It’s often said that knowledge is power. The Magi are considered the most powerful individuals in the world, only a step down from angels and demigods, because they know things the rest of us re mortals can barely fathom.
I ant to take that lesson to heart, but I’d underestimated how useless most of it is. Or how damned expensive it can be.
Winter struck the coastlands early and hard, bringing bitterly cold winds and covering the countryside in snow. I sat in my tower office, which was more of a study lately, pouring over a manuscript I’d been waiting on for months. The ship that brought it from the continent had been delayed by the foul weather around Urn’s coasts.
The scribe who’d translated it had done an awful job, so I was fixing his mistakes more than really absorbing the contents. It irritated considering how much I’d paid out of the budget the court provided and how long I’d waited for it. Lisette’s lessons were paying off, but I still felt slow and apish in my efforts. My calloused fingers, so sure when they grasped a weapon, felt clumsy with the delicate quill.
And as I transcribed, I tried to absorb the manuscript’s information.
As discussed in the previous volu of this collection, Razmus of Kell theorized that the hunger which afflicts ghouls — or ghûls, as he calls them — is more akin to a disease than a curse. This implies that the affliction can be safeguarded against, even cured, and yet no ans has ever been discovered in all the various cultures and iterations of these creatures across known lands. They appear to exhibit many similarities to other forms of undead, including similar weaknesses, which seems to imply that there is indeed no cure. After all, while reanimation can occur through natural or necromantic ans the body is not truly alive and there has never been a recorded case of the dead truly returning to life.
In conclusion, a ghoul is no different to a dyghoul, wight, or vampire — a corpse with a soul tethered to the flesh, different only in the fact that it can forestall decay through cannibalism and in the ans of its creation. Yet, in many cases ghouls are ford from individuals who have indeed neither died nor display any of the typical signs of undead save for their ravenous hunger. It has been theorized that—
Useless. All useless. I couldn’t do anything with any of this. I put the quill down and rubbed at my temple, trying to massage away a growing headache.
Mournful winds howled outside the tower’s new glass window. Even with the fire crackling in the hearth, the chamber was cold. I paused to twist the knob on the alchemical light on my desk — a new model with far too many extraneous pieces — and squinted at the page.
What warned I couldn’t say. The muted wind outside ebbed, and the ensuing silence seed sohow too loud.
I turned the page, paused a beat, then glanced around at the room. There were more ghosts than ever, so of them having beco permanent residents in the tower, and perhaps the stilling of their ever shifting shadows drew my attention.
There’d been an assassination attempt just a few weeks back. Emma and Hendry were still investigating, and we were all on guard.
I dimd the light before slowly pulling a dagger from a leather sheath I kept nailed to the underside of the desk. I stood and paced into the middle of the room. My armor was set on its stand by one wall, leaving hardly ready for an ambush.
Another whistling gust of frosted wind rattled the window pane.
“If soone is there, best show yourself.”
No response. I’d laced a minuscule amount of power into those words. Sotis less is more when it cos to compulsion, and even a subtle touch of magic can catch soone off guard if they don’t notice.
Yet no response. Had I imagined it? We kept the tower warded and so of the few remaining gargoyles who inhabited the Fulgurkeep had made a roost on it, but those weren't foolproof protections. Ghosts still slipped in, drawn to and to the structure itself thanks to its violent history as a dungeon.
And there were things besides fiends and the dead I needed to be wary of.
The ghosts crowding the shadows muddied my spiritual senses. With a silent command I scattered them. That’d beco easier lately, though they were never gone for long. It gave the chance to unspool my aura and sense what was amiss. My eyelids drooped, not quite closing, and I started to cast my will out into the tower.
“Best not do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”
I spun and saw a figure standing in the corner by the window where there’d been no one before. The shape stepped out of the shadows to reveal a man of average height, dressed as a road weary traveler in a long coat, faded scarf, and tough boots. His hair was short and slightly unkempt, and he had a long, hawk-nosed face that belonged to a pirate or a charismatic rogue. Ꞧ₳ΝȮBĘs
I recognized him, although I’d not seen him in most of a year. “Donnelly.”
The ghost smiled. “It’s good to see you, Al.”
I stoked the fire hot and invited him to warm himself by it. That always helped spirits beco more substantial. Strangely, Donnelly didn’t squat by the flas as he usually did.
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I studied the man with mixed feelings. Part of felt relieved to see a familiar face after the strange twists and turns the past year had taken. The other part of knew what this portended, and I wasn’t in a hurry to rush things.
Donnelly had a strange story. Once an accomplished thief who’d gained the attention of Tuvon the elf king and beco sothing of a fixture in Seydis, he’d died during the first days of the war that’d destroyed that country. His essence had been fused with the remnants of a dying angel.
The Choir of Onsolem made him their herald, a ssenger who traveled the lands as sothing halfway between a courier and a spy. He’d been the one to pass on information to during my years wandering the realms as a vagabond executioner. When the gods had a new task, Donnelly would be my first warning with so cryptic ssage and instructions to travel in a particular direction.
He’d also been close to a friend, though I’d resented him for reasons entirely not his fault.
It was difficult not to feel an anticipatory resentnt in that mont, knowing what his return probably ant.
