Tyranny, madness, death. As Soren reclaimed the Halflight coin, he heard whispers from other lives, far removed from this one. He took a deep breath, and the voices stilled. He needed to focus.
Soren rose and followed as Zephon and Aurel made their way to the second floor. As they came to the first landing, Soren got the same feeling he did when he crossed the illusionary barrier from before.
As he did, the sounds of the tavern below cut off completely. There was a sound like buzzing in his ears, but then it faded away.
‘I suppose he’s trying new things,’ Zephon noted, shaking his head at the sound.
‘No, this is Lumen’s work,’ Aurel said. ‘There’s a slightly more awkward weave to her magic.’
They walked upstairs, up a spiral staircase, and it seemed to Soren that this building was far larger than the outside of it suggested. Just how extensive was this illusion? From the sound of it, it seemed that there were at least two people skilled in the arcane here.
They came at last to an arched doorway, and as they stepped through, there was a strange noise that filled Soren’s ears, a sound like bells clanging in the distance. He recognized this spell – it was something done to prevent eavesdropping. He could feel the magic infusing the walls around him.
In the centre of the somewhat sparsely decorated office, there was large desk, with papers arranged in a neat stack on one end, a quill and an inkwell, and a curious bronze sculpture of a winged sword, point downwards, thrust into a throne. Unless he was mistaken this was the symbol of Raithwin, the Lord Vengeance and Justice. Also on the desk was a curiously rotating gyroscopic figure made of what appeared to be silver and copper, with a stylized sapphire eye at the centre.
There were two people in this room. One stood next to the desk, cloaked in a deep royal blue hooded mantle, wearing light leathers beneath it. This man was human, bald, seemingly middle-aged, though hale and fit. His left eye was milky white, and three nasty-looking scars ran down that side of his face, as though it had been gouged by a wild animal. His other eye was a pale shade of grey with flecks of green. He had a grizzled goatee that seemed to be finely trimmed, and there was a dagger and a wand hitched near the front of his belt. He nodded in greeting to Aurel and Zephon, then his eyes widened as they fell upon Soren. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, turning to the other man in the room.
Behind the desk, Soren saw another Daoine, who rose as the trio entered.
Unlike Soren, however, this one’s blood roiled with the curse of devils, and that curse had festered at his birth. It had discoloured his flesh, and everything that was merely a hint or a whisper in Soren was a full-throated shout with Arioth. He was a mutant of their kind – a rarity, but one that had occurred often enough to warrant a name. Nergius.
Horns began at his brow, directly above his eyes, curving outwards and upwards like a bull’s. Also unlike Soren, he had a tail, a long, prehensile one that flicked out as he stood up. His flesh was red-hued and his pupil-less eyes were golden, and they narrowed as they fell upon Soren. The Daoine's mutants always had an eerie, intimidating aura to them, but this one’s presence was far more than just the association to the devil’s blood. He had the look, but also the feeling of a profoundly dangerous man.
As spirits, Daoines and others belong to the ageless world, but as embodied creatures they inhabit this mortal realm. This means that while their souls can be directed by eternal and immutable ideals, their fugacious forms, desires, conceptions and rationality are in a state of constant transmutation, for to dwell upon this cocooned world means to change.
It is, of course, the greatest error of the mortal world that so often we judge others by their appearance than by their true nature. Judgment is administered as swift as lightning, when it should come as slowly as the passing of the seasons, yet Soren did not think himself in error for immediately believing that he was now at the mercy of someone both ambitious and ruthless.
The Daoines came in two varieties. Though both are considered rare among the plane-touched, one is far more likely to encounter the sort that Soren was. The man behind the desk however, was of the far rarer Nergius Devilblood. While all Daoines are generally held in mistrust, the Nergius Devilblood inspire fear for their far more otherworldly – and fiendish – appearance. We Kyburns have had cause to understand the Daoine; in truth, they are less inscrutable than Ophiones or the Terramus... but perhaps humanity fears them because they are so similar to them?
