder, when you watched me augur the past."
Parry suppressed a fleeting memory of Hathas' shrouded form dissolving into viscous, putrid malevolence. Devon frowned, remembering the same, and nodded.
"And the plague that it has spread; each life it claims is added to its power. Each spark of magic the dead possessed is now the fiend's."
Parry watched as Devon's expression turned to horror; he had heard Parry speak of the Pestilent's growing power many times, but never as clearly as now.
"But the first life stolen by the Pestilent was none of these; it was the life of Graymere itself. For these long years, imprisoned though it was, the Pestilent has gorged itself on Graymere's magic. It calls this ambience its own, its wellspring, and so, I believe, it will meet your bloodfire head-on," Parry said. He noted Devon's disappointed countenance, and he smiled thinly. "Forget any plans you had of engaging the demon in single combat, love. That would be suicide."
Devon nodded. "I suppose it would."
"Devon," Parry said softly, staring his love in the eye. "Your power has been awakened; Lerell saw to that. Bloodfire and everything else. This training... well, it's unorthodox, to say the least. Normally, I'd teach you how to tap your wellspring first; teach you basic grounding and seeing and everything else. I thought we were doing just that, and I despaired. But that's not what we've been doing at all. We've been teaching you channeling. And... we have to keep teaching you that."
"Because of the Pestilent. We're focusing on what matters. I understand; I'm not
completely daft," Devon said.
"But I wanted to explain... normally, these other things are taught first
for a reason, love. What you're learning now... it's dangerous," said Parry.
"You'll keep me safe," Devon said with simple, absolute certainty.
"I will," Parry replied, deathly serious. "So long as I'm here. But... love, we have to be prepared for the possibility that I will not survive a confrontation with the Pestilent. And the possibility that you will."
Devon gulped, and narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to prepare for that," he whispered.
Devon's expression nearly made Parry drop the matter, but he knew that him finding death in the coming battle was more than a possibility; it was a near certainty. He had to be resolute in this, however much it pained him or Devon.
"I don't care if you want to or not," he said bluntly. "It's a possibility you should consider. An untrained, or half-trained, sorcerer is a danger to himself, and those around him. More than that, he's a beacon to other sorcerers. Many of whom would seek him out for their own insidious schemes."
Devon's shoulders tensed and he scrunched up, tightening into as much a ball as he could and still remain standing. It took Parry only a moment to realize that he had inadvertently reminded his love of Lerell. He reached out a gentle hand and touched Devon on the cheek. Devon shied away instantly, fear suddenly in his eyes. But when he met Parry's gaze and saw emerald instead of topaz, his breathing calmed. He took a few steps forward, falling into Parry's arms, weeping softly.
Parry held Devon tightly. He knew it was time to let the matter drop, at least for the moment. "I'm sorry," he murmured into Devon's ear. A pained whimper into Parry's doublet was the only response Devon gave.
Parry sighed and gently ran his hand down his companion's spine. "Never mind," he said finally. "I'll... keep you safe."
The words felt like ash in his mouth. He would keep Devon safe as long as he lived, but he knew his death could very well be imminent. The promise was hollow, if not an outright lie.
"If you two are quite done..." interjected Simon's gruff voice.
Devon sighed, and stood, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "Aye, we are," he said coldly. "Get on with what I need to know."
"We can practice channeling again later," Parry said, nodding. "First, though, there are things you must know. I think we must move on to the purpose of all this studying. To the Tevair."
Devon met Parry's eyes confidently, the doubt and grief gone from his countenance. Parry couldn't help but admire his courage, in the face of such adversity.
"You know that the Tevair were a cabal in ancient days," Parry said. "When the Pestilent found its way to Graymere, millennia ago, the Tevair had reached their zenith." He paused. "They were the most powerful cabal in Graymere, and their acolytes numbered into scores. The Tevair were like most cabals of any age; neither altruistic nor malevolent. They simply... existed. They sought knowledge, not dominance.
"There was another cabal in Graymere, however, with...
different goals. They called themselves the Ora Thal. The Ora Thal were necromancers; sorcerers that answer the world's mysteries by ensnaring the souls of the dead. An elder of their order, Rema, sought to raise a great spirit from the beyond. But his venture into the Nether called unto him a Pestilent;
the Pestilent, the demon that threatens us now. It took Rema as its host the same way it has claimed Hathas today, but while Rema's greatest failing was hubris, Hathas, as we know, freely accepted the demon unto himself."
"Does that matter?" Devon asked.
"I wouldn't have mentioned it if it didn't," Parry said mildly. "Hathas still lives, in part, the same way Rema did. But while Rema would have fought against the demon's control every step of the way, Hathas will no doubt be filled with joy and wonder at all he has wrought. He will freely relinquish all his power to the Pestilent."