“You look different,” I noted.
He did. Though his physical appearance and clothes were typical, the spirit looked more solid. A very faint light seed to exude from him, and his eyes were a uniform color, like liquid silver. They seed like the most solid thing about him.
This usually would have been where he’d get annoyed or have so wise crack. Instead, Donnelly considered and nodded slowly. “I am different. A lot’s happened recently.”
He looked at with those uncanny eyes. “You look different too. Brighter, but… also darker.”
I shook my head. “What does that an?”
“The shadows around you are deeper. More crowded. A lot has happened to you too, old friend.”
An understatent. I folded my arms and leaned against my desk. “Yes.”
“Moving up in the world.” Donnelly paced around the room, barely seeming to move his feet. One mont he took a step, the next he was several paces away in so completely new pose. “I hardly recognized you for that unwashed vagabond I rember.”
“It’s a long story.”
The Herald of the Choir nodded. “And I’m afraid I don’t have much ti for it. I hear you got a mission straight from the First Sword himself.”
The title of “First Sword” was used across the realms of Urn, always for the personal champion of a great lord or monarch. I’d been one once, to Rosanna Silvering when she’d just been Queen of the Karledale and not the Empress. I knew two of them fairly well, the Twinbolt who served the Emperor and Kaia Gorr who protected Rosanna as I once had.
But Donnelly could only be referring to one individual. Umareon, Saint of Crusades and First Sword of the Heir of Heaven. I’d only t the angelic warrior once, and the fallout from that interview had been… dramatic.
“They’ve been quiet,” I said. “The Choir.”
Donnelly nodded. “We’ve had much to deal with. The world’s shifting, Al.”
We. Donnelly had never included himself with our immortal masters before.
“You made waves when you went public,” Donnelly continued, standing now by my desk and studying all my books and scrolls. “And since when were you a scholar?”
“Since being a half illiterate bludgeon made my life unmanageable,” I said dryly. “So I’ve not heard anything because I did all this?” I waved at my office.
“That is part of it,” he agreed with a strange note of caution. “Lady Eanor convinced the others that you needed ti to settle into your new responsibilities. There was pushback, but you were given… let’s just call it a grace period.”
He turned to face and his manner beca serious again. “That period is now over. We have orders for you, Headsman.”
His voice had changed, taking on a faint echo. I tried not to shiver. Sothing had changed. Even as a spirit, Donnelly had always seed himself before.
“We want you to travel to Tol,” he told .
“Tol?” I struggled to place the na. A township, I thought, sowhere in the heartlands far to the south of Garihelm.
Donnelly bowed his head. “Go there. Make haste. Once you arrive you will be contacted again.”
I shook my head, confused and flustered by this sudden developnt. “Wait Don, can you just tell —”
Anything. Where you’ve been, what’s been happening while I’ve been in this city.
“—What they want to do?” Who they wanted to kill.
“There is no ti.” Donnelly turned toward the window. He paused, and sothing more human entered his voice. “Heavensreach has been attacked.”
I stared at him in stunned silence. “What?”
“I can’t say much more. I wasn’t even supposed to tell you that… focus on your mission. You will be told what is needed when you’re there. Go quickly.”
And just like that he vanished, leaving a sense of emptiness behind. The wind whistled outside. The waves in the bay rolled against the island.
“Damn it,” I snapped in frustration. Both my sudden orders and what he’d said made reel. My headache throbbed like little iron hamrs were repeatedly striking in the sides of my skull, slow and rhythmic blows that never let up.
Heavensreach was the domain of the Onsolain, a fabled mountain palace where the immortals held court. The domain of angels and demigods. Only I knew it wasn’t just a fable. Garihelm might be the capital of the Accorded Realms, but that high mountain could be considered the true center of the world.
Hearing it was attacked felt sothing like hearing that soone had wounded the moon, or poisoned the sun. Impossible, too huge to contemplate the consequences of. Who would even be capable?
Donnelly had said not to worry about it. No way in hell I wouldn’t, but I tried to focus on what he’d tasked to do. Who was in Tol? Did they want to execute soone in the city, or was it just where they intended to give my next set of instructions?
It would be a long trip, especially in winter.
My gaze went to the window, and all at once I felt a deep and crushing exhaustion bear down on . It had been a very long year, and I still had so much to do.
That manuscript waiting half translated on my desk felt like an admonishnt. It wasn’t idle research. I’d made a promise.
I didn’t have ti to wander across the realms chasing vague portents and visions. I had other responsibilities. The lance was already getting ready to travel to Mirrebel to assist the crown duke there with a string of unsolved murders. It would be my team’s first action outside of the Emperor’s own lands, an important test.
To run off now without even knowing what I’d be getting myself into… sothing told that it wouldn’t be a short trip, either.
“Damn it, Donnelly.” Only it wasn’t Donnelly, but them.
I let my dagger clatter back on the desk, leaned my palms against its surface, and stared at all the research and reports I’d piled on it. My eyes ran across the growing collection of shelves and chests along the back wall.
I had preparations to make and people to talk to. I needed to figure out where I was going, how long it would take to get there, and decide what to do about Markham’s orders.
You chose to take all this on, I reminded myself. Ti to swim if you don’t want to drown.
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