Arioth's gaze met Soren's, and seemed to immediately take the measure of him. A slight pursing of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes, and Soren felt his entire existence judged and measured in a moment.
‘A visitor,’ Arioth said, by way of greeting. His deep voice was like a knife’s edge being scraped across a block of ice; it made Soren wince to hear it, a growl that was somehow both basso and high-pitched.
‘This is the one who intercepted our runner,’ Aurel said, and the bald mage raised an eyebrow. ‘Turns out to have been a case of mistaken identity.’
‘Well, that’ll be a cold comfort to little Alyna. Fortunately, I gave her the aid she required.’
Soren was about to reply to that, but the Daoine behind the desk froze the words in throat.
‘You have come at a strange time, bloodling,’ said the Daoine, using a rather archaic term Daoines used for each other when they didn’t know each other personally. ‘And I believe it is no accident that you are here, or, indeed, that you have crossed the path of my organization.’
‘Organization?’ Soren echoed. So, not a street gang, then. Or perhaps a street gang with vague pretensions at being more.
‘We believe that the person he’s hunting is the person who has been stirring up conflict with our brethren in Drivorius,’ Zephon said. ‘That assassination…’
‘Yes. If that is so, then our paths are indeed aligned. But just because we have the same target doesn’t mean that he will share our goals,’ said the mage.
‘I don’t know anything about any organization,’ said Soren, ‘and I deeply apologize for setting upon your ally. All I wanted was to hunt down Sannah. She must be brought to justice.’
‘And is it justice you serve?’ the Daoine asked. It was a strange question, one that Soren didn’t know what to make of right away.
‘It’s my duty to-‘
‘So, duty, then?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’
The Daoine quietly stared at him for a long moment, then he said, ‘One must always form a reason for all that they do. Without reason and order, there is no path to fulfillment. That has always been my thinking. My name is Arioth of the fallen House of Forneus,’ he said. ‘And I am the leader of this ward of the Third Moon.’
Soren frowned. He had heard of them. They were an organization akin to a cult, from what he understood, but it wasn’t anything that he had paid much attention to. Most curiously, the rumours he had heard said the members of the Third Moon referred to themselves as a cult.
And Forneus... that house bound to the Kyburn Dominion. What did they have to do with this?The Kyburn Dominion to the West, the Empire to the East, the badlands and the Cardinal Cities in the middle – a powder keg, awaiting its first spark.
‘Lord Arioth,’ the mage said, ‘we shouldn’t reveal-‘
‘Hold, Suture,’ said Arioth with an upraised hand. ‘Can you not see the threads of fate binding this one’s purpose?’
At these words, Suture subsided with a frustrated sigh, clearly not satisfied.
‘Your target, Sannah,’ Arioth went on, ‘she is hunting down members of Third Moon. If she is here, then it means that I am her next target.’ He did not seem particularly perturbed by this. ‘If you stay close, bloodling, you will get your chance at vengeance.’
‘Vengeance does not interest me. Only justice.’
‘Whatever satisfies you,’ Arioth said, glancing briefly at the symbol of Raithwin.
‘So…’ Soren began, observing now for the first time the symbol on the shoulder of Arioth, Suture, Aurel and Zephon. Three overlapping circles, one black, one grey and one white arranged in a horizontal line, seemingly the insignia they bore. ‘I've heard stories but... What exactly is the Third Moon?’
The tension in the room grew ever so slightly, but Arioth simply laughed.
‘That is a long and complicated story, for we have a long and complicated history. Be mindful that our mysteries are not for the uninitiated.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Soren said, looking around the room, noting how no one was looking at him. ‘I feel as though I’ve crossed a line.’
‘Not at all,’ Arioth said rather pointedly. ‘These are my compatriots being foolish enough to assume that I would divulge everything about our organization simply because you asked what it is. If anyone should feel uneasy, it should be them.’