Simon's face screwed up into a scowl, and he muttered an epithet under his breath.
"Perhaps he's come to regret his actions," Katterine said. "Even the darkest of villains can feel remorse."
Devon looked at the priestess sharply. "You haven't met them, obviously. The Al'Naer are evil incarnate. Lerell felt nothing but glee when he... violated me, in body and mind. No amount of violence could sate their appetite."
Katterine met Devon's gaze without flinching. "I
have met them, some of them at any rate. And you are right. But the most evil man is still remains just that, Devon. A man. And men feel. They care, they love, they hurt, and they weep. Some who have embraced evil can turn to the good. I know this, for I am proof. And though I won't count on it, I will still cling to my hope that Hathas may come to join me."
Devon's lips thinned to a bloodless white line, and he shook his head.
"Hope all you like," Parry said, cutting into the lull. "Or don't." he squeezed Devon's hand. "In either case, the Pestilent consumed every sorcerer within the ranks of the Ora Thal. It moved on, from there, unleashing its blight into the city. Finding that they alone had the power to combat this evil, the Tevair showed their true worth, and confronted the demon."
"They prevailed," Devon said. "I know that much."
Parry shook his head. "Not at first. They could neither slay it nor banish it back to the Nether, despite all their efforts. They thought their cabal was doomed; they thought Graymere was lost. And but for a young Tevair acolyte, whose name has been lost to the ages, it would have been. He uncovered an old spell, a binding older even than their order. Older than Graymere. In a tongue more ancient even than words spoken by the Pestilent, this rune of binding was called simply
Sha. The acolyte took this rune, the Sha, and modified it. He created, to date, the only known way of trapping a Pestilent in place: the Sha Tevair."
"And that's what held the Pestilent all this time?" asked Devon.
"Aye. But you're getting ahead of yourself, love," Parry said. "The Sha Tevair was a powerful magic, one that could not be worked by any individual alone. Not even the whole of the Tevair could manage such a task; each time they tried, the binding eluded them.
"Finally, desperate beyond all measure, the Tevair accepted the aid of one of the few surviving Ora Thal sorcerers. This man, a necromancer like all his kind, convinced the Tevair to work magic of... questionable morality."
"The magic of the Tevair," Devon whispered.
Parry nodded. "The Tevair summoned the spirits of their brethren; the spirits of every Tevair sorcerer that had ever lived. They called them all together, and the Ora Thal's necromancer bound them."
Simon grimaced at this, and Katterine blinked away a tear.
"...Bound them?" said Devon.
"He trapped their souls in an inescapable tomb of magic. And a link, as well, so that every Tevair living would come to the same fate when death claimed him."
"I don't understand," Devon said, dumbfounded.
"No sorcerer of the Tevair passed on to the Nether, or any other place. They all remain, trapped, in a place between places. All of their energy, too, remains with them. The wellsprings of a thousand wizards, pooled into one font not unlike Graymere's."
Devon's eyes widened. "You mean... when you say that you channelled the 'magic of the Tevair' to fight the Pestilent, you really mean you channelled their
souls!"
Parry sighed. "Indeed," he said. "I will not say whether the act was the right one; those Tevair that lived thought so, and condemned themselves to the same fate they forced upon their dead brothers. But right or not, what is done cannot be undone. The power remains there, whether I tap it or not. They need not yield their power to me if they don't want me to have it... I can't steal it."
"And... the only time you've ever channelled their power was when you—"
"When I slew the Pestilent back home. Yes. I... tried, one other time. When my need was great. But I found the magic denied to me."
Devon blinked. "But then, even if I'm
able, how do we know that they'll grant me their power?" he asked.
"Because we face a Pestilent. More, the
same Pestilent they faced. Defeating it, preserving Graymere, that was the very goal they inflicted this fate upon themselves for. If ever a cause was deserving, it is this," Parry said resolutely. He was uncertain of many things, but in this, he was bereft of doubt. The Tevair would lend Devon their strength, if Devon could bear it. Whether that would be enough, however, remained to be seen.
Devon met Parry's eyes. His young countenance was weathered by the trials he had seen, and weariness was clear in his fire-touched eyes. He sighed. "So... you want me to channel them, then. The... souls, of the Tevair. You're going to teach me how to find them, and... and suck their magic into myself. I'm going to be... consuming... the spirits of the dead."
Parry did not flinch, but met Devon's stare stoically. He could give no softening explanation, no mitigations. Not to this. Devon knew what was at stake, and he knew, too, the facts of what he would be doing. Parry could give him no less than the bald truth.
"Indeed, you are," he said.
Devon nodded once, grim determination etched across his features. He took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Finally, his voice little more than a choked whisper, he spoke.
"Show me how."