The tension diffused, and Soren saw that Aurel looked a little ashamed.
‘Have you heard of the Lethean Orders?’ Arioth asked.
Soren had. They were Orders of knights dedicated to the goddess Silvani, whose primary mission is the destruction of fiends and undead creatures. Really, they were devoted to destroying all forms of magic that dominated the minds of others, or raised undead creatures and manipulated others. Paladins, dedicated to protecting the natural order.
He wondered about that for a moment. From what he understood, Valefor and Silvani were enemies.
He frowned, then, at the symbol of Raithwin on Arioth's desk. The horned Daoine smiled at him, pleased at the unspoken question.
‘We left the Orders behind and came to Granmith’s southwestern shores. We realized that we could not devote ourselves wholly to the Lethean Orders’ directives. Third Moon now pursues its own agenda, the details of which cannot be disclosed unless you become one of us. But, broadly speaking, we seek the same things the Lethean Orders do, but because our manpower is more limited, we seek options that go beyond simply eliminating dark mages and necromancers.’
‘The old order is far too limited in their means,’ said Suture. ‘The Third Moon seeks to eliminate all tyranny from the world, and we will do that our way.’
'People look at me, and they see a devil,' said Arioth. The confident smirk faded slightly. But in all this world, there is only one. The man they call the Emperor in the East. Morvana. Humanity's last bastion. And he, the saviour of the world!'
The Emperor. In the mouths of those who were not humans, his title was a curse, and he was indeed a devil.
Soren nodded. He knew what the Emperor would save them from.
From the Daoine. From the Empyreans, the Ophiones, the Terramus. From all that was not humanity. Let the world be clean and unspoiled, free of those they deemed impure.
And yet... Soren looked about the room, at this small ragtag group of knights. Even the full force of the Lethean Orders would struggle against simply one of the Empire's Gold Battallions. What could a small group of ex-knights accomplish? Soren pursed his lips. And perhaps a group suffering from delusions of grandeur. How could they possibly change the world all on their own?
'Are you planning on infiltrating the Empire?' Soren asked, looking at each of them. 'Assassination?'
'Would that interest you?' Arioth asked, a small smile dancing on his face.
'It would be suicidal,' said Soren.
Arioth burst out laughing. 'Quite right! You came to that conclusion in an instant! Aurel thought it might be feasible.'
Aurel blushed, glaring daggers at Arioth, who waved away her disapproval with a playful hand.
'Pretty as she is, the Empire will brook no impurity within its bounds. It doesn't matter if you look like a devil or an angel, what's important is whether or not you're human.' He sighed. 'The Kyburn Dominion has its faults,' he said, 'and our lives aren't easy, but at least we are not hunted and killed for what we are.' He winced slightly, remembering something. 'Well, most of the time.'
Soren nodded. He knew this all too well. Even those who claim to accept you cannot help but see you as cursed. You are nothing to them but a collection of traits that marks you as something else. And may the gods help you if you do not conform to their view of the world.
It was exhausting. All he wanted was to live in peace.
Arioth's path seemed impossible. Doomed.
Soren thought he understood Arioth. To the east, beyond the badlands and the magical wastes of a damned nation, there lay a darkness, and at its core was an Emperor of Men, who spoke of purity, and a world united under a single vision.
He had seen it, felt it, experienced it in these past two years. The hatred and fear of the Daoine by humanity. And he knew how seductive it was, the thought that the world could be better if everyone was simply the same.
A world filled with only humanity... it would be peaceful, wouldn't it? No tribalism, no fear of the other...
A unity, a perfect peace achieved. He'd seen in in the villages he'd stopped by. And the ones that didn't chase him out seemed to hold this feeling, of change that was coming, and moreover, a change that was long overdue.
Arioth must have felt it, must have seen it, even more keenly than he.
The tides were bringing new waters to these shores, and they smelled bitter. Arioth was being pushed to the edge, or rather, the boundaries of the world were encroaching upon him. And what he saw was a crumbling of beliefs, a shattering of faith. The word 'humanity' had once held this notion of kindness and compassion, of empathy and sympathy, but there was a darker undertone to that word now.
He felt it. And perhaps his last claim to the older connotation was this group of people, the only ones who mattered anymore.
His declaration of ending tyranny seemed farcical. But he was pushing back at the walls of this shrinking world. And in his heart Soren wanted him to win out in the end. A miracle. An impossibility. But he said he found a way.
'So, not assassination, then,' said Soren. 'What will you do?'
‘Well,’ Arioth said, ‘we have found a way to achieve our ends. I believe that this is why Sannah is hunting us down. Though perhaps you might find the methods to achieve it somewhat... extreme.’
'Extreme...' Soren murmured. Like embarking on a murder spree. 'Does this have something to do with a mantra?'
Arioth straightened. 'Yes... a mantra. I believe we have almost achieved it ourselves. Though we have accomplished it through bloodless means.' His eye twitched. 'Well, mostly. We are quite distinct from Sannah.'
'So if you've achieved this mantra... and Sannah is pursuing it... is it something that can be stolen? Taken from you?'
'Why do you ask?' Arioth asked, raising an eyebrow.
'Just wondering if it would be feasible to stay close to your hideout and intercept her. Perhaps to join you. If only until that task is done.'
Aurel smiled, and shook her head, exasperated at his bluntness. She seemed rather amused, however.
'Pragmatic,' said Arioth, nodding in approval, seemingly taking his forthrightness in stride. He took a deep breath. 'But no... a mantra is not something that can be stolen. It is a personal thing. A realization through faith. An epiphany that becomes a rationality. A truth that becomes a litany. Words that echo in the soul, again and again... It is through that echo, that reveberation that exists when all else fades. It guides us. It becomes our reason.'
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Soren listened, and he was almost caught up in the words, caught up in the spell weaving about him; the echoes of a singular truth. He could almost feel it swirling around him, an energy that builds and builds. It was hypnotic.
Then Arioth straightened, the spell seemed to end. He was frowning, and he folded his arms.
'So...' he said, 'You have the potential as well. I see it in you, bloodling. You have your own echo, a whisper of a mantra.'
'I have it?'
'No,' said Arioth. 'Not yet. I wove my words around you, wondering if you could see our purpose, wondering if you were a brother to be. But another path is in you. One that I cannot see. '
Only then did Soren notice the gleam of his eyes. And he saw now how every other person in this room had their hands on their weapons.
Only Arioth looked relaxed.
'He is not our enemy,' he said to room at large. 'And I don't think you will be.'
Soren glanced around the room. 'I have no quarrel with anyone here. Only with Sannah.'
'Good,' said Arioth. 'The matters of Third Moon are those of faith. And while I'm certain I could teach you things, I imagine you aren't much interested in any proselytizing. What your mantra will be is, for the moment, beyond my sight or knowledge.'
--
It has been said those who are able to see beyond the shadows and lies of culture and civilization will never be understood by others. It may be that they have gone insane in their search for truth, or that they alone perceive reality beyond the charted boundaries of an enclosed world. For a heart seeking freedom, one mortal life seems but a tiny prison, surrounded by darkness.
Perhaps this is why he sought to understand these people, these adherents of a forsaken faith.
For Soren understood that death is but only one of the terrible things that can happen to a man.
‘What is it that the Third Moon believes in?’ Soren inquired.
At this question, everyone in the room briefly looked at him, before their eyes fixed on Arioth, whose uncompromising stare seemed to bore holes into Soren’s skull.
‘What do you know of the Origination?’
Soren shrugged. ‘It isn't really a term I'll all that familiar with.’
Arioth did not blink, clearly waiting for more.
‘From what I understand,’ said Soren, shifting somewhat uncomfortably, ‘It’s supposed to be some form of transformation or metamorphosis for the world. I think it’s some kind of apocalyptic event.’
‘That’s about as far as most people tend to dig,’ Aurel murmured.
Arioth smiled faintly.
‘You’re not wrong in thinking it’s an apocalyptic phenomenon. The Origination is an event in which the world is transformed. But there’s a little more to it than simple destruction. There are great beings that move in silence and darkness, wandering through the shadows of the world. They take their rest in certain spots every few decades, then move on. We do not know why, or what they seek. But in their wake, they leave knowledge. And despite dwelling underground, their secrets speak of the stars, and their words herald the end of our world.'
Soren shivered at his words. 'A great being?'
‘An Angel,' said Arioth. 'A creature beyond imagining. There are quite a few who trace their paths, who try to predict their movements. The Stygia. The Red Shepherds, and we of Third Moon.’
‘The ones they call cults...' Soren murmured.
He suddenly had a vision. Three figures in the past, walking beside him. One a woman, another a man, and the third, a great, hulking thing, cloaked in shadows... together they descended into the darkness, following a strange pulsating light that seemed to go into the heart of the world...
He blinked and shook his head. Shadows of another life, a broken past. He sighed, then looked up at Arioth, who was observing him curiously 'And you're trying to start this Origination early?’ Soren said softly. At these words, everyone turned to face him, and he knew, suddenly, that he was on very dangerous ground.
Arioth smiled, and Soren cursed him inwardly. He was being trapped. Arioth knew what he was doing too, judging from the look on his face. With his chances of escape and possibly survival dwindling, he figured he might as well get as many answers he could.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘The Origination,or Provenance, as some call it, will come, whether we want it or not. The Angel stirs beneath our feet. And change is coming,’ Arioth said, nodding at the symbol of Valefor. ‘There is something to be gained here: a world, free of the things that burden us. The reins of history have flown free of anyone's grasp... but it is time to seize it. For the plane-touched. For everyone.'
‘What does that mean?’
Arioth’s eyes narrowed as he considered Soren, and Soren knew that he was on the threshold of their mysteries. If he forged onward, he would be bound to them, or he would die.
‘Are you certain that you wish to know? Understand that this knowledge is our secret, and that opening yourself to it means that you will become one of us.’
Soren decided that there was no harm in feigning a bit of ignorance at this moment.
‘That’s pretty fast. Are you willing to divulge your secrets to me? I am a stranger to you, and to this town. Why offer this trust? This information?’
‘Because it costs me nothing to offer it,’ said Arioth. ‘It will cost you everything to betray it.’
Soren didn’t need to look around at the stern faces, the unyielding glares of the other members of Third Moon to know that he was not bluffing. Whatever this mantra was, it was something they would die for.
‘One step forward and you will find the point of no return,’ said Arioth. ‘You have this chance to turn back, to resume your hunt without our resources, knowing nothing more than our name and our intent. Considering Sannah’s skill and what I assume to be her status, you will likely fail and die at her hands.’
This bald-faced assessment of his chances took him aback. Arioth’s gaze was unwavering, his countenance stern and there was the light of unyielding zeal in his eyes. Here was one who believed something with all his heart and soul, though his tone, attitude and modus operandi suggested an almost secular pragmatism. Yet the duality of his nature belied a man of discernment, and beyond the fervour and judgment in his eyes, Soren saw a man who always moved and spoke with absolute certainty.
For that moment, in which his death was assured by this man of faith and reason, Soren saw a vision again of that temple in which he awoke, and of the woman who lay on the ground beside him, and the cold mist that enveloped him like a mantle of doubt and fear.
And he believed him.
I know of Third Moon: an order of heretics, looking to hasten an end to the current world and create one of dreams. Did they seek to stand atop the new world as gods? Or did they simply wish for something different, something other than what the current world’s fruits yielded to them? And by their reckoning, two other groups sought the same thing.
Arioth noted his hesitation and nodded in understanding.
‘It is not a decision to take lightly, I admit. If you have any questions, ask them now. Should you decide to leave, you will not have any chance to ask them, nor will we be revealed to you again, save if you stand in our way.’
Soren didn’t know what to think. Accepting seemed rash, considering this was a self-professed cult. Angels? Mantra? The Origination? There was much about this that seemed impossible.
It has been said that plane-touched entities are drawn to each other. It might be something as simple as feeling outcast from society, being branded as ‘different’ and ‘otherworldly’ by regular folk. For those of a more dramatic mind, it has been stated that the plane-touched are bound by a thread of fate linking them to each other and the immortals from whom they sprung, from the terrible days of the Emergence, those great battles that nearly tore the world apart, and the fracturing of humanity.
Soren cursed the fate that put him on their path. The devil-born tend to get the worst of the lot.
Empyreans are usually admired for their beauty or their innate strength of will and air of command. The elemental souls are usually looked upon with awe for embodying the natural world in some respect. But the devil-born are usually looked upon with fear, and are usually chased out of less tolerant towns and cities when they get careless with their disguises.
Beyond that, however, Daoines, even more so than Empyreans or Elementals, seem to have fates binding them to bloodshed and destruction. The awareness of this gave Soren pause, and it was what resulted in his answer.
Here is where I fail to understand him. Perhaps it is my nature as a Kyburn to defy fate, as vain as that might be. We who sit atop the Dominion. We who stand opposed to the Empire. Perhaps it is in our nature to face down the great powers of this world. But Soren... his answer was different. And he has faced a power greater than us, greater than the Emperor. Life and death stand opposed, waging war over his soul, even as he cradles the Halflight. I cannot tell if Valefor has blessed him or cursed him.
It is something that would lead to a certain bitterness with the Kyburns. But, once again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
But it was in that moment that Soren felt the constricting threads of fate binding him to Arioth, to Aurel, to Zephon. He felt it, and it filled him with unease.
‘No,’ he said, therefore. Arioth smiled, ever-so-slightly, and it seemed that he guessed what it was Soren was thinking. Soren hated that look on his face, the condescension that mocked his desire to be free of destiny’s grasp. There was so much that he already did not understand, far removed from the madness that none-too-subtly entwined the plane-touched.
I wonder what might have changed had he agreed to join that night. Perhaps everything. Perhaps nothing would change, and all this chaos was inevitable and ineradicable. And more disconcertingly, to him, he felt no relief in refusing them. Instead, the threads seem to tighten around him.
Neither joined nor at odds with them, and yet fate still sought to paralyze him.
--
I believe that in every generation there are a few souls who are simply born not belonging, who go about the world without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race. While it is natural for people who look to be a part of something or somewhere, I think that these unattached souls, these transient beings ,are perhaps as natural a manifestation of the world as those who seek to belong.
But the majority of people, of those who claim a sense of place and belonging in the world, do not accept those who find no true loyalty to any place or any people. They ostracize and persecute these vagrant beings, these people who dare to claim to be different from them.
Thus, these transient souls, if they are to survive, must pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities they do not really feel. They must hide their truths beneath the masks of those identities that have been accepted by the rest of the world.
The offer was made then, to join Third Moon, to take on another mask, to find an identity beyond the one he had. Soren had no idea what his place in the world was. But it occurred to him that he wore one mask already, and it was unwieldy enough as it was.
He also thought of Shallan, and the quiet life he had left behind. There was a tree on a hill, that overlooked a river flowing by the village. In the sunset, the sky turned crimson and made strange paintings of the clouds lingering in the sky. He had not always felt fully welcomed by everyone in Shallan – a Daoine could only ask for so much – but he had found some measure of peace there. And it was all too brief. He thought of that tree, and he felt so tired.
Yet here, in the extended hand of Arioth, there was another path. And a war to be waged. And while he claimed his mantra was bloodless, there was no such thing as changing the world without leaving a few bodies in your wake. The old pain in his chest ached, and he resisted the urge to run his fingers along the scar.
‘Forgive me,’ said Soren, ‘but I have my own path to follow. And I’m not certain how much you’ve told me is true, and whether I can believe anything you’ve said.’
Arioth’s eyes glittered, but he nodded at his reasoning; indeed he seemed to respect it.
Of course, it appeared that his carelessness has led to a rather different predicament.
‘Then you are free to leave, Soren of Shallan,’ he said, straightening and raising his hand, directing him towards the door. ‘You are no longer involved in our affairs. But do keep in mind that as long as you remain in Dwinvale that we will be watching you.’
‘Understood,’ said Soren. The relief he thought he’d feel at being free of them did not come. Instead he felt even more ill at ease. Arioth said nothing more, but it was obvious from the atmosphere in the room and the looks everyone else was giving him that he was no longer welcome here.
‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ he said, awkwardly.
Suture stirred ever-so-slightly then something unsaid passed between him and Arioth. Suture nodded, then turned to Soren.
‘I’ll see you out.’
At these words, Zephon and Aurel exchanged the briefest of glances, but Soren saw nothing grim in them. Indeed, they looked somewhat confused.
Soren followed the mage out, shutting the door behind him.
He turned to see Suture looking closely at him. The milky whiteness of his left eye seemed almost to glow in the gloom, and Soren wondered if that eye was truly blind.
‘I suppose I should count myself lucky,’ Soren said, in attempt to break the tense silence. Suture raised an eyebrow.
‘Not often one meets a cult and gets away no strings attached.’
‘Is that what you think happened?’ Suture inquired, turning from him. The words were threatening, but Soren waited.
‘To be clear, for as long as you remain in Dwinvale, we will be watching you. As long as your pursuit does not impede our work, you are otherwise free. But there are strings attached, Soren, whether you believe it or not.’
‘What do you mean?’
They went downstairs into the tavern, which, very curiously, had now emptied. Only the barkeep remained still obstinately cleaning his tankards.
‘As a human, I cannot say that I fully understand the ties that bind the plane-touched together, these things that Arioth calls the threads of fate. I’m not even sure he understands it well himself. The Daoine first appeared on Amarith four hundred years ago. I’ve heard that their coming upended the social order of the time, with many seeing their arrival as the end of the age of humanity. Others welcomed the change, the mysteries of their coming heralding a new era of discovery for the sages that were to come.
I’ve heard that the first Daoine child that was born was killed by the village it was born in for appearing as a devil. I also heard that the first Empyrean child that was born was venerated and held in a special place of honour in the village.’
‘That’s a succinct summary of how the world views our respective races, yes,’ Soren said.
‘Quite. It said much about our failings as a species,’ said Suture. ‘Humanity, for all the strides it made in magic, philosophy and science, still places far too much stock in something as trivial and superficial as appearance. Four hundred years has done little to change that. Perhaps we’ve reached the limits of our potential as a collective? In which case it is up to individuals to transcend the destiny of our races.’
Soren wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, so he remained quiet.
‘So, all this talk about fate and the threads binding you together… I’ve always thought it was such profoundly limiting language. To have to bow down to something that you might indeed have a say in. But Arioth showed me the value of things that have their place in their world. The threads that bind has united him with Zephon and Aurel, two mighty warriors in this crusade for the Provenance.’
They exited the tavern and made their way back to the illusory wall. Soren looked back and saw the building they emerged from shimmering, turning into a dilapidated-looking, abandoned mansion.
‘But the threads of fate has also brought you here, and it has brought the assassin, Sannah. You are, perhaps, harbingers of something more dire. I’m ill at ease, letting you go on your way like this, Soren. My instinct is telling me to kill you where you stand.’
At these words, Soren’s hand touched the hilt of his sword, but Suture raised a hand.
‘But I have been wrong before, and Arioth’s will is my own. I hope that you are successful in your hunt, even if you stand little chance against the assassin yourself. Perhaps you can flush her out of her hiding spot?’ He smiled. ‘In which case you would have served Third Moon well.’
Soren let out the breath he had been keeping in. He shook his head. ‘This has not been a happy visit.’
Suture smiled briefly. ‘A shame you chose not to join us. I think you would have fit in very well with our organization.’
‘Did you really think I’d be able to join something so outlandish so quickly?’ Soren asked, bemused.
‘If nothing else, you could have paid lip service to our beliefs and utilized our resources.’
‘I would have thought such a thing unacceptable to anything calling itself a cult.’
‘Most “cults” are not quite so self-aware, Soren. We chose the appellation knowingly because we understand that our views and intentions would never be accepted by the wider world.’
‘Is it all true?’ Soren asked. ‘The Provenance, or Origination, or whatever you call it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Suture. ‘Third Moon has compiled evidence of it happening before – the Grand Emergence and the battles that swallowed the continent to the east. It was said that an Angel rose above the scene in that final confrontation and made both parties gods, to enact their will upon future generations.’ Suture grimaced. 'A worrisome thing, if one of those parties was the Emperor of Morvana.'
‘And now you’re looking to do the same?’
Suture smiled, and there was a gleam of something Soren couldn’t quite figure out in his eyes.
‘The power to change the world is here in Granmith,’ said Suture. ‘And we here in Dwinvale, we stand on the threshold of a grand transformation. Was it simply serendipity that new fortunes and futures are within our grasp? Or perhaps the gods have decided that this place should be a battleground for their amusement? I cannot yet say what the reason is, but I know that Arioth will do whatever he can to achieve his goals, now that he feels that fate impels him thus.’
‘We Daoine a lot of stock in fate,’ Soren said, somewhat bitterly. ‘Like beasts, we often move as we must, driven forth by the whips of some unseen master.’
‘That was... rather well-put,’ Suture said, smiling briefly.
‘Well, when you feel that something controls every aspect of your nature, you can’t help but consider it from every angle. Poetry and philosophy are among the most useless ways I have of dealing with it. But you’re human. How do you feel about the matter?’
‘Well, we come in all varieties. There are those of us who feel constrained by fate, much as you do. There are those who embrace the certainty that fatalism brings. Then, of course, there are those who wander the world feeling nothing but freedom, regardless of whether that is true or not.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Soren, ‘but for you to follow a Daoine is essentially binding yourself to the fate that has ensnared him.’
‘All based on the conjecture that this thing we understand as fate exists, of course,’ said Suture.
Soren shook his head. He truly was envious of humanity. But Daoines feel it perhaps more keenly than any other plane-touched in the world. Perhaps it is the touch of evil upon their souls, the unshakeable contamination of the blood of devils coursing within them, those creatures bound to black certainties and the ineluctable cruelties of the vast universe, but all things in the world are bound to laws, and since the days of the Grand Emergence, patterns have emerged that are impossible not to notice for those who have paid any mind to their observance.
He looked at Suture, but the mage was looking beyond him, staring at something in the sky.
Soren frowned, and followed his gaze, but saw nothing but the night sky, glittering with stars. Nonplussed, he looked at Suture, who indeed seemed to be looking at something specific.
Suture turned to him, and ignored the unspoken question. ‘The Angel we seek will give us the world as it should be,’ said Suture. ‘A world without the fear of the unknown, a world in which we might live free of the uncertainty of existence. So, seek out Sannah. Kill her if you can. And know this, Soren: we will not let anyone stand in our way.’
And with that, the image of the wizard before him shimmered and dissipated into mist, leaving Soren alone in the streets of Dwinvale once again.